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Chapter Text

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions." — Samuel Johnson

The streetlights of Privet Drive flickered and died one by one as Albus Dumbledore appeared at the corner, his silver beard catching what little moonlight remained. His shoulders, usually straight despite his considerable age, sagged beneath invisible weight. The Elder Wand trembled slightly in his grip—not from age, but from the magnitude of what he'd lost. What they'd all lost.

James. Lily. Gone.

He paused at Number Four, studying the pristine garden with its regiment of identical roses. Order. Structure. Normalcy. Everything Harry would need after the chaos that had stolen his parents. The boy would grow up away from the weight of fame, away from those who would use him for their own ends. Away from the war that still simmered beneath the surface of their world.

"Albus." McGonagall materialized beside him, her face etched with disapproval. "I've watched them all day. These are the worst sort of Muggles imaginable. The woman spent six hours cleaning an already spotless kitchen. The man shouted at a neighbor's child for breathing too loudly near his car."

"Petunia is Lily's sister," Dumbledore said quietly, adjusting the bundle in his arms. Harry's face, peaceful in sleep, bore a livid scar that would mark him forever. "The blood protection will be absolute. Voldemort's followers will never be able to touch him here."

"But Albus—"

"Minerva." His voice carried a gentle finality. "Would you have me place him with a wizarding family? Make him a target? Let him grow up believing he's special, entitled to fame he never earned?" He thought of how the wizarding world had corrupted Tom Riddle, how adoration had twisted into something monstrous. "No. Harry must have the chance to be normal. To choose his path without the shadow of what happened tonight."

McGonagall's lips thinned, but she said nothing more. What could she say? That she had a feeling? Something in the garden's mechanical order unsettled her, though she couldn’t say why. But she had no proof. And Dumbledore had already chosen.

Inside the house, Vernon Dursley turned in his sleep, dreaming of quarterly reports and profit margins. In the smallest bedroom, barely larger than a cupboard, Dudley's nursery stood ready with every conceivable toy—a shrine to excess that spoke of parents who equated possessions with love. Petunia lay awake, as she often did, remembering the sister who could make flowers bloom with a laugh, who had left her behind for a world that had ultimately killed her.

Dumbledore bent slowly, his knees protesting, and placed the bundle on the doorstep. The November cold bit through Harry's blankets immediately, but the child didn't wake. Trusting. Innocent. Unaware that in eight hours, his aunt would find him and feel not love but resentment. That his uncle would see not a nephew but an inconvenience. That the protection meant to save him would become his prison.

"The letter explains everything," Dumbledore murmured, tucking the parchment beside the child. How could mere words explain the death of parents? The weight of survival? The love that had turned Voldemort's curse back upon himself?

He straightened, wand moving in complex patterns as he wove the blood wards. Ancient magic, powerful and absolute. It would keep Harry safe from Death Eaters, from dark wizards, from magical threats of every kind.

It would not protect him from the family inside.

"Sleep well, Harry," Dumbledore whispered. "When you come to us at eleven, you'll be ready. Normal. Whole."

He turned away, not seeing how Harry's tiny fist had clenched in his sleep, as if already fighting. Not knowing that Petunia's resentment would fester into cruelty. Not imagining that Vernon's dislike of abnormality would manifest as systematic abuse. Not understanding that sometimes, the greatest dangers come from those who are supposed to love us.

The streetlights flickered back to life as Dumbledore disappeared. Privet Drive returned to its perfect normalcy—lawns measured to regulation height, cars parked at regulation angles, lives lived by regulation standards.

And on the doorstep of Number Four, Harry Potter slept on, unaware that his protector's greatest act of love would become his greatest tragedy. That the blood wards meant to save him would trap him. That in trying to give him a normal childhood, Dumbledore had condemned him to something far worse.

The first drops of rain began to fall, soaking through Harry's blankets. Inside, Petunia's alarm clock ticked toward morning, toward the moment when she would open her door and find the child she would come to hate—not because of who he was, but because of what he represented. Everything she couldn't have. Everything that had been denied her. Everything that had taken her sister away.

In the distance, an owl hooted—a mournful sound that might have been a warning, had anyone been listening.
But Privet Drive slept on, normal and quiet and perfect.

And on its most perfect doorstep, Harry Potter's nightmare began.

Chapter Text

Darkness pressed against Harry Potter's eyes at 4:28 AM. Two minutes before knuckles would rap against wood. Two minutes that belonged to him alone.

The cupboard ceiling slanted inches from his nose. Broken plastic jabbed through the thin mattress into his ribs—Dudley's discarded soldiers, a headless robot, pieces of things that had once been whole. Spiders traced paths across the walls, shadows moving in the crack of light beneath the door. The biggest one lived in the corner. Charlotte, like the book Mrs. Henderson read during story time.

Dust and cleaning chemicals burned his nostrils. The stairs creaked overhead. Plaster drifted down like snow.

Don't make noise. Don't ask for things. Don't look Uncle Vernon in the eye. Don't cry. Don't complain. Don't exist.

Footsteps approached. Sharp. Measured.

The knock came. Three raps, hard enough to rattle the lock.

"Up! Now!"

Harry pushed open the door. Hall light stabbed into his pupils. His legs cramped from being folded all night, knees to chest, spine curved, making himself smaller than small.

Aunt Petunia towered above, her face all angles and shadows. Paper thrust at him. The list. Always the same list, but she gave it to him anyway.

"Breakfast for three. Bacon crispy but not burnt. Dudley wants his eggs runny today." Her lips went thin. "And don't you dare take any for yourself. We count everything."

The kitchen tiles bit through his bare feet. November cold seeped up through the floor, into his bones. The wooden stool wobbled when he dragged it to the stove—one leg shorter than the others. The frying pan weighed too much in his hands. Oil hissed. Tiny drops of grease spattered his forearms, joining the constellation of old burns.

Bacon smell made his stomach clench. When had he eaten? Yesterday morning, half a crust from Dudley's plate. Nothing since. His mouth filled with saliva that tasted like copper.

The stairs thundered. The whole house shook under Vernon's weight.

"Boy!" Vernon's bulk filled the doorway. "This bacon has burnt edges. Trying to poison us?"

Harry studied the linoleum pattern. A crack ran through one tile, shaped like lightning.

"Sorry, Uncle Vernon."

"Sorry doesn't fix bacon." Purple crept up Vernon's neck. "Just like your worthless father. No attention to detail. Probably drunk when you cooked it, eh? Like father, like son!"

Harry flinched. The words felt like blows. He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood, forcing himself to look down at his plate.

Vernon's fist hit the table. Plates jumped. Petunia's grapefruit rolled, hit the floor with a wet thud.

"ARE YOU TALKING BACK TO ME?"

"No, Uncle Vernon." Harry's voice was barely a whisper.

He retrieved the grapefruit. Washed it. Sectioned it. Arranged it on Petunia's plate. His movements were precise, practiced.

Dudley waddled in, pyjamas straining across his belly. His eyes found Harry's careful place setting—the eggs arranged just so, toast cut into triangles. Dudley's hand swept across the table. Yellow yolk splattered across wood, dripped onto Harry's feet. The heat bit into his skin.

"Harry made a mess!"

"Honestly, Harry." Petunia's voice could freeze July. "Clean that immediately. You've upset Dudley."

Dudley's grin stretched wide until his mother looked. Then his bottom lip pushed out, trembling.

Harry fetched the cleaning supplies. The familiar weight of spray bottle and rag. The motion of wiping, always wiping, making things clean for people who would only dirty them again.

Something strange—the spilled egg had landed in an almost perfect circle around his bare feet. It was as if the yellow goo had danced around him, refusing to touch, until he shifted. But that was impossible. Just like the bacon grease never quite burned as deep as it should. Just like sometimes, when Dudley tried to shove him down the stairs, Harry would somehow land at the bottom without a bruise, a silent, unseen hand breaking his fall. Impossible things weren't real. Uncle Vernon had made that very clear. They invited pain

Upstairs, Dudley stood like a prince while Petunia dressed him. New shoes that would stay shiny. Pressed trousers without a single hole. A jumper that fit.

Harry pulled on Dudley's old things. The grey shirt hung past his knees. The trousers, even with twine cinched tight, threatened to fall with each step. Newspaper crinkled in the toes of too-large shoes. By afternoon, his feet would be sliding in soggy pulp.

"I'm taking Dudley to school." Keys jangled in Petunia's hand. Her eyes scraped over Harry like he was something stuck to her shoe. "You'll walk. And if I hear you've been telling stories again..."

The threat hung unfinished. Last time a teacher had asked questions, the cupboard had swallowed him for three days. Nothing but a bucket and water. By the end, he'd licked condensation from the walls and talked to things that weren't there.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia. No stories."

"And don't dawdle. Tardiness reflects on us."

The door slammed. Silence rushed in.

Harry breathed. Really breathed. His ribs expanded without fear of being too loud.

He gathered his things. A pencil with no eraser, found on the street. A notebook missing half its pages, rescued from Dudley's bin. All stuffed in a plastic bag that crinkled with each step.

Outside, November drizzle needled through his thin shirt. Cold bit through the holes in his clothes, but here, between prison and school, he could pretend. Just another boy walking to Year One.

Mrs. Number Seven's terrier strained at its lead, barking sharp and high. Its eyes rolled white.

"Control that beast!" Mrs. Number Seven yanked the lead. "That Potter boy," she muttered, loud enough to carry. "Something wrong with that one."

The school gates meant different walls but the same stares. Dudley had already poisoned the well. Mental. Dangerous. Parents were drunks. Parents were criminals. Parents were dead because they deserved it.

But inside those walls lived books. Mrs. Henderson's smile when he knew all his letters. Knowledge that no one could take away, not even Uncle Vernon. Harry drank it in, stored it deep where the hunger couldn't reach.

He took his seat at the back. The empty chairs around him made a moat. The other children's whispers carried across it.

"—saw him talking to himself—"

"—Dudley says he's mental—"

"—my mum says stay away—"

Mathematics made sense. Two plus two was always four. It didn't change based on Vernon's moods or Dudley's boredom. Letters formed words, words formed sentences, sentences formed stories about children who belonged somewhere.

Mrs. Henderson paused beside his desk. Her perfume smelled like flowers, nothing like Petunia's sharp cleaning products.

"Harry, dear, you look tired."

"Just stayed up reading." The lie slipped out smooth as water.

Her eyes found the bruise creeping above his collar. Purple-black fingers printed on pale skin. The look that crossed her face—Harry knew that look. Had seen it on other teachers, on neighbors, on strangers in shops. The look that said something's wrong here.

"Harry, if there's trouble at home—"

"I fell." The words came sharp, panicked. "I'm clumsy."

"Falling doesn't leave fingerprints."

Harry's pulse hammered. This was dangerous ground. "I grabbed myself trying not to fall down the stairs. Uncle Vernon says I'm very clumsy. It's my fault. I should be more careful."

Mrs. Henderson knelt beside his desk. This close, he could see the concern crinkling around her eyes. "Harry, no one should grab you hard enough to leave bruises. Is there—"

"MRS. HENDERSON!" Piers Polkiss's voice split the air. "DUDLEY'S PUTTING GLUE IN SARAH'S HAIR!"

She turned away. By the time she'd sorted Dudley's mess—he claimed Sarah had asked for help styling—the moment had passed. Harry felt the subtle shift in her thoughts, the professional duty pushing out the fleeting concern. His stomach stayed knotted. Her eyes might keep finding him throughout the day, but they wouldn't see him. He wouldn't let them.

Lunch was its own special torture. Other children unwrapped sandwiches, crunched crisps, peeled oranges that made the air sweet. Harry's stomach roared loud enough for Sarah Mills to giggle and point.

"Not hungry, Potter?" Dudley spoke around a mouthful of ham sandwich—his second. "Or did Mummy forget to pack your lunch again?"

Laughter rippled through the lunchroom, their thoughts a cacophony of casual cruelty. They all knew Harry never had lunch. But Dudley painted it like choice, like Harry thought himself too good for food. Harry watched his empty hands. Sometimes, phantom smells would drift by—warm bread, soup, things that vanished when he tried to focus on them. Once, the smell of fresh cookies had been so real he'd searched the entire room. The other children had laughed. The lunch monitor had frowned.

After lunch came art. Small lumps of modelling clay distributed to each desk. Harry shaped his carefully. A dog emerged—not like Aunt Marge's bulldogs with their mean eyes, but a friendly dog. The kind that might love a boy like him.

Dudley's fist smashed down. Clay flattened into nothing.

"Freak's making freaky things!"

The clay twitched. Moved. Started to reform—a limb, a small ear, pushing outward from the flattened mass. Harry stared, his breath hitched. He felt a desperate urge to make it stop.

 "Harry Potter!" Mrs. Henderson's voice sliced through the air. "No daydreaming! And Dudley, keep your hands to yourself."

The clay went still, the nascent limb sinking back into the lump as if it had never been. But Piers had seen. His eyes went wide, darting between Harry and the clay. His chair scraped as he scooted away.

Later that afternoon, as the school day finally bled into dusk, Harry began his walk home.

The walk home stretched too long and not long enough. Streetlights flickered on in the early November dark. Harry detoured through the park, claimed a swing for just a few minutes. Pumped his legs. Rose higher, higher, higher. For those moments, gravity couldn't touch him.

But all flights end.

Number Four, Privet Drive squatted like a toad in the gathering dusk. An unfamiliar car hulked in the driveway beside Vernon's. Through the window, shapes moved in the living room. Vernon's face, purple even from here. Petunia's sharp gestures. Two strangers in dark clothes.

Harry slipped through the back door, but Vernon's voice boomed immediately: "BOY! Get in here!"

The living room smelled wrong. Official. The strangers had badges, clipboards, and professional smiles that didn't reach their eyes. Social workers.

"This is Harry." Petunia's voice dripped false sweetness. "Harry, these people are here because your teacher is concerned. Wasn't that nice of her to worry?"

The threat underneath could have cut glass.

The woman—Ms. Carter, her badge said—smiled at Harry. The kind of smile adults wore when they wanted you to trust them.

"Hello, Harry. We just want to ask you a few questions. Is that alright?"

Harry nodded. His voice had disappeared.

"Your teacher noticed some bruising. Can you tell us about that?"

The truth meant punishment. Lies meant safety. The math was simple.

"I'm clumsy." The words came out steady. "I fall a lot. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia tell me to be more careful."

"I see." Her pen scratched across paper. "And do you get enough to eat?"

"Yes." The lie burned his throat. "I'm just not hungry at lunch. Small appetite."

"He's always been difficult about food," Petunia added. "We try everything, but he's so picky. Won't eat what's put in front of him. We can't force him, can we?"

More questions. About his bedroom ("Harry prefers the cupboard; we've offered him Dudley's second bedroom, but he likes small spaces"). About his clothes ("Hand-me-downs because Harry ruins everything with his clumsiness"). About his chores ("Children should learn responsibility").

Each lie tasted like ash. Each confirmation felt like swallowing glass. But the truth would taste like blood.

Finally, finally, they left. Satisfied. The door clicked shut like a coffin lid.

A shudder ran through Harry, a sudden, almost dizzying rush of relief. He had done what was required. He had survived.

For a tiny, desperate moment, he'd felt a flicker, a silent plea inside him, urging him to tell them everything. To beg them to take him somewhere warm, somewhere safe. But the thought was a dangerous spark, instantly smothered by the memory of the cupboard's dark finality, of Vernon's tightening grip. He had lied. And he was still here.

Vernon turned. His face had gone past purple to something darker.

"You almost cost me everything!" Spit flew from his lips. "My reputation! My standing! Social services at my door like we're some kind of... of..."

"Common criminals," Petunia supplied. "This shame! After everything we've done!"

Harry bit his tongue. What had they done besides hurt him?

"Three days," Vernon said. The calm was worse than shouting. "Three days in your cupboard to think about consequences. And if you ever bring trouble to this house again..."

The threat dissolved into silence. It didn't need words.

The scene shifted. Dudley waved paper at his parents, beaming.

"Look, Mummy! Mrs. Henderson says I'm 'satisfactory' in everything!"

"Oh, Duddy-kins, how wonderful!" Petunia's anger melted into coos. Wet kisses peppered Dudley's round face. "Vernon, our boy's a genius!"

Vernon chuckled, earlier rage forgotten. His hand ruffled Dudley's hair. "That's my boy! Satisfactory across the board! Shows proper balance. Not like those swotty types who think they're better."

Harry stood in the doorway. His own report crinkled in his grip. Top marks in everything. "Exceptional" written in Mrs. Henderson's careful script. "A joy to teach."

The words rose in his throat. Perhaps, for just a moment, a different response? A flicker of pride, even? He held the thin paper, his heart thudding. "I got my report too."

The warm family tableau froze. Three sets of eyes turned. Annoyance. Disgust. Anger.

"Did we ask?" Vernon's voice went soft. Dangerous soft.

"N-no, but—" "You thought we'd care about your showing off? After bringing social services to our door?"

Harry held out the report, his small hands trembling. The last desperate hope clinging to his throat. "I got top marks in—"

"Top marks?" Petunia snatched the paper. Her lip curled as she scanned it. "Don't get above yourself, boy. Grades won't change what you are."

Vernon didn't even look. "Your father was supposedly clever—look where that got him. Drunk in a car with your worthless mother. That's your blood, boy. It'll out. You'll end up just like them."

"Probably cheated." Dudley's voice mimicked his father's certainty. He grabbed the report, crumpled it. "Harry's a cheater and a liar. That's why he lied to the social workers."

"I didn't lie—" The words died. He had lied. Just not how they meant.

"No more of this nonsense." Petunia dropped the crumpled report in the bin with the potato peelings and eggshells. "Dudley's honest satisfactory is worth more than your attention-seeking lies."

Harry stared at the bin. Something small and bright inside him—something he hadn't known existed—guttered out.

"Now," Vernon said, calm as discussing the weather. "About your punishment. I said three days. But after consideration, a week seems more appropriate. Consequences must be learned."

"But—" Harry's throat closed. A week. Seven days of darkness. His shoulders dropped.

"But nothing. Get in there. Now. Not a sound, or it'll be two weeks."

The cupboard swallowed him. The lock clicked with finality. Television sounds filtered through—canned laughter mixing with Dudley's real giggles. The sounds of the family he would never join.

Harry curled into himself. Knees to chest. Spine curved. Making himself smaller than small. The hunger was already bad. By day three, shadows would move. By day five, they'd whisper. By day seven...

Something tickled across his hand. Charlotte descended from her web, legs delicate as breath.

"Hey, Charlotte." The whisper barely disturbed air. "See what happened with the clay today?"

Charlotte stayed on his hand. Almost like listening.

"Sometimes things happen." Each word cost precious air. "Things that can't be real. Uncle Vernon says impossible things don't exist, but... what if he's wrong? What if I'm not just a freak but something worse?"

Charlotte traveled up his arm. Settled near his shoulder. The weight of almost-nothing.

"I'm scared." Truth spilled out in darkness. "Not of cupboards or hunger or Vernon." His chest tightened around something that squirmed and pressed. "Of what's inside me. The thing that makes impossible things happen."

The air thickened. Electric. Charged like the moment before lightning. Every hair on his arms stood straight.

Charlotte vanished. Even spiders knew when to hide.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to push down the feeling, the power, the wrongness that lived behind his ribs. But it pushed back. Stronger each time.

Seven days. When they finally unlocked the door, whatever lived inside him would be stronger still.

Tomorrow would be different. Not better—better was for other children. But different.

Because something inside Harry Potter was waking up.

And it was hungry.

Chapter Text

Seven days passed in heartbeats and centuries.

The cupboard door opened to Vernon's bulk, blocking the light. Harry's eyes watered, stabbed by the sudden brightness. His legs wouldn't hold him. Muscles cramped from too many hours folded into impossible angles.

"Out." Vernon's voice rumbled distant, like hearing through water. "And clean yourself up. You stink."

Harry crawled out. The hallway tilted. His hands left smudges on the walls—dirt and things he didn't want to name. Seven days with only a bucket. Seven days of Charlotte's whispers that might have been real. Seven days of shadows that moved when they shouldn't.

The bathroom mirror showed a stranger. Hollow cheeks. Eyes too large. Ribs like ladder rungs beneath pale skin. He splashed cold water on his face, scrubbed until his skin went raw.

Downstairs, breakfast sounds. Sizzling. Clinking. Dudley's whine about wanting more bacon. The smell made Harry's stomach twist into knots.

"Don't just stand there." Petunia's voice cut sharply. "Dudley needs his breakfast. And you have school."

School. Harry had forgotten about school.

His hands shook as he cooked. The pan handle slipped. Grease splattered. But not on him—around him, like raindrops avoiding an umbrella. Vernon didn't notice. Dudley didn't notice. But Harry noticed.

Just like he noticed how Petunia's thoughts pressed against his skull. Not words exactly. More like feelings with sharp edges. Disgust-burden-why-won't-he-just-disappear.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. The feelings faded but didn't vanish.

At school, Mrs. Henderson's face went white when she saw him.

"Harry? Oh my goodness, are you—" She caught herself. Glanced around the classroom. Lowered her voice. "Are you alright?"

"I had the flu." The lie came automatic. "I'm better now."

She studied him. Her thoughts buzzed like wasps against glass. Too thin-those bruises-should call someone-but they came last week-nothing changed-

Harry's head pounded. He pressed his palms against his temples.

"Headache?" Mrs. Henderson asked.

He nodded. Safer than words.

She sent him to the nurse, who gave him water and made him lie down. The cot's thin mattress felt like clouds after the cupboard floor. But even with eyes closed, the thoughts kept coming. The nurse's worry. A sick child's misery in the next cot. The secretary's boredom bleeding through the walls.

By lunch, the headache had become a living thing with teeth.

"You look worse than usual, Potter." Dudley's voice. Close. Too close. "Like a skeleton. Did you see things in the dark? Hear voices?"

Harry kept his eyes on the empty table. Sometimes ignoring Dudley worked. Sometimes.

Not today.

"I asked you a question, freak." Dudley's fist slammed down. Harry's nonexistent lunch tray would have jumped if he'd had one. "Or are you too mental to—"

The windows blew apart. Not fractured, blew apart. Glass streamed inwards in seamless unison, a thousand diamonds catching the light. Children screamed. Mrs Henderson shouted for everyone to get down.

Harry stared at the empty window frames. His head didn't hurt anymore.

"Gas leak," the headmaster announced an hour later, after the glaziers had been called and parents notified. "Pressure buildup in the pipes. Nothing to worry about. Very rare. Won't happen again."

But Piers Polkiss watched Harry for the rest of the day. And when Harry caught his eye, Piers flinched.

Scared-of-me-saw-something-knows-it-was-me-

The thought slithered in before Harry could stop it. Not his thought. Piers's thought, somehow inside Harry's head. He bit his tongue hard enough to taste copper.

The walk home took forever. Each person he passed leaked thoughts like broken faucets. The postman's aching feet. Mrs. Number Seven's suspicion. A child's excitement about birthday cake. Layer upon layer, building into white noise that made Harry's vision blur.

At Privet Drive, blessed quiet. The Dursleys projected their usual feelings, disgust from Petunia, annoyance from Vernon, cruel anticipation from Dudley, but those were familiar. Background noise he'd learned to live with.

Until dinner.

"Pass the salt, boy." Vernon didn't look up from his pork chops.

Harry reached for the shaker. His fingers were still three inches away when it slid across the table into his hand.

Silence thickened.

"Did you just—" Vernon's face started its familiar journey through the purple spectrum.

"I'm sorry!" Harry dropped the salt shaker. It rolled across the table, leaving a white trail. "I didn't mean—I don't know what—"

"WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"Nothing! I just—the salt was—" Harry's words tangled. How could he explain something he didn't understand?

Vernon's chair scraped back. "Dudley, go to your room."

"But Dad, I want to see—"

"NOW!"

Dudley fled. His thoughts trailed behind him. Finally-going-to-get-it-freak-deserves-whatever-

Harry's back hit the wall before he realized he'd been retreating. Vernon advanced, each step making the floor creak.

"I know what you are." Vernon's voice dropped low. Dangerous. "Petunia told me. About your mother. About the freakishness. We tried to stamp it out of you. Beat it out. Starve it out. But you're diseased, boy. Infected."

"I don't understand—"

Vernon's hand closed around Harry's throat. Lifted him. Harry's feet kicked air.

"No more." Spit flecked Harry's face. "No more freakishness in my house. You keep that unnaturalness locked inside, or I'll lock you somewhere permanent. Understand?"

Black spots danced in Harry's vision. He clawed at Vernon's fingers. Nodded. Anything to breathe.

Vernon dropped him. Harry's knees cracked against the floor.

"Cupboard. Now. And if anything else moves without you touching it, if any more windows break, if you do anything that isn't normal, I'll make last week look like a picnic."

Harry crawled to the cupboard. The door slammed. The lock clicked.

But this time, he wasn't alone with the spiders.

This time, he had the thoughts.

They pressed in from all sides. Vernon's rage. Petunia's fear, and underneath it, something else. Memories that weren't quite hers. A red-haired girl making flowers bloom. Making toys float. Laughing at the wonder of it all.

Lily. Always Lily. Perfect Lily with her perfect freakishness, while I was nothing nothing nothing—

Harry curled into a ball, hands over his ears. But the thoughts came from inside, not outside. No way to block them. No way to make them stop.

Three months passed. Three months of careful control. Three months of pretending the salt shaker had been a dream.

But the thoughts grew louder.

The headache started during morning assembly. Harry sat cross-legged on the gymnasium floor, surrounded by hundreds of children singing about spring flowers. The voices pressed against his skull—not just the singing, but the underneath things. Jenny Morrison's hunger because she'd skipped breakfast. David Park's anxiety about the maths test. Mrs. Willows's exhaustion from her crying baby.

Tired-scared-hungry-bored-need-the-toilet-hate-this-song-

Harry pressed his palms against his temples. The thoughts had been getting louder for weeks. What started as whispers now felt like shouting.

"Harry Potter!" Mrs. Henderson's voice cut through the noise. "Sit up properly!"

He tried. But sitting straight made it worse. More thoughts flooded in. The headmaster's annoyance at the off-key singing. The janitor's back pain. A hundred small minds broadcasting their small concerns directly into Harry's brain.

By the time assembly ended, his vision had gone blurry at the edges.

"You alright, Potter?" Piers Polkiss asked. Not from concern, Harry caught the flicker of hope-he's-sick-maybe-he'll-go-home.

"Fine." Harry stumbled to his feet. The gymnasium tilted.

The walk to class took forever. Each child he passed added another layer to the noise. Their thoughts stuck to him like cobwebs, clinging even after they'd moved on. By the time he reached his desk, Harry's hands shook.

"Children, take out your reading books," Mrs. Henderson announced.

Harry fumbled for his book. The words swam on the page. Someone nearby was thinking about their dead hamster. Someone else worried about their parents fighting. Layer upon layer of other people's pain, settling into Harry's bones.

His pencil snapped.

Not broke. Snapped. The two halves flew in opposite directions, one embedding itself in the bulletin board with a sharp thwack.

Silence.

"Harry?" Mrs. Henderson's voice came careful. "Did you just throw—"

"No!" The word came out too loud. "I didn't—it just—"

Freak-boy-did-it-again-something-wrong-with-him- Dudley's thoughts cut through the rest like a rusty blade.

"I need the nurse," Harry whispered.

Mrs. Henderson nodded slowly. "Piers, please walk Harry to—"

"I can go alone." Harry was already moving. If he stayed, if the thoughts kept building, something worse than pencils might break.

The hallway offered no relief. Even empty, it held echoes. Phantom thoughts from everyone who'd walked through. Layers of worry and joy and cruelty, soaked into the walls like smoke damage.

Harry made it to the bathroom before his knees gave out. He curled on the cold tile floor, head between his knees, trying to breathe through the pain.

That's when the mirrors cracked.

Spider web fractures spread across all three mirrors simultaneously. The fluorescent lights flickered. For a moment, the temperature plummeted—Harry's breath came out in visible puffs.

Then, silence. Blessed, beautiful silence. The thoughts stopped. The pain receded.

Harry lifted his head. The bathroom looked like a war zone. Mirrors cracked. One tap running without anyone touching it. Paper towels scattered across the floor in perfect spirals.

He ran.

The nurse sent him home with a note about "viral symptoms." Harry didn't correct her. Didn't mention the mirrors or the thoughts or the way her own mind felt like worry-stress-too-many-sick-children.

The walk to Privet Drive passed in a haze. Harry kept his head down, eyes fixed on the pavement, trying not to think about what had happened. Trying not to wonder if it would happen again.

The house was empty. Vernon at work. Petunia at her book club. Dudley still at school, probably telling everyone about Harry's freak pencil incident.

Harry went straight to his cupboard. Closed the door. Wrapped himself in the thin blanket that smelled like dust and fear.

Maybe if he stayed very still, very quiet, the wrongness inside him would go back to sleep.

But an hour later, Petunia came home early.

Harry heard her heels clicking on the kitchen floor. The rustle of shopping bags. Then—

"What happened to my mirrors?"

Harry's blood went cold. How could she know? The school mirrors had broken, not—

"Boy! Get out here!"

Harry crept from the cupboard. Petunia stood in the downstairs bathroom, staring at the mirror above the sink. Spider web cracks spread across its surface. Just like the school mirrors.

Her face had drained of color. She wasn't looking at the mirror anymore, she was looking through it, at something years away.

"I didn't—" Harry started.

"Lily used to do this." Petunia's voice came out flat. Dead. "When she was upset. Mirrors. Windows. Anything made off glass."

She turned to Harry, and the deadness cracked. Underneath lay something raw and poisonous.

Harry sat frozen while Petunia paced. Her mind churned with memories that felt like acid. The-letter-when-Lily-got-her-letter-and-I-got-nothing-watching-her-leave-for-her-special-school-while-I-stayed-behind-ordinary-Petunia-forgotten-Petunia-

"It killed her, you know," Petunia said, voice flat and cold. "That freakishness. That unnaturalness. Got her mixed up with those people. Got her blown up. And now you're starting."

She blinked hard—once, sharply, as if forcing something back. A single tear welled, then vanished with a breath. "That... thing took my sister from me."

"I won't have it. Not again. Not in my house."

"Cupboard," she hissed. "Now. And not a sound when Vernon comes in."

Harry fled. But even locked in the cupboard, Petunia's thoughts leaked through. Her fear. Her hatred. And underneath, buried deep—jealousy so profound it tasted like poison.

Dinner sounds filtered through the door. Normal conversation. Dudley chattering about school. Vernon complaining about work. No mention of mirrors or magic or freakishness.

But later, after Dudley had gone to bed, Harry heard them in the kitchen.

"The boy's getting worse," Petunia whispered.

"What do you mean?" Vernon's voice, thick with after-dinner brandy.

"He's showing signs. Like... like my sister did."

Silence. Then Vernon's thoughts hit Harry like a sledgehammer. Magic-that-freakishness-not-in-my-house-not-in-my-normal-life-

"We'll beat it out of him," Vernon said flatly. "Whatever it takes."

"Vernon—"

"No! I won't have it, Petunia. We took him in. Fed him. Put a roof over his head. He owes us normalcy, at the very least."

Their voices faded as they moved upstairs. But their intentions lingered in the air like smoke.

Harry curled tighter in the darkness. The temperature in the cupboard began to drop. His breath misted. Frost crept across the walls in delicate patterns.

By morning, ice crystals had formed on the inside of the door.

Vernon found them when he yanked the cupboard open.

For a moment, neither moved. Vernon stared at the frost. Harry stared at Vernon. The morning light caught the ice, making it sparkle like diamonds.

Vernon's breathing changed. Slow. Deep. The kind of breathing that came before the worst storms.

"Get. Out."

Harry scrambled from the cupboard. His legs, still numb from the cold, buckled. He caught himself on the wall.

Vernon's hand shot out. Fingers tangled in Harry's hair, yanking his head back. Harry's neck arched painfully.

"What—" Vernon's voice stayed terrifyingly quiet, "—did you do?"

"I don't know!" The words came out strangled. "I was just cold—"

Vernon's other hand drew back. Harry saw it coming. Time to tense. Time to know it would hurt.

The fist connected with his ribs.

Pain exploded through Harry's chest. The air vanished. The world went white at the edges. Vernon released his hair, and Harry crumpled, arms wrapped around his middle.

"Please—" Harry started.

The lights exploded.

Every bulb in the hallway burst simultaneously. Glass rained down. In the sudden darkness, Vernon's grip loosened.

Harry ran.

Out the door. Down the street. Barefoot on cold pavement. Blood sticky in his hair. Ribs screaming with each breath.

He made it three blocks before his legs gave out. Collapsed behind a hedge. Waited for Vernon to find him. To finish what he'd started.

But Vernon didn't come.

An hour passed. Maybe two. Harry shivered in the November cold, pyjamas offering no protection. His ribs had gone from sharp pain to deep ache. The blood in his hair had dried to rusty flakes.

Have to go back. The thought made him want to vomit. But where else could a seven-year-old go? Who would believe him? Who would care?

The walk back to Privet Drive made Harry's stomach hurt. Each step felt heavier than the last.

The house stood silent. Harry crept to the back door. Unlocked—they hadn't even bothered to look for him.

Inside, the hallway had been cleaned. New bulbs in the fixtures. No sign of the morning's violence except the dent in the wall where his head had hit.

Voices from the living room. Harry crept closer.

"—told the school he's ill," Petunia was saying. "Flu. Very contagious. Needs at least a week to recover."

"A week should be enough," Vernon agreed. "To fix this problem."

"And if it's not?"

Long silence. Then Vernon's voice, low and mean: "Then we'll have to try something else. There are special schools for troubled boys. Places that know how to handle... difficulties."

"Vernon—"

"Or perhaps Marge is right. Some dogs can't be trained, Petunia."

Harry didn't understand what dogs had to do with anything, but the way Vernon said it made his chest tight. He backed away. Slipped into his cupboard. Pulled the door closed.

A week. They wanted him to stop doing the things he didn't mean to do. The ice. The breaking glass. The moving things.

But Harry didn't know how to stop something that just happened. When he was scared, things broke. When he was cold, frost came. He didn't do it on purpose.

The cupboard walls pressed close. Harry's breath came fast and shallow. Already, he could feel the cold creeping in, responding to his fear.

No. That would make things worse.

Harry forced himself to breathe slowly. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The way he did when Dudley sat on his chest. When Uncle Vernon squeezed too hard. When everything hurt too much.

The cold retreated. But the scared feeling stayed.

Seven years old, and Harry understood this much: Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were very, very angry about the strange things that happened around him. Angrier than they'd ever been before.

And when Uncle Vernon got this angry, Harry got hurt.

The thoughts from upstairs pressed down—Petunia's sharp worry, Vernon's dark fury, Dudley's excited curiosity about what would happen to the freak.

Harry curled into his blanket and tried to be very, very small.

Charlotte descended from her web, settling on his shoulder. She wasn’t just thinking anymore. She was something small and alive, recognizing the wrongness in him. That wasn't afraid of it.

"Freakishness," Harry whispered to the spider. The word tasted like ash. "Unnaturalness. That's what Aunt Petunia called it."

This wrongness that got his mother killed. This thing what made him different. Dangerous.

But also, the thing that had fought back when Vernon and Dudley hurt him.

Tomorrow would be bad. Harry knew the pattern. After something strange happened, the Dursleys got meaner. Hit harder. Locked him up longer. Like they thought being cruel enough would make the strangeness go away.

But tonight, in the darkness of the cupboard, Harry held onto something new. This power, this freakishness, whatever it was, it belonged to him. Not Dudley's. Not something they could take away like toys or food or daylight.

It was his. The only thing in his life that had ever been truly his.

And now, it was awake.

And it was learning.

Chapter Text

Albus Dumbledore – Headmaster’s Office, Hogwarts

The silver instruments hummed their ancient songs in the darkness of Dumbledore's office, their soft chimes marking time that felt heavy as stone. Albus Dumbledore sat hunched over his massive desk, spectacles perched low on his nose, the familiar twinkle in his eyes dimmed by exhaustion that seemed to settle into his very bones.

Before him lay the detritus of responsibility: Ministry documents demanding his attention, budget ledgers, and a research paper for the Transfiguration Guild requiring his approval, complex ward charts whose intricate lines blurred in the lamplight. A single orb of golden light hovered over a particularly dense scroll, illuminating runes that pulsed with ancient power. Each paper represented a crisis, a decision.

His shoulders, usually ramrod straight despite his considerable years, sagged under invisible weight. When had protecting the wizarding world become such a burden of endless bureaucracy? When had saving lives become a matter of filing the correct forms?

A firm, urgent knock echoed through the office, not the hesitant tap of a nervous student, but the determined rap of someone with purpose.

"Come in," Dumbledore called, straightening with visible effort.

Arabella Figg entered, her usually neat bun slightly askew, silver strands escaping to frame a face tight with worry. She clutched her worn handbag against her chest like armour, knuckles white against the faded leather.

"Albus," she began without preamble, her voice carrying an edge he'd rarely heard from the usually placid woman. "It's young Harry. The readings from Privet Drive..." She paused, searching for words. "They're getting stronger. Not just stronger—different. These aren't normal childhood surges."

Dumbledore removed his spectacles, cleaning them with slow, deliberate movements. "Ah, Arabella. Please, sit. You seem distressed."

"I am distressed!" The words burst from her, then she caught herself, smoothing her skirt as she perched on the edge of the offered chair. "Just last week, Albus, I saw him. Running in the garden—barefoot, in his pyjamas. In November, Albus. The ground was nearly frozen, and that poor child—"

"Barefoot in pyjamas?" Dumbledore's tired features softened into a gentle smile. "Ah, the boundless energy of youth. Such games children play, even in the cold. I remember James once—"

"This wasn't play." Arabella's voice cut through his reminiscence like a blade. "The boy looked..." She fumbled for the right word, her weathered hands twisting in her lap. "Frightened. Like he was running from something. Or someone."

The headmaster leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. Despite his weariness, that familiar benevolent twinkle returned to his eyes, the look of a man whose faith remained unshakeable despite all evidence to the contrary.

"My dear Arabella, you worry overmuch. I receive regular reports from Harry's school, a bright child, by all accounts. Learning well, developing normally." He gestured vaguely at a stack of parchments. "These magical surges you mention are precisely what we'd expect from a child of James and Lily's caliber. Raw, untamed magic. It will settle as he matures."

Arabella opened her mouth to protest, but Dumbledore continued, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction.

"Besides, the blood wards remain strong. Stronger than ever, in fact. The love Lily poured into her sacrifice..." He paused, his eyes growing distant. "It is the most powerful magic there is, Arabella. It will protect him. It always has."

"But Albus—" Arabella began, then stopped, her brow furrowing. She stared at her hands for a moment, as if trying to remember what she'd meant to say. The thread of her concern seemed to slip away like water through her fingers.

"What was I... oh yes. The readings. They're unusual, Albus. Not normal at all." She looked up at him with eyes that seemed suddenly older, more fragile. "Though I suppose... perhaps I'm not reading them correctly anymore. These old eyes..."

Dumbledore's expression softened with genuine compassion. "You've served faithfully for years, my dear friend. If you're concerned about your observations, perhaps a rest—"

A sharp, insistent chiming erupted from the ornate Ministry clock on the wall. Its hands spun wildly before settling with an authoritative click. A crisp voice projected from its golden face:

"Supreme Mugwump Dumbledore, emergency ICW summons. Escaped Hungarian Horntail from Romanian Reserve, currently approaching Muggle villages in the Carpathian Mountains. International crisis requiring immediate intervention. Your presence is urgently required."

Dumbledore sighed, the sound heavy as autumn leaves. He pushed himself up from his desk, joints protesting audibly. "Duty calls, I'm afraid.

He moved toward the door, then paused, turning back to Arabella with a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his tired eyes.

"Continue watching over Harry, if you would. And Arabella, if you're still worried after the Hogwarts year concludes, I'll come to Privet Drive myself. Check on the boy personally. I promise you that."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Arabella alone among the humming instruments. She sat motionless for a long moment, staring at her empty hands.

"After Hogwarts," she murmured to herself. "But that's... how long? Months?" The words felt strange in her mouth, as if she were speaking a foreign language.

She stood slowly, her movements uncertain. As she reached for the door handle, she paused, looking back at Dumbledore's desk with its scattered papers and glowing orb of light. Something important lingered at the edge of her memory, something about bare feet and frozen ground and a child's terrified face.

But like morning mist touched by sunlight, it faded before she could grasp it.

The hallway outside seemed longer than before, shadows deeper. Arabella made her way slowly toward the main entrance, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness. Behind her, the instruments continued their ancient songs, measuring time and magic.

Later, back in her small, neat house with its carefully tended garden, she sat by her front window watching Number Four across the street. The journey home had passed in a blur—Floo powder from the Three Broomsticks, the familiar green flames, stepping out into her own fireplace—but the details felt hazy now, like trying to grasp water.

She found herself staring at the Dursleys' pristine facade for hours, trying to remember why her heart felt so heavy. The details slipped away like smoke, something about bare feet, about a child's face, about readings that didn't make sense anymore.

Somewhere across the road, a child slept in a cupboard beneath the stairs, and his guardian angel was growing old and forgetful and tired.

The blood wards pulsed strong and steady around Number Four, Privet Drive.

And that, Dumbledore would have said, was all that mattered.

Petunia Dursley – Number Four, Privet Drive

The house settled into silence after the morning rush, Vernon's heavy footsteps out the door, Dudley's whining fade down the street, and the boy... well, the boy barely made noise even when he was there. Petunia Dursley sat at her spotless kitchen table, bone china teacup cradled in manicured hands, steam rising between her and the empty chairs.

This was her time. Her sanctuary. When the performance of being Vernon's perfect wife and Dudley's doting mother could drop away, leaving only the sharp edges of herself she kept carefully hidden.

The tea was Earl Grey, properly brewed. Not the cheap bags Vernon preferred, or the sugary nonsense Dudley demanded. This was hers, elegant, bitter, luxurious. Like the life she'd imagined for herself before reality had settled its weight upon her shoulders.

Through the lace curtains, she could see Mrs. Linton at Number Seven hanging laundry with precision. Each sheet snapped taut, every peg in perfect alignment. Petunia approved. Order was everything.

But even order couldn't stop her mind from wandering to the worry that had been gnawing at her for days. Weeks. Marge's impending visit.

Don't think about it yet, she told herself, sipping her tea. Still time. Still weeks before she comes.

But the thought settled anyway, cold and heavy in her stomach. Marge, with her nasty bulldogs and her opinions and her complete inability to pretend the boy didn't exist. Marge, who would ask pointed questions and make pointed observations about Harry's too-thin frame, his too-large clothes, his too-quiet presence.

Marge, who had no idea what the boy really was.

The teacup rattled against the saucer as Petunia set it down with unnecessary force. Her reflection stared back from the china's surface—pinched features, pale eyes, lips pressed thin with perpetual disapproval. When had she started looking so much like her mother?

Mother never had to deal with freakishness, she thought bitterly. Mother never had a sister who could make flowers bloom with a laugh.

The memory came unbidden, as they always did when she was alone with her thoughts. Lily, at seven, crouched in their small back garden, tiny hands cupped around a wilted daisy. "Watch, Tuney!" she'd whispered, eyes bright with excitement. "I can make it better!"

And she had. The stem straightened, the petals unfurled, color flooding back into white and yellow until it was more beautiful than any flower had a right to be. Lily had looked up with such joy, such pure delight in her impossible gift.

"See? I told you I could do magic!"

Petunia had run. Run to tell Mother, run to make it stop, run from the sick twist of jealousy that had lodged itself in her chest like a splinter. But Mother had only laughed. "Such imagination, Petunia. Sisters and their games."

No one ever believed her. And Lily... Lily had just kept doing impossible things, getting more impossible attention, until the letter came and she left for her special school, and Petunia was alone with the ordinary life that had never felt ordinary enough.

Now the teacup shook in her hands. The boy had Lily's eyes. Lily's too-clever mind. And lately, things had been happening around him. Small things. Impossible things.

The salt shaker incident. The broken mirrors. The way frost sometimes appeared on surfaces when he'd been near them, even in summer. Vernon had noticed too, though he pretended otherwise. The way his face went purple when something moved without being touched, the way his hands clenched when lights flickered for no reason.

It's starting, Petunia thought, the words like acid in her mind. Just like with her. The freakishness is waking up.

She stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Her reflection overlaid Mrs. Linton's methodical hanging, two women going through the motions of normal life. But normal was so fragile. Normal required constant vigilance.

What would Marge think if she saw the boy float a spoon without touching it? What would she say if windows started cracking during one of her lectures about proper discipline? Marge, who believed children should be seen and not heard, who thought Vernon was too soft on "the boy," who had no idea that softness was the only thing keeping the freakishness from exploding into something worse.

No. Petunia's jaw clenched. I won't have it. Not in my house. Not when Marge comes.

The memories shifted, growing darker. Lily at eleven, packing her trunk with books about magic and potions and things that shouldn't exist. "You could write to them, Tuney," she'd said, desperate to bridge the growing gap. "Ask if you could come too. I know you want to—"

"I don't want anything to do with your freakishness!" The words had exploded from seventeen-year-old Petunia's mouth like venom. "I don't want any of it! You're unnatural, Lily. Wrong. And everyone who can't see that is just as wrong as you are!"

Lily's face had crumpled. She'd tried to apologize, to explain, to make Petunia understand. But understanding was the problem. Petunia understood perfectly. Lily was special. Lily was chosen. Lily was everything Petunia would never be.

And now Lily was dead, killed by the very world that had stolen her away. Killed by the freakishness that had marked her as different, as a target. The magic that had seemed so beautiful in a seven-year-old's hands had become the weapon that destroyed her.

Good, Petunia thought viciously, then immediately recoiled from her own cruelty. Not good. Never good. But... inevitable. This was what magic brought. This was what being special cost.

The boy would learn that lesson. Had to learn it. For his own good, for their safety, for the preservation of everything normal and right and proper. Vernon understood. Vernon saw the threat, felt the wrongness that radiated from the boy like heat from a fever.

But Marge... Marge would push. Would poke. Would demand to know why the boy was so strange, so quiet, so obviously unwanted. And if things started happening while she was here...

Petunia's hands gripped the windowsill until her knuckles went white. She could feel the storm building, in the boy, in herself, in the carefully constructed normalcy of their lives. Marge's visit would be the spark, and everything would burn.

Maybe it needs to burn, a treacherous voice whispered in her mind. Maybe the boy needs to learn what happens when freakishness gets out of hand.

She pushed the thought away, but it clung like smoke. The truth was, she was tired. Tired of watching for signs, tired of making excuses, tired of the fear that lived in her chest every time something moved without being touched. Tired of looking at Lily's eyes in that too-thin face and remembering everything she'd lost.

If Marge's visit forced a confrontation... if the boy finally showed his true nature in front of someone who wouldn't make excuses... if Vernon finally did what needed to be done...

Petunia turned away from the window. Her reflection in the kitchen's gleaming surfaces looked calm, composed, perfectly normal. But inside, something hard and cold was hardening.

Let the storm come, she thought, reaching for her teacup with steady hands. Let him show what he really is. And let him learn what happens to freaks who forget their place.

The tea had gone cold, but she drank it anyway. Bitter and unforgiving, exactly how it should be.

Outside, Mrs. Linton finished her laundry and went inside, leaving the garden empty except for the wind moving through perfectly trimmed hedges. Order maintained. Normalcy preserved.

For now.

But storms were coming, and Petunia Dursley was ready to let them break.

Chapter Text

The classroom emptied in the usual rush of voices and scraping chairs, leaving behind the familiar smell of chalk dust and summer heat trapped behind closed windows. Harry packed his few belongings with methodical care—the stub of pencil he'd found in the corridor, the exercise book with only half its pages missing, the ruler cracked down the middle but still functional.

"Harry, dear, could you stay a moment?"

Mrs. Henderson's voice made him freeze. Had he done something wrong? Made too much noise? Failed to hide the bruise on his wrist well enough?

She approached his desk with that careful way adults used around him—not the sharp wariness of most teachers, but something gentler. Sadder.

"I wanted to give you something." From her bag, she produced a slim book, its red cover worn soft at the edges. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. "It's about a boy not so different from you. A boy who thought his circumstances would never change."

Harry stared at the book, afraid to touch it. Books were Dudley's things, or Vernon's newspapers, or Petunia's magazines. Not his.

"I can't—"

"You can." She placed it gently in his hands. The weight of it felt impossible. "Harry, I need you to understand something. You won't be where you are forever. Do well in school, work hard, and you can make your own path. Education is escape, dear boy. It's the one thing no one can take from you once you have it."

Her words settled into him like warmth. Someone believed he could escape. Someone thought he was worth saving.

"The main character—Pip—he starts in a place that seems hopeless. But he learns, he grows, he becomes something more." She squeezed his shoulder gently. "Just like you will."

Harry clutched the book to his chest. "Thank you," he whispered, the words barely audible.

"Read it carefully. Keep it safe. And remember—this is temporary, Harry. All of it."

He nodded, not trusting his voice. For the first time in months, something bright flickered in his chest. Hope. Fragile as spun glass, but real.

Only as he reached the school gates did Harry realize the sun hung lower than usual. The walk home, usually quick with fear, had stretched as he held the book close, running his fingers over its cover, imagining himself as Pip, envisioning a future that didn't involve cupboards, hunger, and bruises.

The lightness in his chest began to curdle.

Privet Drive stretched before him, each identical house a sentinel marking his return to reality. Number Four loomed at the end, Vernon's car already in the driveway. Home from work. Waiting.

Harry broke into a run, the book bouncing against his ribs. Maybe they wouldn't notice. Maybe Vernon would be distracted by the television, or Petunia would be too busy with dinner preparations.

But as he approached the front door, he could hear voices through the windows. Raised voices. Angry voices.

And they stopped the moment his key turned in the lock.

The hallway felt like stepping into an oven. Heat pressed against every surface, making the air thick and hostile. The upstairs windows were shut tight—Petunia's obsession with privacy trumping any hope of cross-breeze. The smell of overcooked lamb and Petunia's cleaning products hung in the stifling air like a threat.

Vernon stood in the kitchen doorway, his face already progressing through its familiar colour spectrum. Purple veins stood out against his neck. Behind him, Petunia clutched a tea towel, her knuckles white.

"Twenty-three minutes," Vernon said, his voice deceptively quiet. "Twenty-three minutes late."

Harry's throat closed. The book felt suddenly heavy in his hands—evidence of his crime.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon. Mrs. Henderson—"

"Mrs. Henderson?" The purple deepened. "That teacher again? The one asking questions? Sticking her nose where it doesn't belong?"

"She just—"

"WHAT DID YOU TELL HER?"

The bellow echoed through the house. Upstairs, something crashed—probably Dudley jumping off his bed in excitement. The sound of the approaching show.

"Nothing!" Harry's voice cracked. "She just gave me—"

Vernon's eyes were fixed on the book. For a moment, nobody moved. Then his hand shot out, snatching it from Harry's grip.

"Great Expectations," he read aloud, his voice dripping contempt. "Expectations? EXPECTATIONS?" He threw the book against the wall. Its spine cracked, pages fluttering loose. "You have no expectations, boy! You have obligations! Debts to pay!"

Harry watched the book's broken pages settle on the floor like fallen leaves. The hope Mrs. Henderson had given him scattered with them.

"Filling your head with ideas above your station," Petunia hissed from the kitchen. "Making you think you're special. Making you late." Her voice climbed higher. "What did you tell her about us? About this family?"

"Nothing—"

"Don't lie!" Vernon's fist slammed against the door frame. "Teachers don't give books to normal children! They don't keep students after school unless something is wrong! What stories have you been telling?"

The temperature in the hallway began to drop. Harry felt it before he saw it, the familiar electric feeling that preceded impossible things. Frost began forming on the mirror behind Vernon, delicate patterns spreading like cracks.

"I told her nothing," Harry whispered, pressing himself against the wall. "I swear."

But Vernon's attention had shifted. His eyes found the frost, the sudden chill that made their breath visible in the stifling house.

"Not again," Petunia breathed. "Not now. Not with Marge coming."

Marge. The name hit Harry like a physical blow. Aunt Marge, with her bulldogs and her opinions and her hands that hurt when she grabbed too tight. She was coming here. Soon.

"Fix it," Vernon snarled, pointing at the frost. "Make it stop. NOW."

But Harry couldn't make it stop. The wrongness inside him had woken up, responding to his fear, his despair, his rage at the broken book. The frost spread further, reaching the ceiling now, turning the mirror opaque with ice.

Dudley's heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs. "Mummy, why is it cold? Why is Daddy shouting?"

"Go to your room, Dudley," Petunia snapped, but her eyes never left Harry. "Go now."

"But I want to see—"

"GO!"

Dudley retreated, but Harry could hear him on the stairs, listening. Waiting for whatever would happen next.

Vernon stepped closer. Each footfall made the floorboards creak. "You will control this freakishness. You will stop making our lives difficult. And when Marge arrives tomorrow, you will be normal. Quiet. Invisible." His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow felt louder than shouting. "Because if you embarrass this family in front of her, boy, you'll wish you'd never been born."

The frost began to recede, but the cold lingered. Harry nodded frantically, not trusting his voice.

"Cupboard," Vernon said. "Now. No dinner. And if I hear so much as a whisper before morning, you'll spend Marge's entire visit in there."

Harry crawled into his cupboard, the lock clicking with finality. In the darkness, he could hear them cleaning up the broken pages of his book. Every rustle of paper felt like a small death.

Through the thin door, Vernon's voice carried clearly: "Teacher giving him books. Making him think he's something special. Well, he'll learn differently tomorrow when Marge gets here. She knows how to handle spoiled children."

Petunia's reply was too quiet to hear, but her tone was sharp with anxiety.

Harry curled into himself, knees to chest, trying to make sense of what was coming. Marge's visits were always terrible, but this felt different. Heavier. Like standing in the path of an approaching storm.

The house settled around him, still too hot despite the brief cold snap. Upstairs, Vernon and Petunia's voices continued their worried conference. Dudley's floorboards creaked as he tried to listen from the top of the stairs.

And in the cupboard, Harry held the memory of Mrs. Henderson's words like a candle flame. This is temporary, Harry. All of it.

But temporary could last forever when you were nine years old and trapped beneath the stairs.

The lock clicked open just after seven, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the stifling quiet of Number Four, Privet Drive. Harry crawled from the cupboard, his legs prickling with numbness from hours folded into the cramped, dusty space beneath the stairs. The air in the house felt heavy, charged—like the oppressive hush before a thunderstorm, where every breath tastes of ozone and impending violence. His bare feet scuffed against the worn linoleum, each step tentative, as if the floor might betray him.

“Kitchen,” Vernon’s voice rumbled from the dining room, low and edged with menace. “Clean up dinner.”

Harry shuffled forward, his stomach a hollow knot. The dining room table was a battlefield of remnants from a meal he hadn’t been allowed to share. Lamb bones gleamed on Vernon’s plate, their edges gnawed clean. Cold, lumpy potatoes sat in a congealed pool of gravy, the boat tipped precariously as if abandoned mid-pour. The rich, fatty smell twisted Harry’s hunger into something sharp and desperate, a blade turning in his gut.

Vernon loomed at the head of the table, a brandy snifter cradled in his meaty hand, the amber liquid catching the overhead light in fractured glints. His face, usually florid, held a dangerous stillness, his small eyes glittering like polished stones. Petunia sat opposite, picking at a crumbling slice of cake with sharp, jerky movements, her lips pressed into a thin line. The heat hadn’t broken despite the evening hour; if anything, the closed windows trapped it, making the air thick, clinging to Harry’s skin like damp cloth.

He gathered plates with trembling hands, the china clinking too loudly in the silence. Each scrape of cutlery against porcelain grated like fingernails dragged across slate, setting his teeth on edge. He kept his eyes down, focusing on the task, but the weight of their gazes pressed against him, Vernon’s simmering, Petunia’s brittle and agitated.

“Faster, boy,” Vernon said, not looking up, his voice a low growl. “Marge arrives tomorrow afternoon. Everything must be perfect.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around a plate, the edges biting into his palms. Marge. The name conjured images of her bulldogs, her booming voice, her disgust that matched Vernon’s but carried a crueler edge. He stacked the dishes, moving toward the kitchen sink, when his dry throat cracked under the strain of the day’s heat and the cupboard’s deprivation.

“Please,” he whispered, barely audible, the word slipping out before he could stop it. “Could I have some water?”

The words hung in the air, fragile as smoke. Vernon’s hand froze, the brandy snifter suspended halfway to his mouth, the crystal catching the light like a warning. Petunia’s fork clinked sharply against her plate, the sound slicing through the room. Harry’s heart thudded, each beat loud in his ears.

“What did you say?” Vernon’s voice was soft, deliberate, a predator’s pause before the strike.

Harry’s throat felt like sandpaper, scraped raw by thirst and fear. The heat, the hours without water, the cupboard’s stale air—it all pressed down, a weight crushing his chest. “Water. Please. I’m very thirsty.”

Vernon raised the snifter to his lips and took a slow, savoring sip. The faint clink of glass against teeth echoed in the silence. He smacked his lips, exaggerated and wet, then lowered the glass, but didn’t set it down. Instead, he kept it cradled in his hand, fingers tightening just slightly.

"Thirsty." The word rolled off his tongue like a curse. "You bring shame on this house. You make us late for dinner with your teacher's nonsense. You fill the hallway with your freakish ice. And now you want water?"

"I just—"

"You just what?" Vernon's voice began its familiar climb toward rage. "You just think you deserve things? You just expect us to cater to your every whim like some kind of... of..."

"Spoiled brat," Petunia supplied, her voice brittle. "That's what Marge would call it. Expectations above your station."

Vernon's face was purpling again. "Worthless freak thinks he can make demands in my house. My house that I pay for, that I provide, that keeps you fed and clothed despite what you are."

The familiar electric feeling began building in Harry's chest. No, not now. Not again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean—"

"Sorry?" Vernon pushed back from the table, his bulk casting shadows, brandy still sloshing in his clenched hand. "You embarrass us in front of your teacher. You bring social services sniffing around our door. You make your freakish ice appear in my hallway. And all you can say is sorry?"

The air grew charged. Static electricity made Harry's hair stand on end. In the corner of his vision, condensation began forming on the windows despite the heat.

"Please, Uncle Vernon—"

"WORTHLESS FREAK!"

The words exploded from Vernon like a physical blow. And with them, something in Harry exploded too.

The brandy snifter didn’t just break—it shattered outward in a perfect sphere of destruction, crystal shards fountaining across the dining room like deadly confetti. Vernon’s bellow of rage cut off in a sharp cry of pain as glass embedded itself in his palm, bright blood welling between his fingers.

Nobody moved. Harry stared at Vernon’s bleeding hand, at the crimson soaking the tea towel Petunia had snatched from the table, at the chaos he’d unleashed without meaning to. His heart pounded, not with fear but with a terrible, fleeting satisfaction. He’d wanted Vernon to hurt. Just for a moment. Just enough to make the words stop.

“My hand,” Vernon whispered, his voice small with shock as he stared at the blood. Then, louder, a snarl: “MY HAND!”

Petunia was already at his side, wrapping the tea towel tighter, her hands shaking. “Vernon, oh god, Vernon—”

“He did this.” Vernon’s eyes locked onto Harry, and the hatred in them was a void, bottomless and cold. “The freak did this to me.”

“It was an accident,” Harry whispered, but the words tasted like ash. Had it been? The hum in his chest still thrummed, alive and unrepentant.

“Accident?” Vernon’s laugh was jagged, like the glass littering the floor. “You think this was an accident?”

He lunged, his good hand outstretched, fingers curled like claws. Petunia caught his arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. “Vernon, your hand—you’re bleeding everywhere—”

“I don’t care about my hand!” But he swayed, face paling beneath the purple flush, the brandy and blood loss making him unsteady. His injured hand dripped steadily onto the carpet, each drop a soft, rhythmic patter. “Get my belt, Petunia.”

“Vernon—”

“GET MY BELT!” His shout rattled the remaining glassware on the table.

Petunia fled upstairs, her heels clicking frantically on the steps. Harry pressed himself against the dining room wall, the plaster cool against his burning skin. Vernon cradled his injured hand, blood seeping through the tea towel, his breath heavy with brandy and rage. His thoughts slammed into Harry’s mind—freak-unnatural-must-be-punished—sharp as the glass still embedded in his palm.

“You’re going to learn,” Vernon panted, his voice thick, slurring slightly. “You’re going to learn what happens to freaks who forget their place in my house.”

Footsteps descended. Petunia returned, the leather belt dangling from her hands like a dead snake, its buckle glinting dully in the light. Her face was white as bone, her lips trembling, but her thoughts were louder than her silence—just-like-Lily-breaking-things-making-trouble-ruining-everything.

“Vernon, please,” she whispered. “The neighbors—”

“I don’t care about the neighbors!” Vernon snatched the belt, the movement jerky, his injured hand leaving a smear of blood on the leather. “He attacked me, Petunia. In my own home. The freak attacked me.”

He advanced, each step making the floor creak under his weight. Harry’s back pressed harder against the wall, nowhere left to go. The belt hung loose in Vernon’s good hand, swaying slightly, the buckle catching the light with each motion. Harry’s eyes fixed on it, on the dull brass that promised pain, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

The first blow landed across his back, the leather biting through his thin shirt like fire. The air rushed from his lungs, his knees buckling as he gasped, hands scrabbling at the wall for balance. The second blow followed, the belt whistling through the air before cracking against his shoulder blades, the force driving him to the floor. Pain bloomed, bright and blinding, a white-hot line that seared from his spine to his fingertips.

Vernon raised the belt again, his arm trembling, not with hesitation but with the unsteady fury of brandy and shock. The buckle gleamed, a cruel star in Harry’s blurring vision. The third blow landed lower, across his ribs, the leather curling around his side like a whip. Harry’s cry was barely a sound, more a choked whimper, as his body folded in on itself, curling instinctively to protect what little it could.

The hum in his chest surged, crackling like static, begging to lash out. The air grew colder, the condensation on the windows thickening into frost that crept inward in delicate, fractal patterns. Harry’s scar throbbed, a pulse that matched the rhythm of his pain, as if something inside it was waking, watching, approving.

“Stop,” he gasped, barely audible. “Please stop.”

Vernon ignored him, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond Harry, as if he were striking at something larger than the boy crumpled before him. The belt rose again, the leather taut, the buckle flashing as it caught the light. The fourth blow whipped across Harry’s upper arm, the brass grazing his skin with a sharp, metallic sting that drew a thin line of blood. Harry flinched, his body curling tighter, his breath hitching as the pain layered over itself, each welt a burning echo of the last.

The fifth blow came faster, the leather snapping against his lower back, the buckle missing this time, but the force was still enough to make his vision spark with white. Vernon’s arm shook harder now, his aim faltering, the belt swaying erratically in his blood-slicked hand. His face was slick with sweat, his breath ragged, the brandy and blood loss sapping his strength.

Petunia’s hand closed around Vernon’s wrist, her fingers pale and trembling but firm. “Enough,” she said, her voice low and sharp as a blade. “The neighbors, Vernon. Mrs. Smith’s always snooping. If she hears—if she calls someone—”

Vernon blinked, his eyes glassy, struggling to focus through the haze of pain and alcohol. The belt slipped from his fingers, landing on the carpet with a soft thud, the buckle leaving a faint smear of blood. He swayed, one hand clutching the tea towel to his wounded palm, the other groping for the table to steady himself.

“Cupboard,” he muttered, his voice slurring into something almost incoherent. “Get in there. And if anything else breaks, if anything else moves, you’ll stay in there until Marge leaves.”

Harry crawled toward the cupboard, each movement a fresh agony, lightning shooting up his spine with every shift of his weight. His shirt clung to his back, wet with sweat and something warmer—blood, maybe, from where the buckle had bitten too deep. He reached the cupboard door, his fingers trembling as they closed around the handle. He pulled it shut himself, the soft click louder than a slam in the heavy silence. The lock snapped into place from outside, Petunia’s doing, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear and guilt and Lily-Lily-Lily.

In the darkness, Harry curled around his pain, his knees drawn to his chest, his breath hitching with each shallow inhale. The welts on his back burned, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, but worse was the warmth in his chest, that terrible, intoxicating satisfaction from the moment the glass had cut Vernon’s hand. He’d wanted it, hadn’t he? Wanted Vernon to hurt, to bleed, to stop. And something in him had answered.

His scar throbbed, a low, steady heat that felt alive, awake. Outside, Petunia’s voice cut through the walls, tight with panic as she called for a doctor, her words clipped and rapid. Vernon groaned, cursing softly, his rage dulled by pain and brandy. Their thoughts pressed against Harry’s mind, Petunia’s fear, Vernon’s hatred, both laced with something new: unease, as if they’d glimpsed the thing inside him and didn’t know what it could do.

Harry pressed his hands against the cupboard walls, the wood rough under his palms. The hum was still there, quieter now but waiting. He didn’t understand it, didn’t know how to call it or control it. But it was his. And in that moment, bruised and bleeding in the dark, it felt like the only thing that could keep him alive.

The sound of a car door slamming echoed through the house like a gunshot. Harry woke on his cot in the cupboard, the lock having been forgotten in the chaos of Vernon's injury. Through the thin door, he could hear the flurry of activity—Petunia's high, false laugh, Vernon's booming welcome despite his bandaged hand, and underneath it all, a voice that made Harry's blood run cold.

"Well, well! There's my favourite nephew and his lovely family!"

Aunt Marge had arrived.

Harry pressed his eye to the crack between the door and frame. Through the hallway, he could glimpse the front door standing open. A large woman was extracting herself from a small car with military precision, two bulldogs straining at their leads behind her. She surveyed the house like a property inspector, her small eyes missing nothing.

"Petunia, you look thin! Are you eating enough? And Vernon, good lord, what happened to your hand?"

"Small accident," Vernon's voice carried clearly, slightly strained. "Nothing serious. How was your journey?"

"Dreadful traffic. Absolute chaos on the motorways. No discipline these days, no respect for proper driving." Marge's voice boomed with authority. "Now then, where are my bags? And where's that boy? I want to get a proper look at him."

Harry's scar gave a warning throb. The warm feeling that had been building since last night spread through his chest like spilled wine.

"Harry's... resting," Petunia said carefully. "He's been feeling poorly."

"Poorly?" Marge's laugh was sharp as breaking glass. "In my experience, children are only poorly behaved when they're not getting enough discipline. Too much coddling, that's the problem. Mark my words, a firm hand and hard work cure most childhood ailments."

"Of course, Marge," Vernon agreed quickly. "You're absolutely right. We've perhaps been too... lenient."

"Well, we'll soon sort that out. Can't have the boy thinking he can slack off just because he's got visitors. Bad habits, Vernon. They start young and grow like weeds if you don't root them out properly."

Harry closed his eyes and felt something cold and dark settle in his stomach. This was it. This was what he'd been dreading, what the whole house had been building toward. Aunt Marge, with her opinions and her bulldogs and her absolute certainty that children like Harry needed to be broken properly.

But he wasn't the same boy who'd cowered from her before. Something fundamental had changed when Vernon's glass exploded. Something that pulsed behind his scar and hummed in his bones.

The cupboard door jerked open without warning. Vernon stood there, his bandaged hand prominent against his shirt, his face carrying a mixture of pain and barely controlled rage.

"Out," he said. "Now. And remember what I told you about embarrassing this family."

Harry stood slowly, smoothing down his oversized shirt. As he stepped into the hallway, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—thin, pale, unremarkable. But his eyes looked different somehow. Empty. Distant.

Aunt Marge was waiting in the living room, her bulldogs panting at her feet. She was exactly as Harry remembered, large, loud, and utterly convinced of her own righteousness. When she saw him, her lips curved into a smile that held no warmth.

"There he is!" she boomed. "Come here, boy. Let me get a proper look at you."

Harry stepped forward, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Marge's small eyes raked over him, cataloguing every detail.

"Thin as a rail," she pronounced. "And that posture! Stand up straight, boy. Shoulders back. Good lord, Vernon, has no one taught him how to present himself?"

"Harry can be... difficult," Vernon said carefully.

"Difficult?" Marge's eyebrows shot up. "Nonsense. There's no such thing as a difficult child, only weak discipline. In my experience, a few days of proper structure sorts out any behavioural problems."

She leaned forward, her face inches from Harry's. Her breath smelled of gin and something sour.

"You and I are going to get along famously," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear. "By the time I leave, you'll understand exactly what's expected of you in this house."

Harry met her gaze steadily. The warmth in his scar pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

"Yes, Aunt Marge," he said quietly.

But behind his careful politeness, something fragile was cracking. Something that had held him together through years of cupboards and cruelty was finally giving way. He could feel it splintering, like ice on a frozen pond, still solid on the surface, but ready to shatter at the first wrong step.

Aunt Marge straightened, satisfied with his apparent submission. She had no idea how close to the edge he was. No idea that the frightened little boy she expected to terrorize was hanging by a thread so thin it might snap at her first cruel word.

What stood before her now was someone balanced on a knife's edge.

The storm had arrived. And something was about to break.

Chapter Text

"The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth." — African Proverb

Harry woke to the sound of Marge's voice booming through the house. Sunlight leaked through the crack beneath his cupboard door, but the air inside felt unnaturally cold. The temperature had dropped during the night, leaving a chill that seemed to seep from the walls themselves.

"Up, boy! Six o'clock sharp means six o'clock sharp!"

The cupboard door rattled under Marge's heavy knocking. Harry scrambled upright, his joints protesting from another night folded into impossible angles. The cold faded as his fear spiked, replaced by the familiar tightness in his chest.

"I'm awake, Aunt Marge," he called out.

"Then prove it! Dressed and out here in five minutes. We have work to do."

Harry pulled on his clothes, the same overlarge shirt and patched trousers from yesterday. There hadn't been time for Petunia to provide alternatives, and Marge's arrival had disrupted the household's careful routines.

The kitchen was a hive of activity. Petunia stood at the stove preparing what looked like enough breakfast for a small army, while Vernon nursed his coffee and bandaged hand at the table. Dudley sat slouched in his chair, still in pyjamas, looking sullen at being awake so early.

Marge dominated the room, taking up space with the confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed. She'd dressed for a day of activity, practical trousers, sturdy shoes, and a no-nonsense shirt that suggested she had plans. Her bulldogs lay by the back door, panting in the morning heat.

"There he is," she announced as Harry appeared. "And only three minutes late. We'll work on that."

She looked him up and down with the same calculating expression from the night before, but now there was something else in her gaze. Purpose. Plan.

"Right then. First things first, proper presentation." She gestured toward his clothes with obvious distaste. "Those rags won't do. Petunia, surely you can find something more suitable?"

"Harry's clothes are perfectly adequate," Petunia said carefully, though her tone suggested she disagreed.

"Adequate?" Marge snorted. "The boy looks like a vagrant. How do you expect him to develop proper self-respect dressed like that?" She fixed Harry with a stern stare. "Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Look me in the eye when I'm speaking to you."

Harry forced himself to meet her gaze, though every instinct screamed at him to look away.

"Better. Now, we need to establish some basic rules for this weekend." Marge began counting on her fingers. "First: You will address me as 'Aunt Marge' at all times. Second: When I give you an instruction, you will respond immediately and enthusiastically. Third: You will complete every task to my exact specifications. Failure to meet any of these expectations will result in immediate correction."

The word 'correction' made Harry's stomach clench. In Marge's mouth, it sounded less like guidance and more like a threat.

"Do you understand these rules?" she demanded.

"Yes, Aunt Marge," Harry replied quietly.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes, Aunt Marge," he repeated, louder this time.

"Much better. Now, your first task." Marge gestured toward the back garden, visible through the kitchen window. "Those flowerbeds are a disgrace. Weeds everywhere, deadheading neglected. You'll spend the morning making them presentable."

Harry glanced toward the garden. Petunia's flowerbeds were immaculate, she tended them with obsessive care. But he knew better than to contradict Marge.

"You'll find tools in the shed," Marge continued. "I want every weed removed, every dead flower cut away, every edge trimmed to perfection. When you think you're finished, you'll come find me for inspection. If the work isn't satisfactory, you'll start again."

The unfairness of it hit Harry like a physical blow. The garden was already perfect. Marge was setting him up to fail, creating reasons for her promised 'corrections.'

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

"I'll start right away, Aunt Marge."

"And what will you remember while you work?"

Harry's throat felt dry. "That excellence isn't negotiable, Aunt Marge."

"Better. And boy?" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear. "Remember, I'll be watching. Every move, every shortcut, every moment you think you can slack off. Excellence isn't negotiable."

The morning sun was already brutal, promising another scorching day. Harry worked methodically through the flowerbeds, searching for weeds that didn't exist among plants that needed no attention. The familiar rhythm of manual labour should have been soothing, but Marge's presence poisoned even this small refuge.

She appeared at the kitchen window every few minutes, her face pressed against the glass like a prison warden checking on inmates. Sometimes she emerged into the garden itself, circling Harry's work with the air of someone hoping to find fault.

"That edge isn't straight," she announced after his first hour of work. "Start that section again."

Harry bent to re-trim a border that had been perfectly level. The tools felt heavy in his hands and sweat dripped steadily from his forehead despite the early hour.

"Slower," Marge instructed from her lawn chair. "Precision matters more than speed. Each cut should be deliberate, measured." She sipped her tea with obvious satisfaction. "Good habits start with attention to detail."

By mid-morning, Harry had 'corrected' the same flowerbed three times. His back ached from constant bending, his hands were raw from gripping the tools, and his shirt clung to his skin with perspiration. The garden looked exactly as it had when he'd started—perfect.

"Adequate," Marge finally pronounced, though her tone suggested this was generous praise. "Now the lawn needs cutting."

Harry stared at the grass. He had cut it just three days ago under Vernon's supervision; it was barely longer than carpet.

"But it's already—"

"Are you questioning my instructions?"

The words died in Harry's throat. "No, Aunt Marge."

"Then why are you still standing there?"

The mower was old, heavy and temperamental, requiring multiple pulls of the starter cord before coughing to life. Harry guided it across grass that didn't need cutting, creating patterns that Marge criticized and demanded he repeat.

"Straight lines, boy! This isn't abstract art."

The machine was designed for adults, too heavy and unwieldy for someone Harry's size. By the time he finished, his arms shook with exhaustion and his vision swam with heat-induced dizziness.

"Marginally acceptable," Marge declared. "Though I can see several areas that need attention. We'll address those this afternoon."

Lunch was a brief affair, a sandwich eaten standing in the kitchen while Marge outlined his afternoon tasks. Weeding the vegetable patch that contained no weeds. Cleaning windows that sparkled in the sunlight. Organizing a shed that Vernon kept in military precision.

"The boy needs proper occupation," Marge explained to Vernon and Petunia, who watched from the comfort of the air-conditioned living room. "Idle hands are the devil's workshop, as they say. A few days of honest labour will do him a world of good."

Vernon nodded approvingly. "Quite right. We've been too permissive."

"Permissive?" Marge laughed, but there was no humour in it. "You've been negligent. The child has no discipline, no work ethic, no understanding of consequences." She fixed Harry with that calculating stare again. "But that's about to change."

As Harry returned to the blazing garden, he could hear Marge's voice through the open windows, regaling the Dursleys with stories of her methods. Dog training techniques adapted for children. The importance of "breaking spirit" before rebuilding character. Success stories of difficult animals made docile through persistent correction.

The tools felt heavier with each task. The sun seemed to press down like a weight on his shoulders. And through it all, Marge watched from her comfortable chair, occasionally calling out criticism or demands for perfection that couldn't be achieved because it already existed.

"Slower! More careful! Start that section again!"

By evening, Harry could barely stand upright. His hands were blistered, his back screamed with pain, and his vision kept blurring from dehydration and exhaustion. The garden looked identical to how it had appeared that morning—immaculate.

"A fair start," Marge pronounced as she surveyed his work. "Tomorrow we'll focus on speed as well as accuracy. Can't have you dawdling through simple tasks."

At dinner, Harry sat in his designated corner chair, too tired to do more than pick at his food. The conversation flowed around him like water around a stone, Marge's observations about proper child-rearing, Vernon's agreement with her methods, Petunia's nervous laughter at increasingly pointed comments.

"Some children," Marge was saying, gesturing with her brandy glass, "require more intensive correction than others. It's not cruelty—it's kindness. Better to learn life's harsh lessons in a controlled environment than face them unprepared in the real world."

She glanced meaningfully at Harry. "Wouldn't you agree, boy? Isn't it better to learn proper standards now rather than stumble through life without discipline?"

Harry met her gaze, though his voice came out barely above a whisper. "Yes, Aunt Marge, it's better to learn proper standards."

"Exactly!" She beamed as if he'd just provided proof of her pedagogical genius. "See how quickly children adapt when expectations are clearly communicated? Tomorrow's lessons will build on today's foundation."

The promise landed like a stone in Harry's stomach. Tomorrow. More impossibly perfect tasks. More criticism of flawless work. More hours under the blazing sun while Marge watched and waited for him to fail.

"Early bedtime tonight," Marge announced. "Growing boys need rest, especially when they're learning important lessons about effort and excellence."

The cupboard felt smaller than usual, or perhaps Harry was simply more aware of its dimensions after a day spent outdoors. The walls pressed close, holding the day's heat like an oven. But as his exhaustion began to fade, that familiar cold started spreading through his chest.

The temperature in the small space dropped noticeably, though Harry barely registered it. He was too focused on the chill inside him, the way it seemed to pulse with each of Marge's distant laughs.

Outside, he could hear Marge's voice holding court, her laughter sharp and satisfied. She was pleased with the day's work, confident in her methods, certain that she was moulding him into something better.

She had no idea what she was creating.

Harry closed his eyes and felt the cold settle deeper into his bones. One day down. Two more to go.

In the living room, Marge raised her glass in a toast to "proper child-rearing" and "the importance of firm correction."

The wrongness inside him pulsed like a second heartbeat.

Harry woke before dawn, his body aching from yesterday's pointless labour. The cupboard felt stifling, the air thick and oppressive despite the early hour. Something had changed during the night, not just the temperature, but something deeper. The cold in his chest had settled into a constant presence, pulsing with each heartbeat like a second circulatory system.

Marge's voice cut through the morning silence earlier than before.

"Up! Today we perfect yesterday's lessons!"

Harry emerged from his cupboard to find the house already bustling with activity. Marge stood in the kitchen fully dressed; her face flushed with the enthusiasm of someone anticipating a productive day. She'd prepared a detailed schedule, written in her precise handwriting and pinned to the refrigerator.

"Seven o'clock garden inspection," she announced as Harry appeared. "I want to see how well you've retained yesterday's instruction. Then we'll move on to more advanced tasks."

Breakfast was a hurried affair, toast and tea consumed standing up while Marge outlined her expectations. The garden work would be repeated, but faster this time. Additional chores had been added: cleaning the gutters, washing the exterior windows, and reorganizing the entire garage.

"Excellence through repetition," Marge explained, clearly pleased with her educational philosophy. "Master the basics before attempting more complex challenges."

The morning sun was already brutal as Harry returned to the garden. The flowerbeds remained as perfect as when he'd left them, but Marge found new flaws with the sharp eye of someone determined to discover problems.

"This edge is uneven. That section needs re-weeding. Start again."

Hours passed in a haze of repeated tasks and manufactured failures. Harry's hands, still raw from yesterday, began to bleed through the blisters. The heat pressed down like a weight, and sweat stung his eyes as he worked.

"Slower! More precision!" Marge called from her chair. "Good habits can't be rushed."

By midday, Harry could barely grip the tools. His vision swam with exhaustion and dehydration, and the cold in his chest had begun to pulse more rapidly, like a warning system approaching overload.

Lunch was short, another sandwich eaten standing while Marge critiqued his morning performance. As Harry choked down the dry bread, fighting waves of nausea, Marge launched into a familiar lecture about work ethic and character building.

"Some children," she was saying, "simply require more intensive correction than others. It's not their fault, really poor breeding often shows in these ways."

The words hit Harry like a physical blow. Poor breeding. She was talking about him.

"Take this one," Marge continued, gesturing at Harry as if he weren't standing right there. "You can see the bad blood in every line of him. The sullen expression, the ungrateful attitude, the resistance to proper instruction."

Vernon nodded approvingly from his chair. "We've certainly seen signs of that."

"Oh, it's written all over him," Marge agreed, warming to her subject. "Bad breeding will out, I'm afraid. You can try to train it away, but the fundamentals remain." She fixed Harry with that calculating stare. "Still, we mustn't give up hope. Even the most difficult cases can be improved with sufficient... motivation."

The cold in Harry's chest flared, sending ice through his veins. The kitchen temperature dropped several degrees, though none of the adults seemed to notice.

"Now then," Marge said, standing and brushing crumbs from her hands, "back to work. The garage won't organize itself."

The garage was a furnace in the afternoon heat. Harry worked methodically through boxes and shelves, reorganizing tools and equipment that were already perfectly arranged. His movements became increasingly mechanical as exhaustion took hold, but the cold inside him continued to build.

Marge appeared every few minutes, finding fault with his organization system, demanding that he start sections over. Each criticism felt like a small knife thrust, adding to the pressure building behind his ribs.

"No, no, no!" she snapped as Harry finished arranging Vernon's tool collection for the third time. "Size order, then alphabetical within each category. How difficult is that to understand?"

"I thought—" Harry began.

"You thought?" Marge's eyebrows shot up. "You're not here to think, boy. You're here to follow instructions. Thinking is what got you into this mess in the first place."

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to that familiar whisper. "Children like you need to learn their limitations early. The world won't coddle you the way this family has. Better to learn harsh truths now than face them unprepared later."

Harry's scar began to throb with that familiar warmth, contrasting sharply with the ice spreading through his chest.

As evening approached, Marge called a halt to the day's labour. Harry stood swaying in the garage doorway, his vision blurring with exhaustion. Every muscle in his body screamed, and his hands had left bloody smears on everything he'd touched.

"Adequate progress," Marge pronounced. "Tomorrow we'll work on speed as well as accuracy."

The promise of another day felt like a death sentence.

Dinner was a nightmare of forced normalcy. Harry sat in his corner chair, too exhausted to do more than pick at his food, while Marge regaled the family with stories of successful "corrections" she'd implemented over the years.

"The key," she was explaining, gesturing with her brandy glass, "is persistence. Some children require more intensive instruction than others, but they all break eventually. It's simply a matter of applying consistent pressure until their resistance crumbles."

She glanced meaningfully at Harry. "Isn't that right, boy? Haven't these two days taught you valuable lessons about effort and obedience?"

Harry's throat felt like sandpaper. "Yes, Aunt Marge."

"Speak up! I can barely hear you."

"Yes, Aunt Marge," he repeated, louder.

"And what have you learned?"

The question hung in the air like a trap. Harry knew whatever answer he gave would be wrong, would provide ammunition for further cruelty. But silence would be worse.

"I've learned... to follow instructions, Aunt Marge."

"Hmm." Marge studied him with those calculating eyes. "I'm not convinced you've fully grasped the lesson yet. Perhaps we need to address the root of the problem more directly."

She set down her glass and leaned forward, her voice taking on a different quality—sharper, more focused.

"The truth is, boy, you come from bad stock. Rotten to the core. Your parents were worthless examples of humanity, and their corruption runs in your blood like a disease."

The words hit Harry like physical blows. The cold in his chest flared, sending tendrils of ice through his entire body.

"Now, Marge—" Vernon began weakly.

"No, Vernon, this needs saying." Marge's eyes never left Harry's face. "The boy needs to understand the reality of his situation. His parents were drunks and criminals, both. Lily Potter was a freak and a whore who got involved with the wrong sort of people, and James Potter was even worse, a layabout who never did an honest day's work in his life."

Harry's vision began to tunnel. The cold was spreading faster now, racing through his bloodstream like poison.

"They got exactly what they deserved," Marge continued, her voice growing more vicious with each word. "The world is a better place without wretches like them. God struck them down for their sins, and frankly, it's a pity He didn't include their devil spawn in the judgment."

The kitchen was silent except for the sound of Harry's ragged breathing. Vernon and Petunia sat frozen, perhaps sensing they had crossed into dangerous territory. Dudley stared with fascination, as if watching a particularly interesting television program.

"In fact," Marge said, leaning back with satisfaction, "the only tragedy is that you weren't blown up with them. Would have saved proper folk like Vernon and Petunia the burden of dealing with your corruption."

Something inside Harry snapped.

Like a cable stretched past its breaking point, the control he'd maintained for ten years of abuse suddenly gave way completely.

The cold exploded outward from his chest, but now it carried something else with it. Heat. Rage. Power that had been building for days, weeks, years of systematic cruelty.

"DON'T TALK ABOUT MY PARENTS!"

The words erupted from Harry's throat with a force that shook the windows. Every piece of glass in the kitchen cracked simultaneously—windows, dishes, Petunia’s vases. The temperature plummeted, then spiked, then plummeted again as Harry's magic responded to emotions too powerful to contain.

Marge's face went white, then purple. "How dare you raise your voice to me, you little—"

"SHUT UP!" Harry was on his feet now, his small, thin body trembling with rage. "SHUT UP ABOUT MY PARENTS! YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THEM!"

"Sit down this instant!" Marge roared, lurching to her feet. "I will not be spoken to that way by a worthless little—"

"They were good people!" Harry's voice cracked with emotion. "They didn't deserve to die! They loved me!"

"Love?" Marge laughed, a harsh sound like breaking glass. "Those drunken criminals? Boy, you're even more deluded than I thought. They died because they were weak, pathetic excuses for human beings who—"

"STOP!"

The word came out as pure magic, pure rage, pure desperation. The air in the kitchen began to move, circling faster and faster around Harry as if he stood in the eye of a hurricane.

Marge's laughter died as she felt the pressure begin to build inside her chest.

"What—" she gasped, her hand flying to her throat. "What's happening?"

The pressure increased. Not outside her body, but within it. As if something invisible was squeezing her from the inside, compressing her organs, building toward some terrible crescendo.

Harry stared at her, his eyes wide with horror and fury. He didn't understand what was happening, only that his rage had found a target and was acting on its own.

"Stop," Marge whispered, but the word came out strangled. The pressure was building faster now, radiating outward from her chest. Her veins began to bulge against her skin like purple ropes.

"Boy, stop it!" Vernon shouted, but he seemed frozen in his chair, unable or unwilling to intervene.

Marge's eyes bulged as the pressure reached her head. Blood began to trickle from her nose, then her ears. She opened her mouth to scream, but only a gurgling sound emerged.

The bones in her fingers snapped first—tiny pops like bubble wrap being squeezed. Then her ribs began to crack, one by one, each break audible in the sudden silence of the kitchen.

"Please," she gasped again, reaching toward Harry with a shaking hand. "Please stop."

But Harry couldn't stop. The rage had taken control, using his magic as a weapon he'd never known he possessed. Marge's body was being compressed from within, crushed by invisible forces that responded to ten years of accumulated fury.

Her screams filled the kitchen as her bones continued to break. Blood poured from her eyes now, streaming down her face in crimson rivers. Her body convulsed as organs ruptured under the impossible pressure.

"STOP!" Petunia shrieked. "STOP IT, STOP IT!"

But Harry stood transfixed, watching Marge die, unable to control the forces he'd unleashed. Part of him was horrified by what he was seeing. Another part, a cold, dark part he'd never known existed—felt satisfaction as the woman who'd tormented him paid the price for her cruelty.

Marge collapsed to the kitchen floor, her body still convulsing. Blood pooled beneath her as her internal organs failed one by one. Her final gurgle cut off abruptly as something vital burst inside her chest.

Then silence.

Harry stared down at the body, his chest heaving, his magic slowly subsiding. The kitchen looked like a war zone—broken glass everywhere, blood splattered across the walls, the smell of death heavy in the air.

"Oh God," Vernon whispered. "Oh God, what have you done?"

But Harry couldn't answer. He stood frozen, staring at what remained of Aunt Marge, finally understanding what he was capable of.

Finally understanding what he'd become.

For a moment, nobody moved. The kitchen held its breath, as if the house itself was processing what had just happened. Marge's body lay crumpled on the floor, her limbs twisted at unnatural angles, blood slowly spreading in a dark pool beneath her.

Then Petunia began to scream.

Not words—just pure, animal terror that seemed to go on forever. She pressed herself against the far wall, her hands clapped over her mouth, her eyes fixed on the horror that had been her husband's sister.

Dudley was sick in his chair, retching violently as the reality of what he'd witnessed hit him. His whole body convulsed, adding to the chaos of sounds that filled the blood-soaked kitchen.

Vernon struggled to his feet, his face grey as ash. "Upstairs," he croaked. "Everyone upstairs. Now."

Petunia stood frozen, staring at the carnage, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"NOW!" Vernon's voice cracked like a whip, shocking her from her trance.

She snapped into motion, snatching Dudley from his chair and half-dragging him toward the door. Dudley stumbled, still retching, knocking against the doorframe as his mother pulled him along. Vernon followed close behind, casting terrified glances back at Harry as if he might explode again at any moment.

Their footsteps thundered up the stairs. A door slammed. The bolt shot home with finality.

Harry remained where he was, standing over Marge's body like a sentinel. His hands hung limp at his sides, still trembling with residual magic. His eyes were fixed on her face—or what remained of it. Blood had dried in streaks down her cheeks, giving her the appearance of having cried tears of crimson.

He should feel something, he thought distantly. Horror. Regret. Satisfaction. Something.

But there was only emptiness. A vast, hollow space where his emotions should have been. Even the cold in his chest had faded, leaving behind a numbness that felt almost peaceful.

Somewhere above, he could hear Vernon's voice on the telephone. Sharp, urgent words that penetrated the fog in Harry's mind.

"Police... emergency... my nephew... he's killed... please hurry..."

Police. They were calling the police. They would come, and they would see what he'd done, and they would take him away. The thought should have terrified him, but it felt distant and unimportant, like something happening to someone else.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Harry lost track of time, standing vigil over his victim. The blood had stopped spreading, settling into a dark, sticky pool that reflected the kitchen lights like a black mirror.

When the sirens began to wail in the distance, Harry felt nothing. When they grew louder, filling the street with their urgent cry, he remained motionless. When car doors slammed outside and heavy footsteps approached the front door, he simply waited.

The police didn't knock. Vernon must have left the door unlocked, or perhaps they'd broken it down. Harry heard their voices in the hallway—urgent, professional, preparing for whatever horror awaited them.

"Kitchen," Vernon's voice, strained and terrified. "In the kitchen. Don't let him... be careful. He's dangerous."

The first officer appeared in the doorway and stopped dead. Harry heard his sharp intake of breath, saw his hand move instinctively toward his radio.

"Bloody Hell," the officer whispered.

Two more officers crowded behind him, their faces pale as they took in the scene. Blood splattered walls. Broken glass crunching underfoot. And in the centre of it all, a small boy standing over a woman's mangled corpse.

"Son," the first officer said carefully, his voice gentle despite the horror he was witnessing. "Son, I need you to step away from the body."

Harry blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. He looked down at Marge's remains, then up at the officers. They were watching him with the careful attention of people approaching a dangerous animal.

"Step away, son. Nice and slow."

Harry took a step backward, then another. His legs felt unsteady, as if he'd forgotten how to walk. The officers moved cautiously into the kitchen, their shoes crunching on broken glass.

"Radio for the coroner," one of them said quietly. "And child services. This is going to be complicated."

The lead officer approached Harry with infinite care. "What's your name, lad?"

Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His throat felt raw, as if he'd been screaming for hours. Maybe he had been.

"It's all right," the officer said. "You don't have to talk right now. But I need you to come with me, okay? We need to get you somewhere safe."

Safe. The word felt foreign in Harry's mind. He couldn't remember ever being safe. Even before tonight, even before Marge, safety had been a luxury he'd never known.

More police arrived, filling the house with urgent voices and radio chatter. Someone photographed the scene while others interviewed Vernon and Petunia upstairs. Harry caught fragments of their statements through the ceiling—words like "disturbed" and "violent" and "we tried to help him."

They were telling their story. Painting him as the monster who'd murdered their beloved relative. And perhaps they were right. Perhaps that's exactly what he was.

"Come on, son," the officer said, placing a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "Let's get you out of here."

Harry allowed himself to be led from the kitchen, through the hallway where he'd lived for ten years, past the cupboard that had been his prison. Each step felt mechanical, as if he were a puppet being operated by unseen hands.

Outside, the street had transformed into a circus of flashing lights and emergency vehicles. Neighbors gathered on their lawns, whispering and pointing. Mrs. Linton stood by her garden gate, her face a mask of horrified fascination.

An ambulance waited at the curb, though it was far too late for Marge. The paramedics stood by uselessly, their equipment idle. There was nothing they could do for her.

Harry was guided into the back of a police car, the seat cold against his legs. The officer who'd spoken to him slid in beside him, his face kind but watchful.

"My name's Sergeant Davies," he said quietly. "I'm going to stay with you until we get this sorted out, all right?"

Harry nodded mutely. Words felt impossible, as if his voice had died along with Marge in that blood-soaked kitchen.

The car pulled away from Privet Drive, carrying him away from the only home he'd ever known. Through the rear window, Harry watched Number Four recede into the distance. Police tape was already being strung across the front door, sealing off the crime scene.

Crime scene. That's what it was now. Not a home, not a prison, but evidence of what he'd done.

As they drove through the familiar streets of Little Whinging, Harry felt the last of his childhood slip away like sand through his fingers. For a brief moment, he found himself wishing they would take him to kind Mrs. Figg with all her cats, where he might find some small measure of comfort in the chaos that had become his life.

But then he remembered, Mrs. Figg had been taken to an elderly care home months ago, her mind growing too clouded to live alone. There would be no sanctuary there, no familiar face to offer even the smallest kindness.

Whatever happened next—prison, institutions, whatever punishment awaited him—he would face it entirely alone.

That boy had died tonight, along with Aunt Marge.

What remained was something else entirely. Something that could kill with a thought and feel nothing but emptiness afterward.

The police car turned onto the main road, its headlights cutting through the darkness ahead. The familiar streets of Little Whinging gave way to unfamiliar territory, each mile taking him further from everything he'd ever known.

He closed his eyes and let the numbness carry him forward into whatever came next.

Behind them, Privet Drive settled back into its perfect normalcy, marked only by the police tape and the whispered rumours that would follow this night forever.

And in the kitchen of Number Four, Marge's blood continued to seep into the cracks between the tiles, a permanent stain that no amount of scrubbing would ever fully erase.

Chapter Text

The interview room smelled of disinfectant and despair. Harry sat in a plastic chair designed for adults, his feet barely touching the floor, staring at the scratched metal table before him. Across from him, Detective Inspector Morrison shuffled through papers with the weary efficiency of someone who'd seen too much in too many years.

Three days had passed since Aunt Marge died. Three days of questions Harry couldn't answer, of adults speaking about him in hushed tones, of sleeping in a cell that smelled like sick and fear. Three days of silence.

"Harry," DI Morrison said, his voice carefully gentle. "I know this is difficult, but we need to understand what happened. Your aunt is dead, and you were the only other person in the room."

Harry's throat felt raw, though he'd barely spoken since that night. When he tried to explain, the words came out wrong, sounding crazy even to his own ears.

"I didn't mean to," he whispered finally.

"I know you didn't mean to," Morrison said, leaning forward. "But we need to understand how. Mrs. Dursley died from massive internal injuries, crushed organs, broken bones. The coroner says it's like she was compressed from the inside out."

Harry flinched at the description. He could still see her face, still hear her screams.

"How did you do it, Harry? Did you use something? A weapon we haven't found?"

"I didn't use anything." Harry's voice was barely audible. "I was just... angry. She said horrible things about my parents, and I got so angry, and then..."

"And then what?"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find words for something that had no words. "Sometimes when I get upset, things happen. Things I don't understand. I get cold inside, and then... things break."

Morrison wrote something in his notebook. "What kind of things break?"

"Windows. Lights. Sometimes..." Harry swallowed hard. "Sometimes I can hear what people are thinking. In my head. Like voices, but not voices."

The detective's pen stopped moving. "You hear voices?"

"Not voices exactly. Thoughts. Like when Aunt Marge was thinking about how much she hated me, I could hear it. And when she was dying, I could feel how scared she was."

Morrison exchanged glances with the social worker sitting in the corner, a thin woman with kind eyes who'd introduced herself as Ms. Hartwell. Her face had gone pale during Harry's explanation.

"Harry," Morrison said carefully, "people can't hear each other’s thoughts. That's not... possible."

"I know it sounds mad," Harry said desperately. "But it's true. There's something wrong with me. Something that makes impossible things happen when I'm upset."

"Tell me about these impossible things."

The words tumbled out then, years of suppressed incidents pouring forth like water through a broken dam. The saltshaker sliding across the table. Windows exploding at school. Ice forming in his cupboard when he was scared. Dudley tripping when he tried to hurt Harry.

With each impossible thing he described, Morrison's expression grew more concerned. By the time Harry finished, the detective was making notes with the rapid efficiency of someone building a case.

"Harry," Morrison said when he'd finished writing, "I think you need to speak with someone who can help you understand these... feelings you're having."

Two hours later, Harry sat in another room with another adult—Dr. Elizabeth Carey, a psychiatrist with grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses. She spoke in the same careful tone as Morrison, but her questions were different.

"Tell me about your relationship with your aunt," she said.

"She hated me. They all did."

"Why do you think they hated you?"

Harry shrugged. "Because I'm different. Because strange things happen around me. Uncle Vernon always said I was a freak."

Dr. Carey made notes. "And you believe you can... make things happen? With your mind?"

"I don't know how it works," Harry said. "I just know that when I get really upset or scared, things break. And sometimes I can hear what people are thinking."

"What am I thinking right now?"

Harry looked at her—really looked, the way he'd learned to do when the wrongness in his chest stirred. Her surface thoughts came easily, tinged with professional curiosity and a hint of sympathy.

"You think I'm disturbed," he said quietly. "You think I'm making up stories to deal with what I did. But you also think I really believe it, which makes it worse."

Dr. Carey's pen froze over her notepad. Her face had gone very still.

"You're wondering if you should increase the medication they've been giving me," Harry continued, reading the thoughts that flickered across her mind like television channels. "And you're thinking about your daughter, how she's about my age, and how awful it would be if something like this happened to her."

"Stop," Dr. Carey said sharply. "Stop that right now."

"I can't help it," Harry said, genuinely distressed. "It just happens. Especially when people are thinking about me."

Dr. Carey stared at him for a long moment, then made several rapid notes. When she looked up again, her expression had changed—still kind, but disturbed.

"Harry, what you're describing... it's not possible. People can't read minds or make things happen with their thoughts. These might be very vivid delusions brought on by trauma."

"They're not delusions—"

"I think you genuinely believe they're real," she said gently. "And that's what we need to work on. Helping you understand the difference between what's real and what your mind is creating to cope with stress."

The rest of the session blurred together—more questions about his home life, his relationship with the Dursleys, the night Marge died. Dr. Carey was thorough and professional, but Harry could feel her thoughts shifting as she built her assessment.

Severe delusions. Possible psychotic break. Dangerous to himself and others.

When the session ended, Harry was returned to his cell to wait for the court hearing that would decide his fate.

The juvenile court was smaller than Harry had expected, less intimidating than the adult courtrooms he'd seen on television. But the weight of judgment hung in the air like smoke, and every eye in the room fixed on him as he was led to his seat.

Magistrate Helen Winters was a severe woman in her sixties, with steel-grey hair and the bearing of someone accustomed to making difficult decisions. She reviewed the papers before her with the methodical attention of a surgeon examining X-rays.

"Harry James Potter," she began, her voice carrying clearly through the small courtroom. "You are charged with the manslaughter of Marjorie Dursley. How do you plead?"

Harry's solicitor—a harried-looking man named Roberts who'd been assigned to his case—stood quickly. "My client pleads not guilty by reason of diminished responsibility, Your Honor."

Magistrate Winters nodded. "Very well. I've reviewed the psychiatric reports and the police investigation. This is... an unusual case."

That was putting it mildly, Harry thought. How did you explain to a court that someone had been crushed to death by forces no one could see or understand?

The prosecutor, a stern woman in her forties, presented the basic facts: Marge Dursley had died from massive internal trauma while alone in a room with Harry. There were no weapons found, no signs of external force, no explanation for how a ten-year-old boy could have inflicted such devastating injuries on a grown woman.

"The defendant has provided no credible explanation for how these injuries were caused," she concluded. "He claims he has some sort of supernatural abilities, that he can hear thoughts and make things happen with his mind. These are clearly the delusions of a disturbed child attempting to avoid responsibility for his actions."

When it was the defence’s turn, Roberts did his best with an impossible case. He spoke about Harry's traumatic upbringing, the abuse he'd suffered, the psychological damage that could drive a child to violence out of desperation. But when pressed for an explanation of how the violence had been carried out, he had nothing.

Dr. Carey testified about Harry's mental state; her professional assessment delivered in clinical terms that made him sound like a specimen rather than a person.

"The defendant exhibits signs of severe psychological disturbance," she explained. "He experiences elaborate delusions about possessing supernatural abilities. He claims he can read minds and influence the physical world through thought alone. These delusions appear to be his mind's way of processing trauma and avoiding accountability for his actions."

"In your professional opinion," Magistrate Winters asked, "is the defendant dangerous?"

Dr. Carey hesitated. "He killed a grown woman using methods we don't understand. Whether through some unknown means or through strength born of psychological break, he is clearly capable of extreme violence. Combined with his inability to distinguish between reality and delusion... yes, I believe he poses a significant risk."

"However," she continued, "I must emphasize that Harry is still a child. A deeply traumatized child. While the circumstances are... unprecedented, I believe this is a case where secure therapeutic intervention, rather than punishment, offers the best hope for rehabilitation."

Magistrate Winters frowned. "The Crown is seeking a custodial sentence, Dr. Carey. Even with diminished responsibility, a death has occurred."

"Your Honor," Roberts interjected, standing quickly. "My client is ten years old. The psychiatric evidence clearly shows severe mental disturbance brought on by years of documented abuse. He cannot be held fully responsible for actions committed during what appears to have been a psychotic episode."

The prosecutor leaned forward. "The age of criminal responsibility in England is ten, Your Honor. The defendant may be young, but he has demonstrated the capacity for extreme violence. The public must be protected."

"But how does a ten-year-old child inflict such injuries without any weapon, without any logical explanation?" Magistrate Winters asked, her voice carrying genuine bewilderment. "The medical examiner's report defies comprehension. Internal crushing injuries with no external trauma, no signs of impact, no implements found..."

She paused, studying the file. "This court has never encountered anything like this case. I find myself in the unprecedented position of having to sentence a child for a death that occurred through means we simply cannot understand."

When Harry was asked to speak on his own behalf, he stood on shaking legs and tried once more to explain the unexplainable.

"I didn't mean to hurt her," he said, his voice barely carrying to the back of the courtroom. "She said terrible things about my parents, and I got so angry. There's something wrong with me—something that makes things happen when I'm upset. I can hear what people think sometimes, and when I get really angry..."

"That's enough," Magistrate Winters said gently but firmly. "Thank you, Harry."

As he sat down, Harry caught fragments of thoughts from around the courtroom. The prosecutor's satisfaction. His solicitor's frustration. The magistrate's genuine concern mixed with bewilderment.

After a brief recess, Magistrate Winters returned to deliver her judgment.

"This is one of the most difficult cases I've encountered in twenty years on the bench," she began. "A child has killed an adult under circumstances that defy explanation. The defendant shows no signs of deception; he genuinely believes his account of events. But his account involves claims that simply cannot be true."

She looked directly at Harry, her expression grave but not unkind.

"Harry Potter, you have committed a terrible act. Whether through means we understand or means we don't, you have taken a life. However, given your age, your documented history of severe abuse, and the psychiatric evidence of your mental state, I cannot in good conscience impose a custodial sentence in the traditional sense."

Harry's solicitor straightened, hope flickering in his expression.

"Instead, I am ordering that you be placed in secure psychiatric care for an indefinite period. You will be transferred to Millfield Secure Children's Home, where you will receive intensive therapeutic intervention. This is not a punishment, Harry, it is an attempt to help you understand what happened and ensure it never happens again."

The gavel fell with a sound like breaking wood.

As Harry was led from the courtroom, he caught one last thought from Magistrate Winters: God help that child. And God help us all if we're wrong about what he can do.

The car that transported Harry to Millfield was unmarked but unmistakably institutional, locks that could only be opened from outside, the smell of industrial cleaning products that would become so familiar in the months ahead.

Millfield Secure Children's Home loomed on the outskirts of Birmingham, a fortress of cold grey slabs. Three stories of grey brick and small windows, surrounded by high fences topped with wire. It looked exactly like what it was: a prison for children.

The intake process was methodical. Harry's clothes were taken and replaced with institutional garments, grey tracksuit bottoms, white t-shirt, and plimsolls with no laces. His few possessions were catalogued and stored. His photograph was taken from multiple angles, like a police booking.

"Name: Harry James Potter. Age: Ten years, eleven months. Committed for: Manslaughter with diminished responsibility. Duration: Indefinite, pending psychiatric evaluation."

The intake officer was a tired-looking woman in her fifties who processed Harry with the efficient disinterest of someone who'd seen too many damaged children pass through these doors.

"You'll be in Kestrel Ward," she informed him, checking boxes on a form. "Dr. Whitmore will be your primary therapist. Meals are at seven, twelve, and six. Lights out at nine. Any questions?"

Harry shook his head mutely.

"Ward rules will be explained by your supervisor. Follow them, and you'll do fine. Break them..." She shrugged. "Well, you're here for a reason."

Kestrel Ward occupied the second floor of the building. The corridor was lined with doors; each marked with a number and a small observation window. The walls were painted in a shade of green that was probably meant to be calming but instead looked like old hospital scrubs.

Harry's room was cell-like in its simplicity: a narrow bed with institutional sheets, a small desk and chair, a chest of drawers, and a sink. The window was high and narrow, offering a view of the exercise yard below. Everything was bolted down except the chair, which was too light to be used as a weapon.

"New arrival?"

Harry turned to see a boy in the doorway, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with careful eyes that seemed older than his face. He was thin, but not in the starved way Harry recognized. This was the lean build of someone who'd learned to be quick, to be watchful.

"Marcus Bellweather," the boy said, extending his hand with surprising formality. "I've been here two years."

Harry hesitated, then shook the offered hand. "Harry Potter."

"I know who you are," Marcus said quietly. "Word travels fast in a place like this. The staff think we don't listen, but we hear everything."

There was something in his tone, not a threat, exactly, but an assessment. Like he was trying to figure out what kind of person Harry was going to be in this place.

"They're calling it murder," Marcus continued, leaning against the doorframe. "The other kids, I mean. Staff won't say it, but that's what everyone's whispering."

Harry's chest tightened. "It wasn't... I didn't mean..."

"Doesn't matter what you meant," Marcus said, not unkindly. "What matters is what happened. And what everyone thinks happened."

He studied Harry for a moment, taking in his small frame, his obvious fear.

"Look," Marcus said finally, "I'm not going to pretend this place is easy. It's not. But it's not as bad as some of the stories either, if you know how to navigate it."

"Navigate it?"

"Keep your head down. Don't trust the staff, they're not your friends, no matter how nice they seem. Don't trust the other kids either, not at first. And whatever you did out there..." He gestured vaguely toward the window. "Whatever really happened, keep it to yourself. Some of these kids... they get ideas about testing new arrivals."

Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Testing?"

Marcus's expression darkened slightly. "There's a hierarchy here. Always is, in places like this. Most of it's just stupid kid stuff, who gets the better bed, who eats first. But sometimes..." He paused. "Sometimes kids think they need to prove something. Especially to someone who might be more dangerous than them."

"I'm not dangerous," Harry said quickly.

Marcus studied him with those careful eyes. "Maybe not. But you killed someone, didn't you? However it happened, wherever your head was when it did... You killed a grown woman."

The words hit Harry like physical blows. He wanted to protest, to explain, but the explanation sounded crazy even to him.

"That makes you interesting," Marcus continued. "And interesting can be dangerous in a place like this."

He straightened, preparing to leave. "My advice? Be boring. Be quiet. Don't give anyone a reason to test you, and don't give the staff a reason to drug you up more than they already will."

"Will they... will they hurt me?"

Marcus paused in the doorway. "The staff? No. They're professionals. They'll medicate you, restrain you if you act out, and put you in isolation if you don't follow the rules. But they won't hurt you."

"What about the other kids?"

"That depends on you," Marcus said simply. "And on them. Most of these kids are here because they're broken, not because they're evil. But broken doesn't always mean harmless."

After he left, Harry sat on his narrow bed and stared out at the exercise yard below. The concrete space was empty now, but he could imagine it filled with other children like him—damaged, dangerous, discarded by a world that didn't know what to do with them.

Tomorrow, he would meet Dr. Whitmore and begin the process of "treatment." Tomorrow, he would start learning the rules of this new world.

But tonight, as darkness crept across the yard and the building settled into its sterile quiet, Harry began to understand...

The cold in his chest pulsed once, like a warning.

Like a recognition that something fundamental had changed.

Outside his window, Birmingham's lights twinkled like distant stars, as far away as freedom.

Chapter Text

The institutional quiet of Millfield was nothing like the silence of Privet Drive. Here, quiet meant the soft shuffle of night staff making rounds, the distant murmur of voices through thin walls, the occasional cry from someone lost in nightmares. It was the quiet of caged things, restless and watching.

Harry lay on his narrow bed, still in the grey tracksuit they'd given him, staring at the ceiling. The mattress was thin but clean, better than his cupboard but carrying the weight of every child who'd slept here before him. Their fear had soaked into the fabric like old sweat.

Through the walls came fragments, not thoughts exactly, but emotional echoes. Anxiety from the room to his left. A dull, medicated haze from somewhere down the hall. And underneath it all, a current of barely contained violence that made his scar throb with familiar warning.

A key turned in his lock. Harry sat up quickly, his heart hammering.

A woman entered—short, stocky, with the kind of practical shoes that suggested long hours on her feet. Her name tag read 'S. Morrison - Night Supervisor.' She carried a small paper cup and wore the expression of someone performing a routine task.

"Medication time," she announced, holding out the cup. Inside were two white pills.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"Doctor's orders. Help you sleep, keep you calm." Her tone brooked no argument. "Down the hatch."

Harry stared at the pills. In the courtroom, Dr. Carey had mentioned medication for his "delusions." These pills were meant to stop him from hearing thoughts, from understanding the wrongness that lived in his chest.

"I don't want—"

"Wasn't a request." Morrison's voice hardened. "Take them now, or we'll have to do this the difficult way."

Harry's newly developed survival instincts screamed warnings. He reached out carefully, testing the edges of Morrison's mind. Her thoughts came through clearly: Routine. Get the psychotic kid medicated. Fifteen more minutes until rounds. Hope this one doesn't fight like Jenkins did last week.

Someone had fought. And lost.

Harry took the pills, placed them on his tongue, and accepted the cup of water. He made swallowing motions while palming the medication against his cheek.

"Good boy," Morrison said, checking his mouth with the cursory glance of someone who'd done this hundreds of times. She noted something on her clipboard and left, locking the door behind her.

Harry spat the pills into his hand the moment she was gone. They dissolved partially, leaving bitter residue on his palm that he wiped on the bedsheets. Whatever those pills were meant to do, he needed his mind clear and sharp.

The building settled deeper into its nighttime rhythm. Footsteps in the corridor grew less frequent. And just after ten o'clock, when the official sounds had faded to almost nothing, the unofficial sounds began.

Soft knocks on doors. Whispered conversations. The careful scrape of something being dragged across linoleum.

Harry pressed his ear to his door and caught fragments of a hushed discussion in the hallway:

"—new kid’s in twelve—" "—heard he killed someone—" "—wonder if he's like Jenkins was when he first got here—" "—Marcus said to leave him alone tonight—"

The voices faded as their owners moved away, but the mention of Marcus's intervention made Harry's chest tighten with a different kind of anxiety. Protection offered always came with a price.

Hours passed. Harry dozed fitfully, jerking awake at every sound. The institutional darkness was different from his cupboard, less crushing but more uncertain. Here, he didn't know what was coming.

Near dawn, he was awakened by the sound of someone crying. Not loud, not attention-seeking, just the quiet, hopeless sound of someone who thought no one could hear. It came from the room next to his, muffled by thin walls but unmistakably real.

Harry pressed his hand against the wall, wondering if the person on the other side was someone like him. Someone who'd done something terrible and been sent here to be fixed. Someone who'd learned that being broken was the only way to survive.

As grey light began to filter through his small window, Harry understood that this place would be different from Privet Drive in every way that mattered. Here, survival wouldn't be about staying invisible. It would be about learning to navigate a world where everyone was damaged, everyone was watching, and everyone had their own idea of what the new boy who'd killed someone might be capable of.

The lock clicked open. A different staff member this time, a young man with tired eyes and a careful smile.

"Morning, Harry. I'm Dave. Time for breakfast, then you'll meet Dr. Whitmore."

Harry stood slowly, his legs stiff from the narrow bed. Through the open door, he could see other children moving through the corridor—some alone, some in small groups, all wearing the same bleak uniform.

As he stepped into the hallway, several faces turned toward him. Some curious, some wary, some with the flat, evaluating stare of predators sizing up potential prey. But none with the open hostility he'd expected.

Marcus appeared at his shoulder, falling into step beside him with casual ease.

"Sleep well?" he asked quietly.

"Not really."

"Gets easier. Or you get used to it." Marcus glanced around the corridor, noting which other residents were paying attention to Harry's movements. "Dr. Whitmore's decent, as staff go. Doesn't talk down to you like some of them. But don't trust her either."

"Why not?"

"Because her job isn't to be your friend. Her job is to fix you. And sometimes what they think needs fixing..." Marcus shrugged. "Well, that's between you and your head."

The dining hall was a long room lined with tables, each seating eight. The walls were painted the same institutional green as the corridors, and high windows let in filtered daylight that made everything look slightly sickly. The air smelled of industrial food and industrial cleaning products.

Harry accepted a tray from the serving line, porridge, toast, and a cup of tea that tasted like dishwater. He followed Marcus to a half-empty table near the back, aware of the eyes tracking his movement but grateful for the older boy's tacit protection.

"That's Sarah," Marcus said quietly, indicating a pale girl of maybe thirteen who sat alone at the next table. "Poisoned her foster family. Didn't kill anyone but came close. "

He continued his quiet commentary, pointing out the other residents with the casual efficiency of someone who'd learned to catalogue threats and allies.

"Jenkins—the one with the scar on his face—he's the one Morrison mentioned last night. Fought the medication for weeks before they broke him. Now he's so drugged up he can barely remember his own name."

Harry watched Jenkins, a boy about his own age who moved with the slow, unsteady gait of heavy sedation. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, and drool gathered at the corner of his mouth.

"What did he do?" Harry asked.

"Does it matter?" Marcus replied. "Look at him now. That's what happens when you fight too hard."

The warning was clear. Resistance had consequences.

"But," Marcus continued, lowering his voice further, "complete surrender has consequences too. The staff like compliant patients, but the residents... well, they don't respect weakness."

It was a careful balance, Harry realized. Submit enough to avoid Jenkins's fate but maintain enough strength to avoid becoming prey.

After breakfast, Harry was escorted to a different wing of the building. The corridors here were painted in warmer colours, and actual artwork hung on the walls, children's drawings and inspirational posters that felt aggressively cheerful in the institutional setting.

Dr. Sarah Whitmore's office was designed to be non-threatening. Comfortable chairs instead of institutional furniture. Soft lighting instead of fluorescent glare. Bookshelves lined with both professional texts and children's literature. It felt like a trap disguised as a sanctuary.

Dr. Whitmore herself was younger than Harry had expected—maybe mid-thirties, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and the sort of gentle smile that suggested she genuinely cared about helping children.

"Hello, Harry," she said, gesturing to one of the comfortable chairs. "I'm Dr. Whitmore, but you can call me Sarah if you'd prefer. I know this is all very overwhelming."

Harry settled into the chair cautiously. It was soft, welcoming, the first comfortable seat he'd experienced in months. But comfort, he'd learned, often came with hidden costs.

"I want you to know that this is a safe space," Dr. Whitmore continued. "Nothing you say here will get you in trouble. My job is to help you understand what happened and work through the trauma that led to it."

She opened a file, Harry's file, he realized. It was surprisingly thick for someone his age.

"I've read the reports from your evaluation," she said gently. "The police interviews, Dr. Carey's assessment, the court proceedings. I know you've been through something terrible."

Harry said nothing. Every adult who'd spoken to him recently had claimed to understand, to want to help. But understanding seemed to involve convincing him that his own experiences weren't real.

"Can you tell me about the night your aunt died?" Dr. Whitmore asked.

"I've told everyone already," Harry said quietly.

"I know. But I'd like to hear it from you directly. Sometimes talking about traumatic events helps us process them."

So, Harry told the story again. Aunt Marge's visit. Her cruelty about his parents. The rage that had built inside him until something snapped. The impossible thing that had killed her.

Dr. Whitmore listened without interruption, taking occasional notes. Her face remained neutral, professional, giving nothing away.

"That must have been terrifying," she said when he finished. "To feel so angry, so out of control."

"It wasn't about control," Harry said. "Something happened. Something I didn't understand."

"What do you think happened?"

Harry hesitated. Every time he'd tried to explain, adults had looked at him like he was delusional. But Dr. Whitmore's expression remained open, encouraging.

"Sometimes I can hear what people are thinking," he said carefully. "And when I get really upset, things break. Windows, lights... people."

"That sounds very frightening," Dr. Whitmore said. "Feeling like you have that kind of power."

"I don't want it," Harry said desperately. "I never asked for it. I just want to be normal."

"What does normal feel like to you?"

The question caught him off guard. Normal felt like... like nothing he'd ever experienced. A family that wanted him. A home where he belonged. Safety.

"I don't know," he admitted.

Dr. Whitmore made a note. "Harry, I want you to understand something. The things you've described—hearing thoughts, making things happen with your mind—these aren't real abilities. They're ways your brain has learned to cope with trauma."

"But—"

"When we experience severe stress or abuse, our minds can create very convincing experiences that feel completely real. It's called dissociation, and it's actually a very clever survival mechanism."

Harry stared at her. She was using the same gentle, reasonable tone that all the other adults had used. The tone that meant she thought he was crazy.

"I'm not making it up," he said.

"I don't think you're making it up," Dr. Whitmore said. "I think you genuinely experienced these things. But that doesn't mean they happened the way you remember them."

She leaned forward slightly, her expression intensely sincere.

"Harry, you've been through terrible abuse. Your mind found ways to protect itself, to give you a sense of power and control in situations where you had none. That's not crazy—that's human."

"Then how did Aunt Marge die?"

Dr. Whitmore paused, consulting her notes. "The medical examiner found evidence of a previously undiagnosed heart condition. Combined with her obesity and the stress of the argument... It's possible she had a massive cardiac event that caused internal bleeding."

"That's not what happened," Harry said.

"What if it was? What if your mind, trying to protect you from feeling helpless, created the memory of having this power? Wouldn't that make more sense than actual mind-reading and telekinesis?"

Harry felt something cold settle in his stomach. The way she explained it, it did make sense. More sense than the alternative.

But he could still feel the wrongness in his chest, still sense the edges of her thoughts pressing against his consciousness. Even now, sitting in this comfortable chair, he could hear her thinking: Classic trauma response. Delusions of grandeur mixed with magical thinking. Textbook case.

"You think I'm crazy," he said.

"I think you're a very intelligent boy who's survived terrible circumstances by developing some very creative coping mechanisms. There's nothing crazy about that."

The session continued for another thirty minutes. Dr. Whitmore asked about his life with the Dursleys, his experiences at school, his relationships with other children. She was thorough, professional, and genuinely seemed to care about his answers.

But underneath her kindness, Harry could sense her certainty. She had already decided what was wrong with him, and these sessions would be about convincing him to accept her diagnosis.

When he was finally escorted back to his room, Harry sat on his narrow bed and stared out at the exercise yard. Other children moved around the concrete space—some playing, some sitting alone, all wearing the same grey uniforms that marked them as damaged goods.

Dr. Whitmore's words echoed in his mind. Delusions of grandeur. Magical thinking. Trauma response.

But even as part of him wondered if she might be right, another part—the cold, watchful part that lived behind his ribs—knew better. The wrongness was real. It pulsed with every heartbeat, whispered with every breath. It had killed Aunt Marge, and it was growing stronger.

Tomorrow, there would be another session with Dr. Whitmore. More gentle insistence that his experiences weren't real. More medication to dull the edges of his abilities. More pressure to accept that he was delusional rather than different.

But tonight, in the institutional quiet of Millfield, Harry made a decision.

He would learn to play their game. Say what they wanted to hear. Pretend to get better, pretend to accept their version of reality.

But he would never stop knowing the truth about what he could do.

And he would learn to control it.

The cold in his chest pulsed once, like agreement.

Like a promise to survive whatever they tried to take from him.

The days at Millfield blurred together in institutional sameness. Wake at seven. Breakfast in the dining hall, where conversations died when he approached tables. Sessions with Dr. Whitmore, where he learned to give her the answers she wanted while keeping his truth locked away. Medication time where he perfected the art of hiding pills under his tongue. Lights out at nine, listening to the sounds of other damaged children settling into restless sleep.

But within the monotony, Harry was learning.

He discovered that the constant press of other people's thoughts, which had overwhelmed him at school, could be controlled with concentration. Not stopped entirely but filtered. Like adjusting the volume on a radio, he could tune out the background noise of casual thoughts and focus only on what he needed to hear.

The technique came to him during his third week, during a particularly intense session with Dr. Whitmore. Her thoughts had been loud, insistent—still maintaining delusions, possible increase in medication needed—when Harry felt something shift in his mind. Like closing a door. Suddenly, her thoughts became whispers instead of shouts.

He could choose what to hear.

The discovery was intoxicating. For the first time since the wrongness had awakened in him, Harry felt truly in control of something. He began practicing deliberately, testing the boundaries of what he could do.

In the dining hall, he would listen to Marcus discussing which new residents might be vulnerable. In group therapy, he would read the counsellor’s notes before she spoke them aloud. During medical examinations, he would sense exactly what the staff were thinking about his "progress."

But it was more than just listening. Harry discovered he could push, too. Gently at first, encouraging a staff member to look away while he palmed his medication, suggesting to another resident that they didn't really want to sit at his table. Small nudges that felt like thoughts but weren't quite thoughts.

The other residents began giving him a wider berth. Nothing dramatic, just a subtle reluctance to make eye contact, to sit too close, to engage him in conversation. Even Marcus became more distant, though he still offered occasional advice.

"You're getting a reputation," Marcus said one evening in December, his voice carefully neutral. "Kids are saying you know things you shouldn't know."

"What kind of things?" Harry asked.

"Sarah told everyone you knew about her hidden stash of sleeping pills before the room search found them. Jenkins swears you whispered his real name even though he's never told anyone here what it is." Marcus studied Harry with those careful eyes. "True or not, people are starting to think you're... different."

Harry said nothing. What could he say? That it was all true? That he could slip into their minds like walking through unlocked doors?

"Different can be dangerous in a place like this," Marcus continued. "Makes people nervous. And nervous people do stupid things."

The warning proved prophetic.

The Test

It happened on a grey January afternoon during free time in the common room. Harry sat alone in his usual corner, pretending to read while actually practicing his mental exercises—reaching out to touch the surface thoughts of the other children, exploring deeper into their minds. They never noticed his intrusions, never showed any sign that they felt him rifling through their memories and fears.

Three boys approached his table. Harry recognized them—Tommy Morrison, age thirteen, in for assault. Kevin Price, fifteen, suspected arson though never proven. And Danny Walsh, fourteen, who'd been caught torturing neighbourhood cats.

Not the facility's worst residents, but not its best either. The kind of boys who survived by finding someone weaker to target.

"Potter," Tommy said, sliding into the chair across from Harry. "We need to talk."

Harry looked up from his book. Through the thin barriers of their minds, he could sense their intentions, not specific thoughts, but emotional currents. Anticipation. Excitement. The particular flavour of cruelty that came before planned violence.

"About what?" Harry asked quietly.

"About you thinking you're special," Kevin said, taking the chair to Harry's left. "Thinking you're better than the rest of us."

Danny remained standing, blocking Harry's exit route. His thoughts were the loudest images of what they planned to do, where they planned to do it, and how they'd explain any injuries to the staff.

"I don't think I'm better than anyone," Harry said.

"No?" Tommy leaned forward. "Then why do you sit alone? Why don't you talk to anyone? Why do you act like you know things the rest of us don't?"

"Maybe because I do know things." The words slipped out before Harry could stop them.

The three boys exchanged glances. Kevin's grin widened.

"Like what?" he asked.

Harry felt the cold in his chest stirring, responding to his rising anxiety. The temperature in the immediate area began to drop, though the boys hadn't noticed yet.

"Like Kevin's not here for arson," Harry said quietly. "He's here because he set fire to his little sister's bedroom while she was sleeping. Only she woke up and jumped out the window, broke both her legs."

Kevin’s face went white. “That’s not—” His voice cracked. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"And Tommy's not just here for assault. He's here because he nearly beat his stepfather to death with a cricket bat. Would have killed him if his mother hadn't called 999."

Tommy's chair scraped back. "How the fuck do you know that?"

"And Danny..." Harry's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Danny doesn't just hurt cats. He keeps pieces of them. In a box under his bed at home. Ears. Tails. Things that don't rot as quickly."

Danny's face had gone grey. Around them, the common room continued its normal activity, but the air at their table had grown noticeably colder. Other residents were starting to glance over, sensing something wrong.

"You're lying," Tommy said, but his voice shook.

"Am I?" Harry met each of their eyes in turn. "Should I tell them what else I know? About the things you think about at night? The things you dream about doing?"

The boys were backing away now, but Harry was just getting started. Months of suppressed power, months of being afraid, months of pretending to be something he wasn't-it all came rushing to the surface.

He thought about the cold in his chest. Really thought about it. Welcomed it. Called to it.

Come on, he thought. Show them what I can do.

The response was immediate and devastating.

Every light in the common room began to flicker. The temperature plummeted so quickly that everyone's breath became visible in seconds. Ice began forming on the windows, spreading inward in intricate fractal patterns.

The table where Harry sat began to vibrate, then shake violently. The chairs around it scraped across the floor as if pushed by invisible hands. Books fell from shelves. The television went haywire.

And in the centre of it all, Harry sat perfectly still, his green eyes reflecting the flickering lights like mirrors.

"This is what I know," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the chaos. "I know that I'm not like you. I know that I can do things you can't understand. And I know that if you ever threaten me again, you'll find out exactly what those things are."

Tommy, Kevin, and Danny ran. Not walked, not backed away—ran, stumbling over chairs and each other in their desperation to get away from whatever Harry had become.

The cold snapped back into Harry's chest like a rubber band. The lights stopped flickering. The ice on the windows began to melt, leaving only water trails as evidence of what had happened.

But the silence in the common room stretched on. Twenty-three other residents stared at Harry with expressions ranging from fear to awe to outright terror. Even the staff member on duty, a tired-looking woman named Mrs. Chen, stood frozen by the door, her hand still reaching for the radio she'd been about to use.

Harry looked around the room, meeting each stare with calm indifference. He’d crossed a line, and there was no going back. They’d seen what he could do and now, they feared him.

He’d spent his life alone. But this time, it wasn’t because no one wanted him.
This time, it was because he’d made them afraid.

He picked up his book and continued reading as if nothing had happened. Around him, the common room slowly returned to normal activity, but the conversations were different now. Quieter. More fearful.

Marcus appeared at his elbow sometime later, sliding into the chair Tommy had vacated.

"Well," he said quietly, "that was stupid."

Harry looked up from his book. "Was it?"

"You just showed them what you can do. Now they'll never leave you alone. They'll be too scared to ignore you, but too curious to forget about you."

"Good," Harry said simply.

Marcus studied him for a long moment. "What are you, Potter?"

Harry met his eyes. "I'm exactly what they all think I am."

He turned back to his book, but not before catching the edge of Marcus's thoughts: Jesus Christ. What have they brought in here?

It was, Harry reflected, an excellent question.

Outside his window, January snow began to fall, covering Millfield's exercise yard in pristine white. But in the common room, the temperature remained several degrees colder than it should have been, and would stay that way for hours.

Harry had learned something important today. The cold thing in his chest, the wrongness that had killed Aunt Marge—it wasn't just something that happened to him.

It was something he could choose to use.

And that changed everything.

Chapter Text

The morning after the common room incident, Harry woke to silence.

Not the usual institutional quiet of Millfield, but something deeper. The kind of silence that came when people were actively trying not to make noise, as if sound itself might draw unwanted attention.

Harry sat up on his narrow bed and immediately understood. Through the thin walls, he could sense the other residents' thoughts—fragments of fear and confusion swirling like disturbed water. They were all awake, had been for hours, but none of them wanted to be the first to move around, to remind anyone that they existed in the same building as whatever Harry had become.

When the breakfast bell rang, Harry dressed slowly in his grey institutional uniform. His reflection in the small mirror above his sink looked the same as always—thin, pale, unremarkable. But he could feel the difference inside himself, like a weight that had shifted and settled into a new position.

The dining hall was a study in careful avoidance. Conversations died as Harry entered, then resumed in whispers once he'd passed. Tables emptied as he approached the serving line. When he finally sat down with his tray of porridge and toast, a clear circle of empty seats surrounded him like a moat.

Harry ate methodically, aware of every sideways glance, every hastily averted gaze. The isolation should have hurt—would have hurt him just weeks ago. Instead, he felt only a hollow kind of relief. No one would bother him now. No one would test him or threaten him or try to break him down further.

He was safe.

The realization tasted like ash in his mouth.

Marcus appeared at his table near the end of breakfast, sliding into the chair across from him with the same careful neutrality he'd maintained since yesterday.

"Sleep well?" Marcus asked quietly.

"Well enough." Harry met his eyes steadily. "You?"

"Like a baby." But Marcus's thoughts were less calm—fragments of confusion and unease, questions he couldn't quite formulate. "Staff are calling it a 'group hallucination.' Mass hysteria brought on by institutional stress."

"What do you call it?"

Marcus was quiet for a long moment. "I call it the reason I'm going to start keeping my distance."

The words hit Harry like a physical blow, though he kept his expression neutral. Marcus had been his only real ally here, the closest thing to a friend he'd had since Mrs. Henderson. And now even that was over.

"Probably wise," Harry said quietly.

Marcus nodded, but he didn't leave immediately. "For what it's worth," he said, "I don't think you're evil. Dangerous, maybe. Different, definitely. But not evil."

He stood, picked up his tray, and walked away without looking back.

Harry finished his breakfast alone, surrounded by empty chairs and careful silence.

"I'd like to talk about yesterday," Dr. Whitmore said during their session that afternoon.

Her office felt smaller than usual, more confining. Harry sat in his customary chair, noting how she'd positioned herself slightly farther away than normal, how her hand stayed closer to the panic button hidden beneath her desk.

"What about it?" Harry asked.

"The other children are saying some very strange things. About lights flickering, about the temperature dropping, about furniture moving on its own." Her voice carried the careful tone of someone treading on dangerous ground. "They seem genuinely frightened."

Harry shrugged. "People see what they want to see."

"And what do you think they saw?"

"I think three boys tried to intimidate someone smaller than them, and when it didn't work the way they expected, they needed an excuse for why they ran away."

Dr. Whitmore made a note. Her thoughts were louder than usual—professional curiosity warring with genuine concern. Deflection. Minimization. But twenty-three witnesses can't all be wrong.

"Harry," she said gently, "I want you to know that you can tell me anything. If something unusual happened, if you felt... different somehow during that confrontation, there's no judgment here."

"Nothing unusual happened," Harry lied smoothly. "Tommy Morrison and his friends are bullies who picked the wrong target. That's all."

But even as he spoke, Harry was aware of the wrongness stirring in his chest. Not from anger this time—Dr. Whitmore meant no harm—but from the simple stress of maintaining his deception. The office temperature had dropped a degree or two, and frost was beginning to form on the inside of the windows.

Dr. Whitmore noticed. Her eyes flicked to the windows, then back to Harry, and her thoughts took on a sharp edge of fear beneath the professional concern.

It's happening again. Right now. He's doing something and doesn't even realize it.

"Are you feeling alright, Harry? You seem tense."

Harry forced himself to breathe slowly, to push the cold back down into whatever dark corner of himself it lived in. The frost stopped spreading, though it didn't disappear entirely.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just tired."

The session continued for another twenty minutes, but the dynamic had shifted. Dr. Whitmore was no longer trying to help a delusional child understand reality. She was trying to understand a reality that didn't fit any of her training or experience.

As Harry was escorted back to his room afterward, he caught fragments of her thoughts trailing behind him: Need to contact Dr. Morrison. Need to review the files. Need to understand what we're dealing with.

They were starting to believe.

The days that followed settled into a new routine. Harry attended his sessions, ate his meals, participated in group activities—all while existing in a bubble of careful isolation. Other residents gave him space without being asked. Staff members assigned to supervise him maintained professional politeness while keeping their distance.

Harry found the solitude oddly liberating. For the first time in his life, he could exist without constantly monitoring other people's moods, without flinching away from potential violence, without making himself smaller in hopes of avoiding notice.

He used the peace to explore his abilities more systematically. In the privacy of his room, he practiced calling up the cold, learning to control its intensity and duration. He discovered he could lower the temperature by several degrees without creating visible frost, and could make small objects tremble without causing the violent shaking that had terrified everyone in the common room.

More importantly, he learned to read minds with increasing precision. The technique required a kind of mental reaching, like extending an invisible hand into someone's thoughts. Staff members were easiest—their minds were typically focused on immediate, practical concerns. Other residents were more challenging, their thoughts often chaotic and fragmented, but also more interesting.

Through Tommy Morrison's mind, Harry learned about the boy's genuine terror of him—dreams where Harry's eyes glowed green in the dark, where impossible cold froze the blood in his veins. Through Kevin Price's thoughts, he discovered the boy was planning to request a transfer to another facility, claiming his "treatment wasn't working" at Millfield.

Through Dr. Whitmore's mind during their sessions, Harry saw himself through her eyes: a thin, pale child who somehow commanded forces that shouldn't exist. Her notes described him as "an unprecedented case requiring specialized consultation" and "possibly dangerous to himself and others."

They were planning something. Harry could sense it in the increased whispered conversations between staff members, in the way Dr. Whitmore's questions had become more probing, in the new faces that occasionally appeared in the facility's administrative wing.

He would need to be ready.

It happened on a grey March morning during supervised recreation time in the exercise yard. Harry had claimed his usual spot against the far wall, where he could watch the other residents without being easily approached. Most gave him the wide berth he'd grown accustomed to, but a few of the newer arrivals still hadn't learned the unspoken rules about staying away from him.

Marcus was among a group playing football on the concrete pitch, his movements sharp and controlled despite the casual game. He'd been avoiding Harry for weeks now, their former easy companionship replaced by polite distance. But today, something was different. Harry could sense agitation in the older boy's thoughts, a building frustration that had nothing to do with the game.

The ball rolled toward Harry's corner during a particularly aggressive play. Marcus jogged over to retrieve it, but instead of immediately returning to the game, he stopped a few feet away from where Harry sat.

"We need to talk," Marcus said quietly.

"Do we?" Harry looked up from the book he'd been pretending to read.

"Yeah. We do." Marcus glanced around the yard, noting which staff members were within earshot, then moved closer. "About what you've become. About what you're doing to this place."

Harry felt the familiar stirring in his chest—not the cold this time, but something sharper. Warning. "I'm not doing anything to anyone."

"Bullshit." Marcus's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "You think I haven't noticed? The way staff jump when you walk into a room? The way kids wake up screaming because they dreamed about you? Sarah tried to slash her wrists last week because she's convinced you're reading her thoughts."

"That's not my fault."

"Isn't it?" Marcus crouched down so they were at eye level. "You could tell them it was all a misunderstanding. You could explain that the common room thing was just... I don't know, a coincidence or something. But you don't. You let them be afraid."

Harry closed his book carefully. "And why would I do that?"

"Because you like it." The accusation hung in the air between them. "You like being feared. You like having power over people."

"I like being left alone."

"No," Marcus said, his voice growing heated despite his attempt to keep quiet. "You like being in control. There's a difference."

Something cold and sharp unfurled in Harry's chest. Marcus was pushing too far, saying things that cut too close to truths Harry didn't want to examine.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Harry said.

"Don't I?" Marcus leaned closer, and Harry could smell the institutional soap on his skin, could see the determination in his eyes. "I've been watching you, Potter. Really watching. You're not the same scared kid who got here in October. You're becoming something else. Something that enjoys hurting people."

The words hit Harry like physical blows. Not because they were untrue, but because part of him feared they might be true.

"I don't hurt people," Harry said quietly.

"You hurt everyone just by being near them. You make them afraid to exist in the same space as you. Do you know what that does to someone? To live in constant fear?"

The irony was bitter in Harry's mouth. He knew exactly what it did to someone. He'd lived it for nine years before coming here.

"They have nothing to be afraid of," Harry said. "As long as they leave me alone."

"That's the problem!" Marcus's voice rose slightly, causing a nearby staff member to glance in their direction. He forced himself to lower it again. "That's not how human beings are supposed to live. In isolation. In fear. You're making this place toxic for everyone."

The cold in Harry's chest was building now, responding to his rising anger and hurt. The air temperature around them began to drop, and Harry saw Marcus's breath start to mist.

"Maybe they deserve to be afraid," Harry said, the words coming from someplace dark and wounded inside him. "Maybe they deserve to know what it feels like to be powerless."

"Listen to yourself," Marcus said desperately. "That's not you talking. That's the trauma, that's the anger, but it's not who you really are."

But Harry wasn't listening anymore. The cold had awakened fully, spreading through his limbs like ice water in his veins. The concrete beneath him began to crack, hairline fractures spreading outward in a perfect circle.

"You want to know what I really am?" Harry asked, his voice carrying strange harmonics in the suddenly frigid air. "I'm exactly what everyone here thinks I am. Something wrong. Something that doesn't belong."

"Harry, stop—"

The words died in Marcus's throat as the cold hit him like a physical force. Not the broad, chaotic display from the common room, but something focused and precise. Ice began forming on Marcus's clothes, his hair, his skin. His breath came in sharp, painful gasps as the air around him became so cold it burned his lungs.

Harry watched with a mixture of satisfaction and horror as Marcus tried to back away, tried to call for help, tried to do anything except stand there and freeze. The older boy's thoughts were a chaos of terror and disbelief—he's going to kill me he's actually going to kill me this isn't possible but it's happening—

The sound of running footsteps broke through Harry's focus. Staff members were shouting, moving toward them across the exercise yard. The cold snapped back into Harry's chest like a rubber band, leaving Marcus gasping and shaking but alive.

For a moment, the two boys stared at each other across the space that now seemed to yawn between them like a chasm. Marcus's face was white with cold and shock, his eyes wide with something that might have been grief.

"I was trying to help you," Marcus whispered.

Harry looked away. "I didn't ask for help."

The staff reached them then, hands grabbing Harry's arms, voices calling for backup, the familiar chaos of institutional crisis management. As they pulled him away from the exercise yard, Harry caught one last glimpse of Marcus still kneeling on the cracked concrete, staring at his own hands as if he couldn't quite believe they weren't frostbitten.

In that moment, Harry understood that he had crossed another line. Not just with his abilities, but with himself. Marcus had been right—he was becoming something else. Something that could hurt the people who tried to care about him.

The realization should have horrified him.

Instead, as the staff escorted him toward the isolation wing, Harry felt only a hollow kind of relief. There was no one left to disappoint now. No one left to hurt. No one left to lose.

He was completely, utterly alone.

And for the first time since arriving at Millfield, that felt like exactly what he deserved.

The isolation room was smaller than Harry's regular cell, just a bed, a toilet, and four blank walls painted the same barren green as the rest of the facility. A small window near the ceiling provided the only natural light, too high and narrow for anything except watching the progression of days.

They left him there for a week.

Meals came through a slot in the door. A guard checked on him every few hours, making notes on a clipboard without speaking. Dr. Whitmore visited twice, sitting across from him in the room's only chair and asking questions he didn't answer.

Harry spent the time practicing. In the silence and solitude, he could feel the cold in his chest more clearly, could experiment with calling it up in small doses without anyone noticing. He learned to drop the temperature just a degree or two, just enough to make the guards shiver slightly when they checked on him.

It was a useful skill. People who were uncomfortable didn't linger.

When they finally released him from isolation, the corridors felt different. Quieter. Even the staff seemed reluctant to meet his eyes, and conversations died when he approached.

Marcus requested a transfer the next day. His application was approved with unusual speed, and by the end of March, he was gone.

Harry watched from his window as the van pulled away. He felt nothing in particular about Marcus leaving. The older boy had tried to make him feel bad about protecting himself, had tried to convince him that being safe was somehow wrong.

Harry knew better now. Safety meant being feared. Safety meant people staying away. Safety meant never having to wonder when the next blow would come, because no one would dare raise a hand to him.

It was a good lesson to learn.

Outside his window, spring was beginning to touch the edges of Birmingham. But inside Millfield, winter seemed to have settled permanently in the spaces where Harry passed.

He found he quite liked the cold.

Chapter Text

Spring turned to early summer at Millfield with the slow inevitability of institutional time. Harry had been there nine months now, long enough to see newer arrivals come and go while he remained a constant, unsettling presence in the facility's ecosystem.

His abilities had crystallized into something approaching routine. The temperature control came as naturally as breathing, a slight shift in his chest, and frost would bloom across a single windowpane while the rest of the room remained untouched. The mental reaching had become effortless, casual brushes against thoughts requiring no more effort than glancing at someone's face.

Other residents gave him space without being asked. Staff members maintained professional distance while keeping escape routes clear. The common room emptied when he entered. Conversations died mid-sentence at his approach.

Harry found the predictability soothing.

David Chen arrived on a humid Tuesday in late June. Fifteen years old, with restless hands and eyes like flat stones. During his first breakfast, Harry brushed against the surface of his mind and pulled back immediately.

David's thoughts weren't chaotic like the other residents, weren't fragmented or desperate. They were simply empty. A void shaped like a person, filled with memories of flames and screaming that provoked no emotional response whatsoever.

The older boy had been at Millfield three days when he decided to test its most notorious resident.

Harry sat alone in the common room that quiet afternoon, practicing the mental exercises that had become second nature. Reaching deeper into minds required concentration, sifting through layers of thought and memory like turning pages in a book. The technique left him focused inward, attention turned away from his immediate surroundings.

The chair scraped across the floor as David slid into the seat across from him, casual and deliberate.

"You're Potter."

Harry's eyes flicked up from his book. David's mind remained that strange void—not hostile, exactly, but absent of anything resembling human warmth.

"Yes."

"They say you're dangerous. That you can do impossible things." David's smile held no humor, no genuine emotion of any kind. "I don't believe in impossible."

Harry's chest tightened, a familiar warning. "Doesn't matter what you believe."

"Know what I think?" David leaned back, studying Harry like an insect pinned to a board. "Think you're just another scared little boy who got lucky. Think people here are so bored they've turned you into some kind of legend."

The wrongness in Harry's chest stirred, cold tendrils spreading through his ribs. The air around their table dropped two degrees.

"Think whatever you want."

David's hand moved faster than thought. The sharpened plastic toothbrush handle filed to a needle point—appeared in his grip as he lunged across the table, aiming for Harry's throat.

Time fractured. The cold exploded from Harry's chest like a detonation, nine months of careful control abandoned in an instant. The makeshift weapon shattered in David's hand. Ice bloomed across every surface—tables, chairs, walls, ceiling—in crystalline patterns that spread like infection.

The windows didn't crack. They disintegrated, glass fragments shooting outward into the summer air like frozen rain.

David's scream cut off as the cold hit him. His clothes began freezing to his skin, ice crystals forming in his hair, across his eyebrows, around his nostrils. His lips shifted from pink to blue to purple.

But Harry wasn't finished.

For the first time, he reached into another mind not to read but to pour. He shoved images into David's consciousness—the youth center David had burned, but now David trapped inside with the children, feeling their terror as flames consumed everything. The smell of burning flesh that was suddenly his own. Screams that tore from his own throat.

David collapsed, convulsing as hypothermia and psychological assault overwhelmed his nervous system. Ice spread across the floor, reaching other residents who fled screaming, their breath misting as they slipped on frozen surfaces.

The lights exploded. Glass rained down like deadly snow. The radiators burst, sending scalding water across ice where it turned instantly to steam, filling the room with choking fog.

Harry sat motionless at his table, watching David thrash on the frozen floor. The older boy's mind no longer felt empty—it overflowed with pure, animal terror and the absolute certainty of approaching death.

Harry discovered he didn't particularly care whether David lived or died.

The response was immediate and overwhelming. Guards poured through the doorway, followed by medical staff and Dr. Whitmore herself. They found David unconscious, his body temperature dangerously low despite the summer heat outside. They found a room that looked like a bomb had exploded in a freezer. They found Harry sitting calmly in the center of destruction, completely untouched by the chaos around him.

Dr. Whitmore approached with the careful movements of someone approaching an unexploded mine.

"Harry. What happened?"

Harry met her eyes with the steady gaze of someone far older than eleven. "David tried to stab me. I stopped him."

"How?"

Harry's shoulders lifted in the barest suggestion of a shrug. "However, I needed to."

The sedative they gave him was stronger than anything they’d tried before. As consciousness faded, Harry’s last coherent thought was mild irritation that they’d finally found something that worked.

David Chen was pronounced dead at the scene. Cause of death: severe hypothermia. No signs of frostbite. No medical explanation.

Harry never asked about it. No one brought it up again.

The inquiry lasted two weeks. Officials from child services, police, medical examiners. Specialists from London asking strange questions about atmospheric phenomena and environmental anomalies.

They interviewed witnesses, photographed the destroyed common room, collected samples of everything from ice crystals to glass fragments. The final report satisfied no one.

Harry spent the time in isolation, sleeping off increasingly powerful medications and practicing temperature control in micro-doses. A degree here, a degree there. Enough to make his guards shiver without them understanding why.

Discomfort made people leave faster.

Dr. Whitmore came to see him when the sedatives had mostly worn off. She looked older, deep lines around her eyes, a tremor in her hands that hadn't been there before.

"David is dead."

Harry blinked slowly. He'd known the moment it happened—felt David's chaotic thoughts simply stop, like a radio switching off.

"I know."

"Do you understand what that means?"

"Means he can't hurt anyone else."

Dr. Whitmore's pen trembled against her clipboard. "Harry, a fifteen-year-old boy froze to death in a room where the temperature was eighty degrees. That doesn't happen. That can't happen."

"Lots of things can't happen." Harry's voice carried no inflection, no emotion. "Doesn't stop them."

"What are you?"

The question hung between them like smoke. For nine months, she'd insisted his abilities were delusions, trauma responses, anything except real. Now she was asking him to explain the impossible.

"I'm what I've always told you I am." Harry met her stare without blinking. "Someone who does things other people can't. Someone you should be careful not to upset."

Dr. Whitmore's hand drifted toward the panic button, then stopped. Even she understood that normal security wouldn't help if Harry decided he didn't want to be contained.

The session ended minutes later. As guards escorted him back to isolation, fragments of Dr. Whitmore's thoughts leaked through her professional composure: need to contact someone higher, this is beyond my expertise, beyond anyone's expertise

They were finally asking the right questions.

Dr. Whitmore’s office looked different when they brought Harry in three days later. The soft chairs remained, but one had been moved farther from the desk. A guard stood quietly by the door, watching everything. The bright children's posters were gone, replaced with neutral-toned prints. Her usual mug of tea was missing.

Little things. But Harry noticed them all.

Her hands shook as she opened his file, a file that had grown considerably thicker over nine months.

"Harry. We need to discuss your future."

Harry sat without moving, watching fear flicker across her surface thoughts like candlelight.

"The review board has completed their assessment." Her voice held the careful control of someone walking across thin ice. "Recent... incidents... have led them to conclude that Millfield can no longer provide appropriate care."

Harry tilted his head slightly. "What does that mean?"

"It means we're out of options." The admission came out cracked, broken. "Twenty years in child psychology. I've never encountered anything like your case. Traditional therapy hasn't worked. Medication has minimal effect. The safety concerns..."

She glanced at the guard by the door.

"David Chen is dead. Frozen to death in a room where the temperature couldn't be altered. The physical evidence defies explanation. The witnesses all tell the same impossible story."

Harry said nothing.

"What happened in that common room wasn't natural. Wasn't normal. You're not either."

Her thoughts came clearer now through the fear: Not human. Not entirely. Something else wearing a child's face.

"So what happens now?"

Dr. Whitmore closed his file with finality. "We're transferring your case to a specialist facility. Somewhere with different resources. Different expertise."

"You're giving up."

"We're admitting we don't understand what you are." She met his eyes for the first time since he'd entered. "That's not the same thing."

But Harry could read the careful spaces between her words. They weren't transferring him for help. They were transferring him because they were afraid of what he might do next.

The session ended. As guards escorted him back to his room—not isolation this time, but his regular quarters with their narrow bed and small window—conversation fragments drifted from the staff in the hallway.

"—beyond our capabilities—" "—never seen anything like—" "—dangerous to keep him—" "—what if he decides we're threats—"

They were right to be afraid. He was dangerous. More dangerous than they understood, because he was learning control, precision. Learning to aim the cold rather than simply unleash it.

Next time someone threatened him, he wouldn't lose control.

He would choose exactly what happened to them.

That night, Harry sat on his bed staring through his small window at the exercise yard below. The space looked smaller than when he'd first arrived, or maybe he'd simply grown used to containment.

Nine months since Aunt Marge's death. Nine months of sessions and medication, and people insisting what he could do wasn't real.

Now they knew better.

The thought drifted unbidden: I shouldn't have killed Marge.

Not because killing was wrong, Harry had weighed the cost. One life, one problem gone. But the consequences had been… inconvenient. Police cells. Courtrooms. Millfield’s grey walls.

If he'd found another way to stop her cruelty without destroying her entirely, he might still be at Privet Drive. Still have the Dursleys' predictable patterns. Still have Mrs. Henderson's kind words at school.

Still have someone who saw him as human rather than a monster.

The longing cut through him sharp as glass. Not for love, Harry had never really known what that felt like, but for simple contact that didn't carry the weight of fear. For conversation without calculation. For someone to exist near him without measuring distance to exits.

But wanting such things was dangerous. Humans hurt you when you were weak, abandoned you when you were strong, tried to break you when you were different. Better to be feared than vulnerable. Better alone than betrayed.

The ache faded, replaced by familiar cold. At least the cold was honest. It never pretended to care while planning destruction.

Harry pressed his palm against the window glass. Frost spread across the surface in delicate patterns, beautiful, deadly if you got too close.

Just like him.

Outside, summer twilight settled over Birmingham. Somewhere in the city, families sat down to dinner, children played in gardens, people lived normal lives Harry would never be permitted.

But tonight, in Millfield's grey quiet, Harry practiced frost patterns on his window while twenty-two other damaged children tried not to think about the monster down the hall.

In his chest, the cold pulsed with contentment, patient, satisfied, utterly without remorse.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore's Office - July 1991

The silver instruments hummed their ancient songs while Albus Dumbledore bent over correspondence at his vast mahogany desk. Quill scratches filled the silence as he signed approval forms, budget reports, research endorsements, the endless bureaucracy that came with his many titles.

A sharp knock interrupted the quiet evening. "Come in."

Professor McGonagall entered, carrying a thick envelope and wearing an expression of deep confusion.

"Albus," she said without preamble. "There's something wrong with the Hogwarts letters."

Dumbledore looked up from his paperwork, noting the tension in her shoulders. "Wrong how, Minerva?"

"Harry Potter's letter." She held up the envelope, her voice tight. "The address isn't Privet Drive."

The quill slipped from Dumbledore's fingers, clattering to the desk. Ink spread across the parchment like spilled blood.

"What do you mean?"

"The quill wrote 'Mr. H. Potter, Room 12, Kestrel Ward, Millfield Secure Children's Home, Birmingham.'" Her face had gone pale. "What is Millfield Secure Children's Home?"

The words struck Dumbledore like physical blows. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking every one of his hundred and fifteen years. His hands began to tremble as he stared at the envelope.

"That's not possible," he whispered. "Harry lives with his aunt and uncle. The blood wards—"

"The quill doesn't lie, Albus." McGonagall's voice carried twenty years of experience with magical artifacts. "It finds the recipient wherever they are. Always, you know this."

Dumbledore rose from his chair so abruptly that several books tumbled to the floor. The sound echoed through the office like breaking bones.

A terrible realization was creeping over him like ice water. Mrs. Figg. When had he last heard from Arabella? Her reports had grown sparse, then ceased altogether. He'd been so distracted—the Philosopher's Stone, Ministry politics, Voldemort's movements in Albania. He'd told himself no news was good news.

How long? How many months since her last brief note? Six? Eight?

The weight of his negligence crashed down on him like a collapsing building. He could have known. Should have known. Should have checked when her reports stopped coming.

"Get my cloak," he said, his voice hollow. "I must go to Privet Drive immediately."

Number Four, Privet Drive

The Dursley house stood like a tomb against the darkening sky. Windows dark, garden overgrown, the careful suburbanity Vernon prized reduced to decay. A weathered "For Sale" sign leaned in the front yard, suggesting months of abandonment.

Dumbledore's detection charms sparked around the property, and for a moment, hope flared in his chest. The blood wards were still there, still pulsing with Lily's sacrifice, still recognizing Harry as their protected charge.

But the house itself was hollow. Empty. Dead.

A neighbor emerged from Number Five, drawn by the unusual sight of the oddly dressed stranger standing frozen in the street.

"Excuse me," the woman called out. "Are you interested in the house? Been empty for nearly a year now."

Dumbledore turned to her, and she took an unconscious step back at the devastation in his blue eyes.

"The Dursley family," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Where did they go?"

"Oh, they left last summer," the woman said, her earlier enthusiasm dampened by his obvious distress. "Terrible business with their nephew. Poor family."

"Their nephew?" The words came out strangled.

"Little Harry, I think his name was. Did something awful to his aunt—killed her, they say, though nobody could explain how. The whole family was just... traumatized by it all."

The world tilted beneath Dumbledore's feet. He gripped the garden gate to keep from falling.

"What happened to the boy?"

"Sent away to one of those places for disturbed children. The Dursleys couldn't cope after... well, after what he did. Packed up and left within the month."

The woman continued talking, but Dumbledore heard nothing over the roaring in his ears. Eleven years of planning. Eleven years of protection. Eleven years of believing he had saved James and Lily's son.

And Harry had been lost. Lost to the very darkness Dumbledore had tried so desperately to prevent.

"What have I done?" The words fell from his lips like stones into still water. "Sweet Merlin, what have I done?"

The neighbor stepped closer, concern overriding her caution. "Are you alright, sir? You look quite pale. Should I call an ambulance?"

But Dumbledore was no longer seeing Privet Drive. He was seeing a lightning scarred baby placed on a doorstep. A letter that could never adequately explain. The terrible certainty that he was doing the right thing.

"Lily," he whispered, and the name broke something inside his chest. "James. Forgive me."

"I really think you should sit down," the woman said nervously. "Let me just go inside and—"

By the time she returned with a glass of water, the strange man had vanished, leaving only the echo of desperate grief hanging in the summer air.

Grimmauld Place - The Same Evening

Twelve Grimmauld Place stood like a grim monument to old magic among the Georgian terraces, its black door bearing the scars of age and secrets. The air inside, usually heavy with dust and the scent of decay, was relatively fresh, a testament to Regulus Black's meticulous, if somewhat reluctant, efforts to bring order to the ancestral home. In the library on the second floor, a vast chamber lined with ancient, leather-bound tomes that seemed to absorb the very light. Lyra Lestrange sat perfectly straight in an antique chair, its velvet worn smooth with centuries of use. A thick potions textbook, its pages yellowed with age, was balanced in her lap. The lamplight cast a warm glow on her pale, untouched delicacy of porcelain skin.

At eleven, she was tall for her age, with long limbs and a dancer's posture, every movement precise, controlled. Her black hair fell in neat waves to her mid-back, brushed to a glossy sheen, reflecting the light like polished obsidian. Her deep violet eyes, sharp and intelligent, studied the text with focused intensity, absorbing every detail, every complex formula. Her uniform-like dress was perfectly arranged, every button fastened, collar straight. No jewelry, no frills. Just precision that somehow made her stand out more, a stark, elegant contrast to the opulent clutter of the room.

"Uncle Regulus," she said, her voice clear and precise, without looking up from her book, her tone betraying nothing of the anxiety that simmered beneath her calm exterior. "What's the difference between a Calming Draught and a Sleeping Potion?"

Regulus Black glanced up from his own reading by the roaring fireplace, a volume on ancient runes resting open on his knee. At thirty-one, he carried himself with the unconscious authority of old breeding, a quiet elegance that belied the hard-won lessons etched around his eyes. He was thinner than he should be, his face a little too sharp, but his gaze was steady, watchful.

"Intent," he said simply, his voice a low, resonant murmur, the words carefully chosen. "And dosage. A Calming Draught aims to soothe the mind, to quiet anxieties. A Sleeping Potion forces unconsciousness, often with less regard for the subject's comfort. Why do you ask, Lyra? Preparing for your OWLs already?" A faint, dry smile touched his lips.

"I want to understand the theory before I get to Hogwarts." Her voice, despite its careful control, carried a slight tremor, a barely perceptible waver that Regulus, ever attuned to her subtle shifts, immediately caught. "I want to be prepared. For everything." The final words were a whisper, heavy with unspoken fears.

Regulus set his book aside, the soft thud echoing in the quiet room, recognizing the anxiety she was trying so diligently to hide beneath her composed exterior. "You're nervous," he stated, not as a question, but as a gentle observation, his eyes searching hers.

Lyra's shoulders tensed slightly—the only sign that his observation had hit home, that her carefully constructed façade had cracked, if only for a moment. She finally looked up, her violet eyes meeting his, a flicker of raw vulnerability in their depths.

"Perhaps," she admitted, the word a reluctant breath, forced out. "People will know who my mother was. What she did."

"And?" Regulus prompted, his voice calm, encouraging her to articulate the unspoken fear, to bring it into the light.

"And they'll expect me to be like her." The words came out barely above a whisper, raw with a vulnerability she rarely showed, a deep-seated terror. "Mad. Dangerous. Evil. They'll see her, not me."

Regulus rose from his chair, the movement fluid and silent, and crossed the worn rug to where she sat. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his touch firm and reassuring, a grounding presence.

"Lyra," he said quietly, his gaze steady and unwavering, holding hers. "You are a ward of House Black. You carry our name, our protection, our honor. You are not your mother. You are Lyra. And if anyone—student or professor—dares to hurt you because of who your mother was, they will answer to me. And they will regret it. Profoundly."

The threat in his voice was soft, almost a caress, but utterly unmistakable. It was the quiet, lethal promise of old magic, old power, a chilling undercurrent beneath his calm exterior. Lyra's posture relaxed slightly under his hand, a fragile tension easing from her frame, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her.

"What house do you think I'll be in?" she asked, the question a sudden shift, a desperate attempt to regain control of the conversation, to focus on something tangible, something predictable.

"Does it matter?" Regulus countered, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. "You will be where you belong.”

"I suppose not. But I'm curious." She turned to look at him properly, her eyes bright with a surge of curiosity that pushed back against her anxieties. "What about the other students in my year? Anyone interesting? Any names I should know?"

"Plenty," Regulus said with a faint smile. "You already know Pansy, of course, and the Greengrass girl, Daphne. Nott’s son will be there too. All the usual families."

He paused, then added, “And then… Potter.”

Lyra tilted her head. "Potter?"

"Yes, he’s starting this year."

That gave her pause. Not alarm, more a sharpening of attention. "I thought he was somewhere else. Hidden."

"He was," Regulus said. "Dumbledore saw to that. The Ministry had… other preferences, but we lost that fight years ago. He’s been kept out of sight ever since."

A pause. The flames cracked softly in the hearth. Lyra didn’t press, but she understood. Dumbledore’s reach. The Ministry’s silence. And a boy whose whereabouts had never quite added up.

"What do we know about him?" she asked.

"Almost nothing," Regulus admitted. "No magical records, no public sightings, no allies. Just a story, a scar, and a name heavy enough to tilt the room."

"Do you think he’ll matter?"

Regulus was silent for a moment, watching the fire with a gaze that didn’t flicker. "He already does. Even when absent, some names are never really gone. In certain circles, that matters more than ability."

He didn’t look at her as he added, almost as an afterthought, "There’s some Black in him, distantly. Not that it means anything to most people. But blood has a long memory."

Lyra’s brow twitched, just slightly. She said nothing but filed it away.

"And if he’s not what they expect?"

"Then someone will shape him into something they want," Regulus said. His voice was calm, but there was a quiet sharpness beneath. "Or try to. Mysteries don’t last long at Hogwarts, not without someone claiming them."

Lyra’s eyes narrowed, analytical and cold. Already, she was studying the name as though it were a variable in an equation, something to solve, or control.

"Then I suppose we’ll see what kind of boy hides behind the story."

After a moment of quiet, she asked with disarming innocence, "Uncle Regulus, could you tell the story again? About your first elf, the one who died to save you in the cave?"

Something in his expression flickered. Not sorrow, not quite. Just a passing shadow.

"Another night," he said. "That story’s for when you’re older."

"But I am older," she insisted. "I’ll be eleven in a week."

“That’s the trouble, my little star,” Regulus muttered, almost too softly to hear. “You keep getting older.”

Ministry of Magic - Morning After

The Ministry's marble floors reflected the morning light filtering through the golden fountain as Albus Dumbledore made his way toward the lifts. But instead of the usual bustle of morning activity, the corridors felt oddly quiet, as if word had already spread to avoid certain areas.

The Minister's office door bore fresh privacy wards—blood-bound and decades old, shimmering with the kind of magic that meant serious business. Dumbledore stepped through without knocking.

The door clicked shut behind him, and silence fell like a curtain. Thick velvet drapes muffled the noise from the corridor, and the privacy wards settled into place with quiet finality.

Cornelius Fudge stood behind his desk, not rising to greet his visitor. His usual jovial demeanor was nowhere to be seen.

"Albus," he said, voice clipped. "You're early."

"Time is rarely on our side, Cornelius. I prefer to stay ahead of it."

Dumbledore stepped into the room with quiet command, his presence dimming the firelight rather than brightening it. He remained standing, blue eyes fixed on the Minister with unreadable intensity.

Fudge cleared his throat and gestured to the leather chair across from him. "Sit. Please."

"No need," Dumbledore said. "This isn't a conversation for comfort."

The Minister sighed and reached for the sealed folder resting on his desk, thin, but weighty in implication. He slid it across the polished wood toward Dumbledore.

"We have a problem."

Dumbledore looked down at the folder but didn't touch it. The official seals were already broken, suggesting others had seen its contents first.

Fudge's fingers tapped once, twice against the desk, then stilled. "The Muggles had him for months, Albus. Months. Juvenile custody. Psychological evaluations. Medication. Restraint. And none of our people noticed."

"I'm aware," Dumbledore said quietly. He did not open the folder.

A long silence stretched between them, heavy with implications neither man wanted to voice.

"We've already dispatched a team," Fudge said at last. "Under DMLE authority. The Prime Minister's office will receive a minor Obliviation cascade, localized to three administrative tiers. No memories, no documents, no trace. It'll be as if he never existed in their system."

"And the staff at the facility?" Dumbledore asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Resettled. Those who need to remember will be given new identities and relocated. The rest..." Fudge shrugged. "Won't remember why they changed careers."

Dumbledore's hands remained perfectly still at his sides, but something cold flickered behind his eyes. "How thorough."

"I didn't want to," Fudge muttered, finally sitting down heavily in his chair. "But Potter isn't just a boy, is he? He's a symbol. Our symbol. And he was locked in a facility for violent criminals. What would the Prophet say? What would the Wizengamot say? What would the public say?"

He leaned forward, and for a moment his politician's mask slipped entirely.

"We needed to make it unhappen, Albus. All of it."

"History does not vanish because we burn the pages," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying a warning edge.

"No," Fudge replied, "but it stops people asking the wrong questions."

The Minister opened the folder himself, scanning pages that made his face grow paler. "Do you know what they have documented here? Temperature anomalies. Unexplained phenomena. A dead boy who froze to death in summer. Staff reports of..." He paused, searching for words. "Impossible things."

"Magic often appears impossible to those who don't understand it."

"This wasn't accidental magic, Albus." Fudge's voice carried genuine fear now. "This was controlled. Deliberate. A child systematically learning to use abilities that should have remained dormant for years."

Dumbledore finally moved, stepping closer to the desk. "What exactly are you suggesting, Cornelius?"

"I'm suggesting that when we extract Harry Potter from Millfield, we're not rescuing the Boy Who Lived." Fudge's hands trembled slightly as he closed the folder. "We're releasing something that's spent months learning that fear is power and violence is survival."

"He's eleven years old."

"Yes," Fudge said quietly. "An eleven-year-old who has killed. Who has learned to weaponize magic most adults can barely comprehend. Who has been shaped by an environment that rewards the strong and destroys the weak."

The weight of those words settled between them like a physical presence.

"The Ministry has certain... concerns about integration," Fudge continued carefully. "Specialized supervision. Careful monitoring. Perhaps some preliminary assessment—"

"No."

The word cut through the office like a blade. Fudge blinked in surprise.

"I'm sorry?"

"I will handle Harry Potter's integration personally," Dumbledore said with quiet authority. "No Ministry assessments. No specialized supervision. No monitoring beyond what any Hogwarts student receives."

"Albus, be reasonable. The boy has experienced severe trauma. Surely some professional evaluation—"

"His care is my responsibility." Dumbledore's voice brooked no argument. "As it should have been from the beginning."

Fudge studied the older wizard carefully, noting the steel beneath the grandfatherly exterior. "And if he proves... difficult to manage?"

"Then I will manage the difficulty."

"And if he proves dangerous?"

"Then I will manage the danger."

A long moment passed. Finally, Fudge nodded reluctantly, though his expression remained troubled.

"Very well. But there will be one memory modification, Albus. The boy himself. Just the traumatic elements, you understand. We can't have him arriving at Hogwarts with memories of—"

"No."

Fudge's face went pale. "I'm sorry?"

"You will not modify Harry Potter's memories. Not one moment of them."

"Albus, the boy has killed someone. He's experienced months of institutional trauma. Surely—"

"His memories are his own." Dumbledore's voice carried absolute authority. "You may erase him from Muggle records, relocate witnesses, rewrite history itself. But you will not touch his mind."

Fudge stared at him in disbelief. "May I ask why?"

"Because erasing the darkness doesn't eliminate it. It simply buries it deeper, where it festers and grows." Dumbledore straightened, his full presence filling the room. "Harry Potter will face his demons honestly, or not at all."

"And if those demons prove too strong for an eleven-year-old to bear?"

"Then he will learn to carry them. As we all must."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken fears. Finally, Fudge nodded, though reluctance radiated from every line of his body.

"Very well. No memory modification of the boy. But the other measures remain in place. And Albus?" His voice carried a note of genuine worry. "For all our sakes, I hope you know what you're doing."

Dumbledore paused at the door, his hand on the handle. "So do I, Cornelius. So do I."

As he left the Ministry, official authorization in hand, Dumbledore couldn't shake the weight of what had just transpired. The rescue had been approved, but at a cost that extended far beyond paperwork and Obliviations.

Behind him, in the depths of the Ministry, wheels were already turning. Files were being flagged, departments coordinated, and in the shadows of bureaucracy, certain ambitious individuals were taking careful note of which officials knew what about the Boy Who Lived's inconvenient history.

By evening, Harry Potter's extraction would be complete. The official story would be perfectly clean, a minor administrative error, quickly corrected. The witnesses would be gone, the records erased, the truth buried beneath layers of institutional silence.

But truth had a way of surviving, even when everyone pretended it didn't exist. And somewhere in the labyrinthine corridors of power, someone was already planning how best to use that truth when the time was right.

Chapter Text

The smell of institutional disinfectant hit Albus Dumbledore like a physical blow the moment he stepped through the entrance of Millfield Secure Children's Home. Beneath the chemical assault lay something worse, the stale scent of despair, of young lives contained and controlled until they forgot what freedom felt like.

What have I done?

The thought had haunted him for three sleepless nights since the horrible discovery that Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the child he'd sworn to protect, had vanished into the muggle system like a stone dropped into dark water.

His robes, charmed to appear as an unremarkable dark suit, felt heavy as lead. Each footstep on the polished linoleum echoed with eleven years of catastrophic failure.

"Professor Dumbledore?" A receptionist looked up from her desk, her smile professional and empty. "Dr. Whitmore is expecting you."

The corridors stretched before him, too bright under fluorescent lights that hummed with electrical malevolence. Through reinforced windows in locked doors, he caught glimpses of children—thin faces, hollow eyes, the careful blankness of spirits systematically broken. One girl, no older than nine, sat rocking in a corner while an orderly watched with bored disinterest.

How many nights has Harry spent behind such doors?

Dr. Whitmore's office felt smaller than it should have, cramped with filing cabinets and clinical texts that spoke of minds to be corrected, behaviours to be modified. The woman herself sat behind a metal desk, Harry's file open before her like evidence at a trial.

"Professor Dumbledore." She rose, extending a hand that felt cold and dry against his palm. "Though I must say, your credentials are... unusual. This 'Hogwarts Academy' isn't in any of our directories."

"We are a very specialized institution," Dumbledore replied carefully, settling into the uncomfortable plastic chair across from her desk. His eyes found Harry's photograph clipped to the inside of the file—a mug shot, essentially, showing a face far too thin and eyes far too old for an eleven-year-old boy.

James's jaw. Lily's eyes. But where James had been bright with mischief and Lily warm with compassion, this child looked... empty.

"Yes, well." Dr. Whitmore flipped through pages of notes, her tone clinical. "I must tell you; Mr. Potter presents quite a challenging case. His delusions remain persistent despite extensive therapy."

"Delusions?" The word tasted like ash in Dumbledore's mouth.

"Claims of 'magic,' as he puts it." She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Insists he can make objects move without touching them, that he can influence his environment through force of will. Classic symptoms of a dissociative disorder brought on by severe trauma."

Each word fell like a hammer blow. They had taken Harry's magic—his birthright, his connection to his parents' world, and labelled it madness.

"The incidents have decreased significantly since we implemented the new medication protocol," Dr. Whitmore continued, turning pages with satisfaction. "He's learned to suppress these outbursts. We consider that remarkable progress."

They've been drugging him. The realization hit like ice water. Suppressing his magic with chemicals, teaching him to hate the very thing that makes him who he is.

"I'm here to inform you that Harry has been accepted to our institution," Dumbledore managed, his voice carefully controlled. "We'll be taking custody immediately."

Dr. Whitmore's pen stopped moving across her notepad. "I'm afraid that's quite impossible. Mr. Potter is not ready to be released. He remains a potential danger to himself and others. His violent episodes, while less frequent, still—"

Dumbledore didn't let her finish. His hand moved with practiced ease, sliding what appeared to be an official letter across the metal desk. The parchment looked perfectly ordinary to muggle eyes, crisp letterhead, official seals, all the bureaucratic theater they required.

Dr. Whitmore's eyes found the blank page, and Dumbledore whispered the softest of compulsions, a charm so subtle it felt like breathing.

Her expression shifted like clouds passing over the sun. The tight lines around her mouth softened. "Of course," she said, her voice suddenly warm. "This is wonderful news. Harry will benefit greatly from specialized education. When can you take him?"

"Today." Dumbledore pocketed the parchment before she could examine it more closely. "I'd like to speak with him first, if I may."

"Certainly. Room Twelve, down the hall. He should be in afternoon rest period." Dr. Whitmore was already reaching for transfer forms, her movements eager. "Such a bright boy. We always knew he needed something more than we could provide."

The charm would hold for hours, long enough for the paperwork to be processed, for Harry to disappear from their records as thoroughly as if he'd never existed. By tomorrow, Dr. Whitmore would remember only that a troubled boy had been transferred to a more appropriate facility. The details would blur, fade, become unimportant.

Another lie. Another manipulation. Dumbledore stood, his knees creaking with age and the weight of his choices. How many more before this ends?

The corridor seemed longer on the way to Harry's room, each step heavier than the last. Through windows, he glimpsed more children—a boy no older than ten sitting motionless while a counsellor spoke at him, words bouncing off deaf ears. Twin girls, barely eight, playing with broken toys under the watchful eye of an orderly who looked ready to confiscate even those meagre comforts.

How many nights has Harry been one of them? How many days of being told his magic was madness, his power a sickness to be cured?

Room Twelve stood at the end of the corridor, its door marked only with a number. No nameplate, no personal touches. Even the window was reinforced with wire mesh, as if the children inside might try to escape.

Dumbledore knocked—three soft raps that sounded too loud in the sterile silence.

"Come in."

The voice was quiet, carefully neutral. The voice of a child who had learned not to show emotion, not to give adults any reason to notice him.

Dumbledore turned the handle and stepped inside.

The room was a cell disguised as a bedroom. A narrow bed with sheets drawn tight as a drumskin. A small desk bolted to the floor. A single window that showed nothing but brick walls and a slice of grey sky. Everything designed to contain, to diminish, to break spirit through sheer oppressive emptiness.

And sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly in his lap, was Harry Potter.

Sweet Merlin.

The boy was smaller than Dumbledore had imagined, far too thin, his clothes hanging loose on a frame that spoke of missed meals and institutional portions. His hair, that unruly Potter hair that had been James's despair, had been cut short and neat. Controlled.

But it was the eyes that broke Dumbledore's heart. Lily's eyes, that brilliant emerald green, but flat where they should have sparkled. Watchful where they should have been trusting. Old where they should have been young.

"Hello, Harry." Dumbledore's voice caught slightly. "My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore. I've come to speak with you about a school you've been accepted to."

Harry's posture didn't change—back straight, hands visible, feet flat on the floor. The perfect institutional child, trained not to give offense.

"What type of school would that be, sir?"

The formal politeness was worse than anger would have been. This wasn't a child speaking, it was a prisoner who had learned the rules of engagement with authority.

You did this. You left him here, and this is what they made of him.

"Hogwarts," Dumbledore said gently, settling into the room's single chair. "It's a school of magic, Harry. For people exactly like you."

The word hung in the air between them. Magic. That forbidden thing, that source of shame and medication and long nights in restraints.

Harry's head snapped up, those green eyes meeting Dumbledore's for the first time. The carefully blank mask cracked, just slightly.

"Magic?" The word was barely a whisper, but it carried such desperate hope that Dumbledore's chest tightened.

"Yes, Harry. Magic is real. What you can do, what you've always been able to do, it's not madness. It's not something to be cured or medicated away. It's a gift."

There was no need for words. It was there in the sudden stillness, the breath Harry didn’t realise he’d been holding. As if something fragile and hidden had finally been confirmed.

Dumbledore watched as the boy’s shoulders eased by a fraction, tension bleeding from his posture like steam from a cracked pipe.

"Strange things would happen when I got angry or scared, sir." Harry's voice was gaining strength, losing that careful institutional monotone. "I would always feel this rush of energy, like... like something inside me was trying to get out."

At least they haven't killed that part of him. The magic still calls to him.

"That energy, Harry, is magic. It responds to emotion, particularly in young wizards who haven't learned to control it yet." Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "You are a wizard, Harry Potter. And you are not alone."

"None of the other children here can do magic, can they?" Harry asked, and something in his tone made Dumbledore pause. Not just curiosity—something sharper. Relief? Superiority?

"No, they cannot. You are special, Harry. Rare."

The boy's smile was small but genuine, the first real expression Dumbledore had seen from him. "I knew I was different…. stronger. I just... I didn't know there were others like me."

"There are many like you. In fact..." Dumbledore hesitated, then pressed on. "You've been enrolled at Hogwarts since birth, Harry. Your parents—"

"My parents?" The word came out sharp, sudden. Harry's hands clenched into fists. "My parents abandoned me here. They couldn't have cared much for me, or they wouldn't have left me in this place."

The pain in those words was naked, raw. Eleven years of abandonment and cold containment—rooms that locked from the outside, smiles that never reached the eyes, had carved wounds too deep to see.

And now comes the part where I tell him it's all my fault.

"Harry," Dumbledore said carefully, "your parents did not abandon you. They were murdered."

The room went silent. Harry's body went completely still, as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.

"What?" The word came out sharp, disbelieving. "No. They died in a car crash. My aunt told me—they were drunk, driving recklessly. They killed themselves because they were worthless—"

"No, Harry. That was a lie." Dumbledore's voice was gentle but firm. "Your aunt and uncle told you that to hide the truth about our world. Your parents—James and Lily Potter—were murdered by a dark wizard named Voldemort when you were fifteen months old. They died protecting you."

Harry's face cycled through emotions—confusion, disbelief, something that might have been relief. "They weren't... they didn't abandon me because they were drunk and careless?"

"Never. They loved you more than life itself."

"Tell me," Harry said, his voice barely a whisper. "Tell me everything."

So Dumbledore told him. About the war that had torn the wizarding world apart. About Voldemort's rise to power, his hatred of non-magical people and those born to non-magical families. About James and Lily's fight against the darkness, their membership in the Order of the Phoenix.

"Your mother was extraordinarily talented," Dumbledore said, watching Harry absorb every word with hungry intensity. "Born to non-magical parents, but one of the most powerful witches of her generation. Your father came from an ancient wizarding family—wealthy, respected, brave."

"Why did Voldemort kill them?"

"Because they stood against him. Because they chose love over fear, light over darkness." Dumbledore's voice grew heavy. "When Voldemort came for you that night, something extraordinary happened. Your mother's sacrifice, her willingness to die for you, created a protection around you. When Voldemort cast the Killing Curse, it rebounded. You survived what no one else ever has, and he... disappeared."

The silence stretched between them. Harry's breathing was shallow, rapid.

"Harry, you're the most famous wizard in Britain. Perhaps in the world. They call you the Boy Who Lived. You ended a war before you could walk."

Harry stood, beginning to pace the small room with restless energy. "If I'm so famous, so important... why was I left here?"

Here it comes. The question I cannot answer well. The confession that will break what little trust I've built.

"Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice barely above a whisper, "the fault for that lies entirely with me."

The boy stopped pacing, turning to stare at Dumbledore with those piercing green eyes.

"You must understand, after Voldemort's defeat, we knew the war wasn't truly over. Too many of his followers remained free. They would come for you, either for revenge or to try to restore their master." Dumbledore's hands trembled as he spoke. "You needed protection. You needed to be hidden somewhere they would never think to look."

"So, you gave me to them." Harry's voice was flat, dangerous.

"I believed... I foolishly believed that love would protect you. That your mother's sacrifice would ensure you were safe and cherished." Each word felt like swallowing ground glass. "I placed you with your aunt—your mother's sister—thinking that blood would mean something. That family would care for you as Lily would have wanted."

"And when that didn't work?" Harry's eyes were brightening with something that might have been anger. "When they couldn't handle a child like me?"

"I didn't know." The admission tore from Dumbledore's throat. "Mrs. Figg—a woman I trusted to watch over you, she developed dementia. Her reports stopped coming. I should have noticed. I should have questioned it."

He took a breath, as if steadying something brittle in his chest.

"When your Hogwarts letter was addressed, to this place, not Privet Drive, that's when I understood something had gone terribly wrong. The house was empty. There was no trace of you. But once the address surfaced... I moved at once."

"But you knew where I was."

"Not until then." Dumbledore’s voice grew taut. "Not until the letter found you. That’s when I traced what had happened—what you’d done in your desperation, what they’d done in response. And when I understood where they’d taken you..." His jaw clenched. "I came for you immediately."

Harry laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "Hidden from those who might hurt me? Sir, do you know what this place is? What they do to children like me?"

"I know now," Dumbledore whispered. "And I will never forgive myself for it."

The boy studied him for a long moment, those green eyes seeing far too much. "You made a mistake."

"A catastrophic one."

"They tried to convince me I was mad. They gave me drugs to suppress my magic. They locked me away when I had... episodes." Harry's voice was gaining strength, intensity. "They told me I was dangerous. Delusional. That the things I could do weren't real."

"They were wrong."

"Yes," Harry said, and there was something sharp in his smile. "They were. But I always knew, deep down. I knew I was different. Special." He turned to face Dumbledore fully. "Could you tell me about the wizarding world? About Hogwarts? I don't want to be behind the other children when I arrive."

Such hunger for knowledge. Such intensity. Dumbledore felt a flutter of relief. Perhaps the damage wasn't as severe as he'd feared. Perhaps Harry could still be reached, still be saved.

"Of course, my dear boy. Where shall I begin?"

"Magic," Harry said immediately. "What can it do? How powerful can a wizard become?"

So Dumbledore began to teach. He spoke of Transfiguration and Charms, of Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. He described the four houses of Hogwarts—brave Gryffindor, wise Ravenclaw, loyal Hufflepuff, ambitious Slytherin. He told Harry about famous wizards throughout history, about the greatest magical achievements, about power that could reshape the world.

And Harry absorbed it all with frightening intensity. His questions were sharp, focused, intelligent. How do you become more powerful? Which spells are strongest? Who are the most famous wizards? What made them great?

"You'll stay at the Leaky Cauldron until September first," Dumbledore explained as their conversation wound down. "Tom will look after you, and you can explore Diagon Alley, buy your school things. Everything will be arranged."

"When do I leave here?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Now. Right now." Dumbledore stood, pulling out his wand. "Are you ready?"

Harry's eyes fixed on the wand with naked hunger. "Yes. I've been ready for eleven years."

Such relief. Such joy at finally leaving this place. Dumbledore felt his heart lighten as he prepared the Apparition. Perhaps this would work out after all. Perhaps Harry could overcome his trauma, find peace at Hogwarts, become the wizard he was meant to be.

The Disapparition was gentle, careful. One moment they stood in that sterile room, the next they were in the warm, welcoming chaos of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry's gasp of wonder at the sight of floating candles and self-stirring cauldrons was exactly what Dumbledore had hoped for.

"Welcome to the wizarding world, Harry," Dumbledore said softly. "Welcome home."

As he watched the boy's face light up with genuine awe, as he saw Harry drinking in every detail of magical life with desperate hunger, Dumbledore felt something he hadn't experienced in eleven years: hope.

The conversation had gone better than he'd dared dream. Harry was angry, yes, but not broken. Eager to learn, excited about magic, ready to embrace his heritage. Perhaps the boy's resilience would overcome the trauma. Perhaps love and proper care could still heal what had been damaged.

So focused was Dumbledore on Harry's obvious intelligence and hunger for knowledge, so relieved to see the boy excited rather than catatonic, that he completely missed the cold calculation behind those emerald eyes. He didn't notice how Harry catalogued every piece of information about power and fame and magical strength. He failed to see that the boy's questions weren't only born of innocent curiosity, but of a desperate need for control after years of helplessness.

Dumbledore left the Leaky Cauldron that evening believing he had finally done right by Harry Potter. He'd confessed his failures, explained the truth, and delivered the boy safely to the magical world where he belonged.

He had no idea that he had just repeated his greatest failure from fifty years past—watching a brilliant, damaged boy learn of his own power and importance, and walking away believing he had done good.

The Ministry cleanup began within minutes of Dumbledore's departure from Millfield.

Black-robed figures Apparated into the parking lot, their movements efficient and professional. Obliviators, the best the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had to offer, armed with memory charms refined over decades of covering up magical incidents.

They moved through the building like a surgical team. Dr. Whitmore, still sitting at her desk with Harry's transfer forms, looked up in confusion as her office door opened.

"Dr. Whitmore?" the wizard said smoothly, raising his wand. "Obliviate."

Her eyes went glassy. The conversation was brief, clinical. Within minutes, her memories had been carefully edited. Harry Potter had never existed. The troubled boy in Room Twelve was simply another case transferred to a different facility, unremarkable, forgettable.

The Obliviators moved through every corridor, every room, every office. Staff members found themselves pausing mid-task, blinking in confusion, then returning to work with no memory of a thin, dark-haired boy who spoke of magic. Patient files were altered with precision, medical records adjusted, intake forms modified, photographs removed.

In the chaos of the operation, no one noticed the junior Obliviator who lingered a moment too long at certain filing cabinets, whose document bag seemed fuller when he left than when he'd arrived. The missing files would never be discovered—officially, they had never existed.

In Room Twelve, specialized cleaners worked to remove every trace of magical residue. Eleven years of suppressed accidental magic had left its mark on the walls, the floor, the very air itself. Charms removed the lingering traces of power, leaving nothing but institutional emptiness.

Other children who had witnessed Harry's "episodes" were the most delicate cases. The Obliviators worked carefully, extracting specific memories while leaving the rest intact. A boy who remembered Harry making his lunch tray float now recalled only dropping it himself. A girl who had seen ice crystals spread across Harry's window during summer now remembered only normal condensation.

By dawn, it was as if Harry Potter had never existed at Millfield Secure Children's Home. Every file had been altered, every memory modified, every trace of magic scrubbed clean. The official records would show only that a disturbed child had been transferred to a more appropriate facility, paperwork that would be lost in bureaucratic shuffling within the week.

Dr. Whitmore arrived at work the next morning with no memory of the strange professor or the extraordinary boy in Room Twelve. She reviewed her patient roster with professional satisfaction, noting the successful transfer of another case to specialized care.

The system had worked perfectly. The cover-up was complete.

And somewhere in London, in a room above the Leaky Cauldron, a boy who had just learned he was the most famous wizard alive lay awake pondering how to ensure he would never be powerless again.

Chapter Text

The corridors of the Wizengamot level stretched empty and silent in the late evening darkness, their polished marble floors reflecting the dim light of enchanted torches that burned low after hours. Most offices stood dark behind heavy oak doors, their brass nameplates catching occasional glints of flame. The weight of magical law and centuries of political power pressed down from the vaulted ceilings, making even footsteps seem hushed and conspiratorial.

At the end of the corridor, light leaked from beneath one door. The nameplate read "Lord Regulus Black" in elegant script, the letters gleaming with subtle enchantment that spoke of old magic and older money.

The junior Obliviator's hands trembled as he approached the door. Thomas Brown had been part of the Ministry cleanup crews for three years, but he'd never carried cargo like this. The document bag at his side felt heavier than it should, weighted with more than parchment and ink.

He knocked twice, soft and quick.

"Enter."

The voice from within was cultured, precise, carrying the unmistakable authority of someone born to command. Thomas turned the handle and stepped inside.

Lord Regulus Black's office was a study in refined power. Ancient tapestries depicting the Black family tree covered the walls, their silver and green threads gleaming in the light of floating candles. A massive desk of blackened wood dominated the space, its surface carved with protective runes that seemed to shift and writhe when viewed peripherally. Behind it, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over magical London, though the glass was currently charmed dark for privacy.

Regulus himself sat behind the desk like a king holding court. His dark hair was streaked with premature silver at the temples, and his grey eyes held the cold intelligence that had made the Black family feared for generations. He wore dress robes of midnight blue that probably cost more than Thomas earned in a year.

"Mr. Brown." Regulus didn't rise, didn't offer his hand. Authority figures didn't need to curry favor with subordinates. "You have something for me."

Thomas nodded quickly, setting his document bag on the desk with hands that shook slightly. "Everything from the Potter boy's file, my lord. Medical records, psychological evaluations, incident reports, therapy notes. All of it."

Regulus opened the bag with deliberate care, his expression never changing as he spread the documents across his desk. Thomas watched those grey eyes scan the pages, taking in details about restraints and medications, about violent episodes and suppressed magic, about a broken child systematically crushed by muggle institutional care.

"Fascinating," Regulus murmured, holding up a photograph clipped to one file. It showed Harry Potter at age ten—thin, hollow-eyed, wearing the grey uniform of Millfield SCH. The boy's famous lightning bolt scar was barely visible beneath unkempt hair, but there was no mistaking those green eyes. They held none of the warmth Thomas had heard described in stories about Lily Potter. They were flat, wary, old beyond their years.

"The muggle doctors were quite thorough in their documentation," Regulus continued, setting the photograph aside to examine a thick sheaf of psychological reports. "Particularly regarding the boy's... difficulties with authority and his persistent claims about magical abilities."

Thomas swallowed hard. "My lord, if I may ask—what will you do with—"

"You may not ask." The words were soft but carried the weight of centuries of Black family power. "Your role was to acquire these documents. My role is to determine their proper use."

Regulus opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a small leather pouch that clinked with the distinctive sound of galleons. He set it on the desk between them but made no move to push it forward.

"Your discretion in this matter, Mr. Brown, is worth far more than gold. I trust you understand the consequences of discussing tonight's transaction with anyone—including your supervisor, your colleagues, or your family."

The threat was implied but unmistakable. Thomas nodded quickly. "Of course, my lord. Complete discretion."

"Excellent." Regulus finally pushed the pouch across the desk. "You've done valuable work tonight. The kind of work that protects the interests of proper wizarding families against those who would endanger our children through incompetence."

Thomas pocketed the gold with hands that had stopped shaking. The weight of galleons was comforting, but the weight of what he'd just done settled heavier on his shoulders. Still, Lord Black was right. If even half of what was in those files was true, someone needed to be held accountable for what had happened to the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Will there be anything else, my lord?"

"Not tonight." Regulus was already turning his attention back to the documents, dismissing Thomas with the casual indifference of nobility. "Though I suspect we'll speak again soon. These are turbulent times, Mr. Brown. Turbulent times require careful navigation."

Thomas left the office with those words echoing in his mind. As he walked back through the empty corridors toward the Atrium, he told himself he'd done the right thing. The public deserved to know the truth about what had happened to Harry Potter. They deserved to know how badly their leaders had failed their greatest hero.

Behind him, Regulus Black continued reading in the golden light of his floating candles, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. After eleven years of careful planning, of watching and waiting for the perfect opportunity, the pieces were finally falling into place.

By morning, Albus Dumbledore's carefully constructed political empire would begin its inevitable collapse. And when it fell, there would be those ready to pick up the pieces, those who understood that true power came not from sentiment or misguided idealism, but from the calculated application of influence and the strategic use of information.

Regulus reached for his traveling cloak. It was time to send word to Lucius. There were plans to finalize, and Grimmauld Place would provide the perfect setting for such delicate conversations.

An hour later, the ancient drawing room of Grimmauld Place was lit by the warm glow of a fire crackling in the ornate marble fireplace. The room spoke of centuries of Black family power—dark wood panelling, silver-framed portraits of stern ancestors, and furniture that had witnessed the rise and fall of Dark Lords.

Regulus had spread Harry's files across the mahogany table that dominated the centre of the room, the documents arranged with the precision of a military campaign. The photograph of ten-year-old Harry in his SCH uniform lay prominently displayed, those hollow green eyes staring up from the polished wood.

The fireplace flared emerald green, and Lucius Malfoy stepped through with the fluid grace of practiced Floo travel. His platinum hair was immaculate despite the journey, and his expensive robes showed not a speck of ash. Where Regulus embodied the cold authority of ancient nobility, Lucius radiated the dangerous charm of a predator in silk.

"Regulus." Lucius inclined his head in greeting, his grey eyes immediately finding the documents spread across the table. "I received your message. Something about a most interesting development?"

"Indeed." Regulus gestured to the files with a gesture that managed to be both casual and triumphant. "It seems our esteemed Chief Warlock has provided us with exactly the ammunition we've been waiting for."

Lucius approached the table, his eyes scanning the documents with the hunger of a man who had waited years for this moment. He picked up the photograph of Harry, studying the hollow-eyed boy with something that might have been genuine sympathy if it weren't overlaid with calculation.

"The Wizengamot dismissed us as 'opportunistic pure bloods' last time," Lucius said softly, setting the photograph down with careful precision. "Called our concerns about the boy's welfare 'transparent attempts at political gain.'"

"Quite." Regulus's smile was sharp as winter frost. "But it's rather difficult to dismiss documented evidence of systematic abuse and medical neglect, wouldn't you say?"

Lucius picked up one of the psychological reports, his eyebrows rising as he read. "Restraints? Forced medication to suppress magical abilities? Sweet Merlin, what did they do to him?"

"Exactly what muggles always do when faced with something they can't understand." Regulus’s tone was flat, but something brittle curled beneath it, disgust held tightly in check. "They tried to break him into something manageable."

"The public will be horrified," Lucius observed, though his tone suggested he found this prospect deeply satisfying rather than troubling.

"Yes, they will. But more importantly, the Wizengamot will be furious." Regulus moved to the fireplace, staring into the flames with the air of a chess master contemplating his next move. "We moved too quickly before, Lucius. Without proper foundation. But this..."

He gestured to the files with an elegant wave of his hand. "This gives us everything we need. Documented proof of Dumbledore's catastrophic failures. Evidence that he knew where the boy was and chose to leave him there. The Ministry's own cover-up operations proving they were complicit."

Lucius nodded slowly, his fingers drumming against the table with barely contained excitement. "The political ramifications will be considerable. How many of Dumbledore's allies will stand by him when faced with this?"

"Very few, I suspect." Regulus turned back to face his guest, satisfaction gleaming in those cold grey eyes. "And those who do will find themselves painted with the same brush. Complicit in the abandonment of the Boy-Who-Lived."

"What of our own position?" Lucius asked, though from his tone it was clear he'd already calculated the answer. "We've maintained our distance from the boy for eleven years. No one can accuse us of opportunism when we've had no contact with him."

"Precisely. We appear as concerned family friends, nothing more." Regulus picked up another document, this one detailing Harry's violent episodes at the SCH. "Though I suspect that may change soon enough."

"Oh?"

"Draco and Lyra start Hogwarts this year as well," Regulus said with studied casualness, his tone suggesting this was merely an interesting coincidence rather than a carefully considered opportunity.

Lucius's smile was slow and dangerous. "How fortuitous. Children do tend to form such strong bonds during their school years."

"Indeed, they do. Particularly boys from... difficult backgrounds. They recognize genuine care when they encounter it." Regulus set the document down and moved to pour two glasses of aged firewhisky from a crystal decanter. "By year's end, I suspect young Potter will have experienced what a proper wizarding family can offer. Warmth, acceptance, understanding."

"And should he require guardians who can provide such care on a more permanent basis..." Lucius accepted the glass with a slight nod of thanks.

"Well, this time any custody petition will be seen as rescuing the boy, not claiming him," Regulus finished, raising his glass in a mock toast. "Particularly after the Wizengamot has had time to fully appreciate the scope of Dumbledore's failures."

They drank in companionable silence, the weight of unspoken plans settling between them like fog. The fire crackled in the grate, casting dancing shadows across the scattered documents that would soon bring down one of the most powerful wizards in Britain.

"When?" Lucius asked finally.

"Tomorrow morning's edition. I've already made the necessary arrangements with our friends at the Prophet." Regulus's smile was cold and satisfied. "By the time Dumbledore has his morning tea, half of magical Britain will be calling for his head."

"And the boy?"

"Will discover that even the wizarding world isn't the sanctuary he'd hoped for." Regulus moved to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain to look out at the dark London street. "A harsh lesson, but a necessary one. He needs to understand that power and position mean nothing without the right connections. Without family."

Lucius finished his firewhisky and set the glass aside. "I should return home. Narcissa will want to hear about this, and we'll need to prepare our own response to the scandal. Distance ourselves appropriately while expressing proper concern for the boy's welfare."

"Of course." Regulus began gathering the documents, handling them with the care of a man who understood their true value. "And Lucius? Give my regards to young Draco. I'm sure he'll find Hogwarts most... educational this year."

The two men exchanged a look of perfect understanding. Years of careful planning, of waiting for the right moment, of positioning themselves for this exact opportunity, it was all coming together at last.

Lucius stepped back into the fireplace, green flames already beginning to swirl around him. "Until tomorrow, Regulus. I suspect it will be a most interesting day."

As the flames carried Lucius away, Regulus remained standing by the window, the Potter files held loosely in his hands. Tomorrow would indeed be interesting. Tomorrow would be the beginning of the end for Albus Dumbledore's political empire.

And when the dust settled, when the Wizengamot was looking for new leadership and young Harry Potter was looking for a family that would actually protect him, the ancient houses of Black and Malfoy would be ready to step forward.

It had taken eleven years, but some games were worth playing patiently.

The Daily Prophet building never truly slept. Even at this late hour, the massive printing presses hummed in the basement, preparing the morning edition while owls roosted in the upper floors, waiting to carry news across magical Britain. The editorial offices on the third floor were dimly lit, most desks abandoned until morning, but light spilled from one corner office where ambition kept later hours than wisdom.

Thomas Brown stood in the doorway, his document bag clutched tight against his chest. The nameplate on the door read "R. Skeeter - Senior Correspondent," and through the frosted glass he could see the silhouette of a woman hunched over her desk.

He knocked twice, the same soft pattern he'd used at Lord Black's office.

"Come in, come in!" The voice was sharp, eager, tinged with the predatory excitement of a journalist who smelled blood in the water.

Rita Skeeter looked up as Thomas entered, her jewelled spectacles catching the lamplight. Her elaborately styled blonde hair was slightly dishevelled from hours of work, and ink stains marked her lime-green robes. She'd been beautiful once, perhaps, but years of chasing scandals had left her with the hungry, hollow look of someone who fed on others' misfortune.

"Mr. Brown, isn't it?" She gestured to the chair across from her desk with a hand adorned with rings that clicked against her quill. "You mentioned you had something that would interest me greatly."

Thomas nodded, setting his bag on her desk with hands that had steadied since his meeting with Lord Black. The weight of galleons in his pocket gave him confidence, and the righteousness of his cause made his voice firm.

"Harry Potter, Miss Skeeter. The real story of what happened to the Boy-Who-Lived."

Rita's eyes sharpened behind her spectacles, predatory interest flickering across her features. "Go on."

Thomas opened the bag and withdrew the files, spreading them across her desk with practiced efficiency. Rita's Quick-Quotes Quill began moving before she'd even touched the documents, scratching notes across a piece of parchment as if it could sense the approaching scandal.

"Sweet Morgana," Rita breathed, picking up the photograph of Harry in his SCH uniform. "Where did you get these?"

"That's not important," Thomas replied, echoing Lord Black's earlier dismissal. "What matters is that the public deserves to know the truth. They deserve to know how the Chief Warlock failed their greatest hero."

Rita was already reading, her eyes growing wider with each document. Medical reports detailing forced medication. Psychological evaluations describing a 'dangerous' and 'delusional' child. Incident reports cataloguing episodes of 'unexplained violence' and the restraints used to control them.

"This is... extraordinary," she murmured, her quill working frantically to keep up with her racing thoughts. "The Boy-Who-Lived, locked away in a muggle asylum. Dumbledore's golden boy turned into a... what does this say? 'Subject requires constant supervision due to persistent violent ideation and claims of supernatural abilities.'"

She looked up at Thomas, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. "And you're certain these are authentic?"

"Completely. Ministry Obliviators altered the originals, but not before..." Thomas let the implication hang in the air.

"Before someone with a conscience made copies." Rita's smile widened. "How fortunate for the wizarding public."

Thomas reached into his robes and withdrew a heavy leather pouch, setting it on the desk beside the files. The distinctive clink of galleons filled the quiet office.

"There's more where that came from," he said quietly. "For the right story. For the truth."

Rita's eyes fixed on the pouch with naked greed, but when she looked up, her expression was all professional integrity. "Mr. Brown, I don't write stories for money. I write them because the public has a right to know. Because someone needs to hold the powerful accountable when they fail those who trust them."

The lie rolled off her tongue with practiced ease, even as her fingers traced the edge of the gold pouch.

"Of course," Thomas replied. "I'm sure you understand the... sensitivity of the situation. The timing of publication. The need for maximum impact."

"Tomorrow morning's edition," Rita said without hesitation. "Front page. Above the fold. By the time Dumbledore has his morning porridge, every witch and wizard in Britain will know exactly what kind of man they've been following."

Thomas stood, leaving the files and the gold on her desk. "I trust you'll handle this with appropriate... thoroughness."

"Oh, Mr. Brown," Rita's smile was predatory and satisfied as she pulled a fresh piece of parchment toward her and dipped her quill in ink. "When I'm finished, Albus Dumbledore will wish he'd never heard the name Harry Potter."

As Thomas left the Daily Prophet building, Rita Skeeter was already writing, her quill dancing across parchment with vicious glee. The headline wrote itself: "DUMBLEDORE'S DARK SECRET: Boy-Who-Lived Found in Muggle Asylum."

By dawn, it would be in every wizarding household in Britain. By noon, the Chief Warlock's political career would be in ruins.

And somewhere in London, a boy who thought he'd finally found a home was about to learn that even the wizarding world could turn on its heroes when the price was right.

THE DAILY PROPHET SPECIAL MORNING EDITION

DUMBLEDORE'S DARK SECRET: BOY-WHO-LIVED FOUND IN MUGGLE ASYLUM

Chief Warlock's Catastrophic Failure Exposed

By Rita Skeeter, Senior Correspondent

In a shocking revelation that has sent tremors through the highest levels of magical government, this reporter has obtained exclusive documentation proving that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and Britain's most celebrated hero, was discovered in a muggle psychiatric facility where he had been imprisoned for months.

The files, obtained from sources within the Ministry's own Obliviation department, paint a horrifying picture of systematic abuse, forced medication, and the deliberate suppression of magical abilities through muggle "treatment" methods that can only be described as torture.

ELEVEN YEARS OF LIES

For over a decade, Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore assured the public that Harry Potter—the Boy-Who-Lived, was safe, cared for, and living peacefully with his Muggle relatives in Surrey. That comforting narrative, long repeated by the Ministry and Hogwarts alike, has now collapsed under the weight of leaked internal documents.

The truth is far more disturbing.

According to Ministry records, Harry Potter remained with the Dursley family until the age of ten, at which point he was involved in a violent and unexplained incident that resulted in the death of Marjorie Dursley, his uncle’s sister. Muggle authorities were unable to determine a clear cause of death, but eyewitness statements, now redacted describe broken glass, temperature fluctuations, and signs of extreme internal trauma. No magical official was dispatched to investigate.

Instead, young Potter was arrested, convicted, and sentenced by Muggle courts to indefinite confinement in Millfield Secure Children’s Home, a high-risk institution designed for violent or disturbed minors. There, he spent the final year of his childhood subjected to physical restraints, experimental medications, and psychological conditioning, all designed to suppress the very abilities that made him extraordinary.

Millfield staff classified him as a “high-risk patient” exhibiting “persistent violent ideation” and “delusional claims of supernatural powers.”
The supernatural powers, of course, being magic itself.

"TREATED" LIKE A MADMAN

The documents detail a regime of systematic oppression that would shock even the most hardened Azkaban guard. Potter was subjected to daily doses of muggle medications designed to suppress his magical abilities. When these failed to completely eliminate his power, stronger measures were employed.

Ministry psychological evaluations, conducted during Potter's extraction, describe evidence of:

• Prolonged physical restraint during "episodes" of accidental magic
• Isolation in windowless rooms for days at a time
• Forced medication with substances unknown to wizarding medicine
• Systematic attempts to convince the boy that his magical abilities were "delusions"

One particularly damning report notes that Potter had been taught to view his own magic as a "sickness" requiring treatment. The Boy-Who-Lived, the child who ended You-Know-Who's reign of terror before he could walk, was convinced by muggles that his greatest gift was his greatest curse.

THE CHIEF WARLOCK'S BETRAYAL

Perhaps most shocking of all is the timeline of events that led to Potter's imprisonment and the Chief Warlock's failure to prevent it.

Ministry records reveal that Potter was placed in muggle custody following a "violent incident" at his relatives' home involving the death of his aunt, Marjorie Dursley. The boy, then only ten years old, was subsequently convicted by muggle authorities and sentenced to indefinite detention in Millfield SCH.

A magical child, tried and convicted by muggles who had no understanding of accidental magic.

What makes this tragedy inexcusable is that Dumbledore had completely lost track of Potter's whereabouts. Sources suggest that the monitoring systems supposedly protecting the Boy-Who-Lived had failed years earlier, leaving him entirely vulnerable to muggle persecution.

Dumbledore only discovered Potter's true location when the boy's Hogwarts letter was automatically addressed to Millfield SCH rather than his supposed "loving relatives." By then, Potter had already spent months in muggle custody, being "treated" for the crime of possessing magical abilities.

The question that haunts every thinking witch and wizard is simple: How does the Chief Warlock lose track of the most important child in magical Britain?

QUESTIONS DEMAND ANSWERS

This revelation raises disturbing questions about the man who has led our government's highest judicial body for decades:

How could the Chief Warlock lose track of magical Britain's most important child?

What other secrets has Dumbledore kept from the Wizengamot?

Can we trust a leader who abandoned our greatest hero to muggle brutality?

How many other "inconvenient truths" has the Ministry covered up?

Wizengamot members contacted by this reporter expressed shock and outrage. "If even half of this is true," said one member who requested anonymity, "then we've been following a man who is either incompetent or deliberately deceptive. Neither quality befits the Chief Warlock."

THE COVER-UP CONTINUES

Even more troubling is evidence of an immediate Ministry cover-up following Potter's discovery. Obliviation teams were dispatched within hours to eliminate all evidence of Potter's imprisonment from muggle records and memories.

While protecting the Statute of Secrecy is certainly important, the speed and thoroughness of this operation suggests prior planning. How long has the Ministry known about Potter's true situation? How many other inconvenient truths are being buried by teams of Obliviators?

A HERO BETRAYED

The most tragic victim in all of this is, of course, Harry Potter himself. The boy who saved our world before he could speak has been systematically failed by the very people sworn to protect him.

Potter, now eleven and due to start at Hogwarts in September, has spent his formative years believing he was mentally ill rather than magically gifted. He has been taught to fear and suppress the very abilities that make him special.

What long-term damage has been done to the boy's psyche? What trauma will he carry into his magical education? These questions may take years to answer, but one thing is certain: the Boy-Who-Lived deserves far better than the "protection" he has received from those who claimed to care for him.

TIME FOR ACCOUNTABILITY

The wizarding public deserves answers. How could our most trusted leader fail so catastrophically? How could the Ministry's own systems allow a child, our most important child to disappear into muggle custody without notice?

Sources suggest that emergency sessions of the Wizengamot are already being called. Chief Warlock Dumbledore must be held accountable for this unconscionable betrayal of trust.

The Boy-Who-Lived saved us all from You-Know-Who's darkness. The least we owe him is ensuring that those who failed him face the consequences of their negligence.

Our hero deserves justice. Our government demands truth.

Full Ministry documents available on pages 4-7 Editorial: "A Crisis of Leadership" - page 8 Letters from concerned citizens - page 9

The morning edition hit the streets at precisely six o'clock, carried by thousands of owls to every corner of magical Britain. By seven, emergency owl-post was flooding the Ministry. By eight, Diagon Alley was buzzing with horrified whispers.

And in a small room above the Leaky Cauldron, Harry Potter was about to discover that being famous meant everyone felt entitled to an opinion about your pain.

Chapter Text

The morning air above Hogwarts hung still and cold, untouched by the chaos that would soon engulf magical Britain. In the highest tower of the ancient castle, Albus Dumbledore sat motionless behind his desk, the Daily Prophet spread before him like an accusation written in black ink.

The headline stared back at him in bold letters that seemed to pulse with malice: "DUMBLEDORE'S DARK SECRET: BOY-WHO-LIVED FOUND IN MUGGLE ASYLUM." Below it, the photograph that would haunt his dreams, Harry Potter at age ten, hollow-eyed and thin in the grey uniform of Millfield SCH. Those green eyes, so like Lily's, held none of her warmth. They were flat, wary, ancient in their emptiness.

Dumbledore's hands trembled as they rested on the parchment. His morning tea had gone cold hours ago, a thin film forming on its surface. Beside the newspaper lay the charred remains of three separate letters he'd attempted to write, responses that had died in phoenix fire before they could spread his inadequacy further into the world.

The photograph drew his gaze again, inevitable as gravity. Harry had been ten when it happened, when Aunt Marge burst apart beneath the weight of magic he could no longer suppress, when the Muggle authorities dragged him away in a haze of sirens and shouted orders. The picture was taken months later, after the drugs, after the interviews, after Millfield had drained what little childhood he had left. He wore the grey uniform like a sentence already served. And those eyes, Lily’s eyes were emptied of everything that once made them hers.

While Dumbledore had sat in this very office, confident in his protections, believing in his wisdom.

He reached for his quill with fingers that felt disconnected from his will. The phoenix feather shaft rolled away from his touch, clattering against the crystal inkwell with a sound that echoed in the silence. What words could possibly justify this? What explanation could make the wizarding world understand that he had never intended for Harry to suffer?

The parchment before him remained blank, mocking his paralysis. He pressed the nib to paper, watching ink pool and spread like blood from a wound. To the Editor of the Daily Prophet, he began, then stopped. The words died before they could take shape, as empty as his promises of protection had proven to be.

Phoenix fire consumed the half-formed letter in seconds, leaving only ash and the bitter taste of failure.

Outside the window, the sun climbed higher over the Scottish Highlands, carrying news of his catastrophic failure to every corner of magical Britain. And somewhere in London, a boy who should have grown up loved and safe was learning that even the wizarding world could turn its heroes into public spectacles when the price was right.

The private study in Greengrass Manor commanded a view of perfectly manicured gardens that spoke of centuries of accumulated wealth and political influence. Lord Cyrus Greengrass sat behind his mahogany desk like a king holding court, his blonde hair gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through tall windows. At sixty-five, he remained the undisputed leader of the Conservative faction in the Wizengamot, a man whose approval could make careers and whose disapproval could end them.

Lucius Malfoy sat across from him, his posture conveying the perfect balance of respect and equality that such delicate negotiations required. Between them lay the morning's Daily Prophet, folded to display Rita Skeeter's damning expose in all its brutal detail.

"Remarkable work," Greengrass observed, his voice carrying the measured cadence of someone who had spent decades weighing words for maximum political impact. "Though I suspect Lord Black's hand guided more than mere chance in bringing these documents to light."

"Regulus has always understood the value of strategic patience," Lucius replied carefully. "As a member of his Traditional faction, I merely provided... encouragement when the opportunity arose."

Greengrass smiled, a thin expression that spoke of shared understanding between political veterans. "Of course. And now you seek Conservative support for tomorrow's emergency session."

"Your leadership carries considerable weight with the undecided members," Lucius acknowledged. "A formal censure requires only a simple majority, but the margin of victory will determine its long-term impact."

"Censure," Greengrass repeated thoughtfully. "Not removal."

"Dumbledore's too entrenched for removal. Too many allies, too much accumulated influence. But wounded authority is often more valuable than martyrdom." Lucius leaned forward slightly, his grey eyes intent. "A Chief Warlock who survives scandal but loses moral credibility becomes vulnerable to future challenges."

"Speaking of future challenges," Greengrass said with calculated casualness, "I've been considering my own position in the coming years. The Chief Warlock's seat, should it ever become vacant. Or perhaps even the Minister's office, when Fudge's incompetence finally catches up with him."

The request hung between them, unspoken but perfectly clear. Political support in exchange for future backing of Greengrass's ambitions.

"The Traditional faction has always valued competent leadership," Lucius said smoothly. "Lord Black would undoubtedly appreciate having allies who understand the proper order of things in positions of real authority."

"As would I appreciate having the Traditional faction's support when such opportunities arise," Greengrass replied. "Particularly in matters concerning young Potter's future. The boy carries significant political weight—the regency of House Potter, should it become necessary, would require... careful handling."

"Indeed. Potter will need advocates who understand his unique circumstances. Families with the resources and connections to protect him from further institutional failures." Lucius's tone remained carefully neutral, but the implication hung heavy between them.

Greengrass studied the photograph of Harry in his institutional uniform, those hollow green eyes staring up from the newspaper. "The Conservative faction has always supported proper pure-blood families taking responsibility for orphaned children. Particularly when the alternative is continued negligence by those who have already failed in their duty."

The two men sat in comfortable silence, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon light while the foundations of a political alliance settled around them. Tomorrow's censure was merely the opening move in a longer game, one that would ultimately determine not just Harry Potter's future, but the balance of power in magical Britain itself.

"You have my support, Lucius," Greengrass said finally. "The Conservative faction will vote as a bloc tomorrow. And when future opportunities arise, for all of us I trust the Traditional faction will remember its friends."

"Lord Black has an excellent memory for loyalty," Lucius assured him. "As do I."

The Ministry Atrium buzzed with tension that crackled through the air like lightning before a storm. Witches and wizards moved across the polished floor with quick, purposeful steps, the particular gait of people desperate to appear busy while positioning themselves close enough to catch the latest whispers. Owls circled overhead in unusual numbers, their wings beating frantically as emergency correspondence flooded in from every corner of magical Britain.

Near the golden lifts, a cluster of junior officials huddled together, their voices barely audible above the echo of footsteps on marble.

"—planning this for months, they're saying—"

"—completely lost track of the boy for over a year—"

"—how does the Chief Warlock just lose the Boy-Who-Lived?—"

The lift grilles chimed constantly as officials rushed between floors, their arms laden with sealed documents and their faces tight with barely controlled panic. On the second level, the sound of heated voices leaked from behind the heavy doors of the Minister's office, sharp exchanges punctuated by the crack of papers being slammed onto desks and the occasional curse muttered under someone's breath.

Cornelius Fudge had been in crisis session since before dawn, surrounded by advisors whose faces grew more haggard with each passing hour. Through the frosted glass windows of his office, silhouettes gestured frantically while owl-post continued to accumulate in precarious towers on every available surface.

"—need a statement within the hour—"

"—Wizengamot is demanding emergency session—"

"—Prophet journalists camping outside—"

The voices blended into a chorus of institutional terror, the sound of a government scrambling to distance itself from a failure too catastrophic to contain. In the corridors beyond, senior department heads moved with the calculated urgency of vultures positioning themselves on the correct side of a political earthquake.

At the far end of the Wizengamot level, lights burned behind doors that should have remained closed until afternoon. Inside those chambers, the machinery of magical law was already grinding into motion with inexorable bureaucratic efficiency. Clerks worked in silence, preparing documents that would reshape the balance of power in magical Britain before the sun reached its peak.

The beast of government had awakened, and it was hungry for blood.

Harry Potter sat on the edge of his narrow bed above the Leaky Cauldron, staring at the Daily Prophet spread across his knees. The newspaper felt impossibly heavy, as if the parchment had been soaked in lead rather than ink. His breakfast—toast and eggs that Tom had delivered with unusual haste and averted eyes, sat cooling on the small table beside him, untouched and forgotten.

The photograph at the top of the page drew his gaze like a wound he couldn't stop pressing. That hollow-eyed boy in institutional grey stared back at him across the months, a stranger wearing his face. Harry remembered that day with crystalline clarity. The scratchy fabric of the SCH uniform. The way the Ministry photographer had positioned him against the white wall. The taste of morning medication still coating his tongue, designed to keep him "calm and cooperative" during documentation procedures.

He remembered sitting perfectly still while they recorded evidence of his brokenness for official files.

Now those same files were spread across the front page of magical Britain's most widely read newspaper, every humiliating detail of his captivity laid bare for public consumption. Clinical descriptions of his medication schedule. Technical reports about the restraints they'd used when his magic overwhelmed their suppression attempts. Psychiatric evaluations noting his "persistent violent ideation" and "elaborate delusional systems involving supernatural abilities."

His magic. They'd called his magic a delusion.

Harry's scar throbbed with a dull, insistent ache that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. The sensation had become familiar since his arrival in the magical world, but this morning it felt sharper, more demanding. As if something was pressing against the inside of his skull, seeking entry to thoughts he couldn't spare.

He lifted a piece of toast to his mouth, bit down, and immediately regretted the attempt. The bread transformed to sawdust on his tongue, flavourless and impossible to swallow. His throat had closed up entirely, muscles locked tight against an emotion he couldn't identify. Not anger—anger would have been honest, clean. This was something colder. Something final.

Voices drifted up from the pub below, more animated than usual for this hour. Fragments of conversation leaked through the thin walls: "—can't believe they did that to him—" "—poor little thing—" "—always said there was something dodgy about Dumbledore—"

They were discussing him. All of them. Dissecting his trauma over their morning ale as if it were the latest Quidditch scores or Ministry scandal. His pain had become entertainment, his private horrors transformed into breakfast conversation for people who had known his name as legend but never as person.

Harry folded the newspaper with mechanical precision, aligning each edge until the pages formed a perfect rectangle. The photograph disappeared between the folds, but he could still feel those empty eyes watching him. That boy in the grey uniform—medicated, restrained, convinced his greatest gift was his greatest sickness, felt like both a stranger and a brother.

The small room pressed closer around him, air thick with the weight of exposure. Every detail of his captivity was now public knowledge. Every moment of helplessness had been catalogued, analysed, and served up for public judgment.

Harry stood abruptly, the folded newspaper sliding off his lap to land on the floor with a whisper of parchment against wood. He needed air. He needed space. He needed to be anywhere but trapped in this box with his own history spread out like a dissection for the entertainment of magical Britain.

His trunk stood open in the corner, still mostly empty. Hogwarts shopping. He still needed books, robes, supplies for the magical education that was supposed to be his salvation. Normal purchases for a normal student attending a normal school.

If such a thing as normal could ever exist for him again.

Diagon Alley stretched before Harry like a gauntlet he had no choice but to run. The familiar cobblestones that had seemed so magical just days before now felt treacherous beneath his feet, each step carrying him deeper into a world that suddenly knew far too much about his private pain.

The morning crowds moved with their usual purpose, witches examining cauldrons, wizards debating the merits of different owl treats, children pressing their faces against sweet shop windows. But Harry caught the glances, the subtle shifts in conversation as recognition dawned on face after face. Whispers followed in his wake like ripples spreading across still water.

"—that's him—"

"—the boy from the paper—"

"—poor thing—"

"—dangerous, though, isn't he?—"

At Flourish and Blotts, the window display had been hastily rearranged. Where towers of "Boy-Who-Lived" biographies had stood just yesterday, now only generic spellbooks remained. The shop assistant behind the counter, a nervous young witch with ink-stained fingers, recognized him immediately, her face cycling through expressions of pity, fascination, and poorly concealed fear.

"Mr. Potter," she said, her voice pitched higher than it should be. "How can we... that is... what books might you need?"

Harry handed her his Hogwarts list without meeting her eyes. The required texts were gathered with efficiency that bordered on panic, the assistant's hands shaking slightly as she wrapped each volume. But when Harry added additional requests—advanced texts on defensive magic, theoretical applications of protective charms, books that belonged in third or fourth year curricula, her nervous energy shifted to something approaching alarm.

"These are rather... advanced for a first year," she ventured, glancing at the titles with obvious concern.

"I'm a quick reader," Harry replied flatly, counting out galleons with mechanical precision.

The transaction completed in uncomfortable silence. Other customers had gradually filtered away during his shopping, leaving the normally busy store nearly empty. Harry gathered his purchases and left without looking back, the weight of the books familiar and comforting in his arms. Knowledge was power. Power was control. And control was the only protection he could trust.

At Ollivander's, the narrow shop felt heavy with dust and ancient magic. Thousands of wand boxes reached toward the ceiling in precarious towers, and the air smelled of wood polish and something indefinable that might have been power itself. When the bell above the door chimed, an elderly man emerged from the shadows between the shelves.

"Mr. Potter," Ollivander said softly, his pale eyes studying Harry's face with careful intensity. "I'm sorry."

The simple words hit Harry harder than any of the morning's whispers or stares. There was no pity in them, no sensationalism. Just genuine regret from someone who seemed to understand that apologies couldn't undo suffering.

"They'll have forgotten most of it by next year," Ollivander continued, moving to straighten a few wand boxes with practiced ease. "The public has a remarkably short attention span for other people's pain. Something new will come along to capture their interest."

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice. In a morning full of stares and whispers, this quiet acknowledgment felt like the first honest thing anyone had said to him.

"Now then," Ollivander said, his manner shifting to professional curiosity. "A wand. Let me see..." He pulled a measuring tape from his pocket, which immediately began taking Harry's measurements of its own accord. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Er—right," Harry managed.

"Hold out your arm. That's it." The tape measure worked its way along Harry's arm and around his head, measuring between his nostrils and down to his shoulder. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same."

The wand selection proceeded through box after box. Each failure brought a new attempt—holly and unicorn hair produced nothing, but a shower of sparks, oak and dragon heartstring managed only to make a lamp flicker before Ollivander snatched it away.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match. It's in here somewhere." Ollivander's eyes gleamed with professional fascination. "I wonder, now—yes, why not—unusual combination—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand, and immediately warmth spread through his fingers. When he raised it tentatively, a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, dancing around the dusty shop.

"Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very curious..."

"Sorry, but what's curious?"

Ollivander's pale eyes fixed on Harry's forehead, where his scar was hidden beneath unruly hair. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar."

Harry swallowed hard, understanding dawning. "And who owned that wand?"

"We do not speak his name! The wand chooses the wizard, remember. I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

As Harry paid for the wand in silence, Ollivander's voice stopped him at the door.

"You might also consider a wand holster, Mr. Potter. Given recent events, quick access to your wand could prove... prudent."

The dragon-hide holster was expensive but well-crafted, designed to rest against his forearm beneath his robes. As Ollivander fitted it carefully, his pale eyes met Harry's with quiet understanding.

The encounter left Harry oddly strengthened as he continued through the Alley, even as the stares and whispers resumed their familiar rhythm. At Madam Malkin's, the fitting proceeded in awkward silence, other customers finding sudden urgent business elsewhere the moment he entered. The seamstress worked with professional efficiency, but her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted his robes, and she completed the alteration with unusual haste.

It was outside the apothecary that Harry's composure finally cracked.

A middle-aged witch was examining ingredients in the shop window when her companion, a younger woman with perfectly styled robes, leaned close to whisper. But her voice carried farther than she intended.

"They say he completely crushed her, dear Merlin. Powerful wizard, that one. Dangerous, too, imagine what he could do when he's older."

The first witch shushed her urgently, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard. When her eyes met Harry's through the window, her face went pale with mortification.

Harry turned away before she could mouth an apology he didn't want to hear. The words echoed in his mind: completely crushed her. Clinical and brutal, reducing Aunt Marge's death to casual gossip exchanged over shopping.

Mad boy. Killer. Monster. Dark wizard

Harry's scar erupted in a spike of pain so sharp it sent spots dancing across his vision. The shopping bag in his left hand began to smoke, the brown paper browning at the edges where his fingers gripped too tight. Around him, shop windows rattled in their frames as his magic responded to the emotional chaos he couldn't control.

He turned and walked away, his footsteps quickening to a run as he fled back toward the Leaky Cauldron. Behind him, the whispers swelled to a crescendo, but he no longer cared what they were saying. The damage was done. The truth was out.

He was the mad boy who killed his aunt. And now everyone knew.

The Wizengamot level of the Ministry had transformed into a hive of controlled chaos by mid-afternoon. Officials moved through the corridors with the precise urgency of people who understood that political blood was in the water, and their positions in that hierarchy depended on decisions made in the next few hours.

Behind the heavy oak doors of Committee Room Seven, emergency procedures ground forward with inexorable bureaucratic momentum. The formal language of magical law was being deployed like artillery, each carefully crafted phrase designed to apply maximum pressure while maintaining the fiction of due process.

Augusta Longbottom sat at the polished table, her severe features set in lines of granite as she reviewed the preliminary documents. Across from her, Griselda Marchbanks adjusted her spectacles with hands that had presided over decades of academic examinations but never a political crisis of this magnitude.

"The protocols are clear," Marchbanks said, her voice carrying the authority of someone who had helped write half the procedures they were now implementing. "A formal censure requires only a simple majority."

"Which Lucius will have easily," Longbottom replied grimly. "After this morning's revelations, half the Wizengamot would censure Dumbledore if he proposed free sweets for orphans."

"But censure without removal," observed Tiberius Ogden from his position near the window. The elderly wizard's face was grim as he watched Ministry owls circling the building. "Dumbledore's too entrenched. Too many allies. Too much accumulated political capital."

"Exactly what will make this so damaging," Marchbanks said with something approaching satisfaction. "He'll keep his positions but lose his moral authority. A wounded giant stumbling through his remaining years."

The implications hung heavy in the air. Dumbledore would survive this—politically, anyway. But his reputation as the infallible leader of the Light would be shattered beyond repair. And in the wizarding world, reputation was often more valuable than official titles.

"There will be consequences," Longbottom observed darkly. "When people lose faith in Dumbledore's judgment about Potter, they'll start questioning his judgment about everything else."

Through the tall windows, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the chamber. Somewhere in the building below, clerks were preparing formal censure documents with the mechanical precision of people who understood that their work would wound rather than kill—and that sometimes wounds lasted longer than death.

Evening settled over London like a shroud, carrying with it the weight of a day that had reshaped the foundations of magical Britain. In the highest tower of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore sat in darkness, too exhausted to light the lamps that would illuminate his failure.

The formal summons lay open on his desk, its parchment glowing with the subtle enchantments that marked official Ministry correspondence. The language was coldly bureaucratic, each phrase chosen for maximum legal impact while maintaining the fiction of procedural neutrality.

By order of the Emergency Committee of the Wizengamot, you are hereby summoned to appear before the full assembly at nine o'clock tomorrow morning to answer allegations of gross negligence in your duties as Chief Warlock and Regent of House Potter, specifically relating to the welfare and protection of Harry James Potter. This proceeding will determine whether formal censure is warranted for dereliction of supervisory responsibilities...

The words blurred together as Dumbledore read them again, though their meaning had been clear from the first perusal. Censure, not removal. His enemies were too clever for that. He would keep his positions but lose the moral authority that made them meaningful.

Eleven years of leadership. Decades of careful political balance. A lifetime spent building trust as the protector of innocence and guardian of the Light.

All of it tarnished because he had failed one child when it mattered most.

The irony was not lost on him. He had spent years positioning himself as the protector of the innocent, the shield between darkness and light. Yet when it mattered most, when the Boy-Who-Lived had needed protection from mundane brutality rather than magical threats, Dumbledore had been utterly blind to his suffering.

Fawkes stirred on his perch, letting out a soft trill that sounded almost like mourning. Even his phoenix could sense the magnitude of this ending.

Dumbledore folded the summons with careful precision and placed it in the top drawer of his desk. Tomorrow would bring the formal conclusion to his political career. Tonight was for accepting the weight of his failures.

In a small room above the Leaky Cauldron, Harry Potter sat at the edge of his bed, staring at nothing. His Hogwarts books lay scattered across the floor where he'd dropped them, Advanced Defensive Theory mixing with Basic Potions in a chaos that mirrored the wreckage of his assumptions about the magical world.

They knew everything now. Every moment of weakness, every detail of his captivity, every humiliating attempt to convince his captors that magic was real. It was all public knowledge, dissected and analysed by people who would never understand what it meant to be broken by those who claimed to help.

His scar throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat; a constant reminder of connections he didn't understand to forces he couldn't control. Tomorrow he would go to Hogwarts. Tomorrow he would sit in classes with children who had read about his trauma over breakfast. Tomorrow he would begin the magical education that was supposed to save him.

If salvation was even possible for someone like him.

Outside his window, London settled into restless sleep while the wizarding world prepared for a trial that would determine the fate of the most powerful man in magical Britain. But Harry felt only emptiness where anger should have been, only numbness where hope had once flickered.

The boy who had defeated the Dark Lord before he could walk was learning that some victories carried prices too steep to bear.

And in the shadows between sleep and waking, something ancient and patient continued to whisper promises of power to a child who had learned that trust was just another word for betrayal.

Chapter Text

The ancient chamber of the Wizengamot stretched beneath vaulted stone ceilings that had witnessed a thousand years of magical law. Torches burned in iron sconces along walls carved with the crests of houses both living and extinct, their flames casting dancing shadows across tiers of wooden benches arranged in a vast semicircle. The air itself seemed heavy with accumulated authority, thick with the weight of decisions that had shaped the course of wizarding Britain since before Hogwarts was built.

Members filed into the chamber with the measured solemnity of ancient ritual. The Founding Houses took their places in the front tier, their traditional three votes each carrying the authority of bloodlines that had helped establish the very institution now gathered in judgment. Lord Regulus Black sat with the cold composure of nobility, his silver-streaked hair catching torchlight as he surveyed the assembly with calculating grey eyes. Beside him, Lord Cyrus Greengrass adjusted the pristine folds of his midnight-blue robes, every gesture conveying decades of political mastery.

The Great Houses filled the middle tiers, their two votes each representing centuries of accumulated wealth and influence. Lucius Malfoy moved through their ranks with fluid grace, exchanging subtle nods and meaningful glances as he positioned himself among allies who had waited years for this moment. Behind them, the Lesser Houses claimed their single votes, while the seven Department Heads took their designated section, independent voices in a chamber increasingly divided along factional lines.

At the centre of the chamber stood the Chief Warlock’s chair, raised slightly above the surrounding tiers, its dark wood polished by generations of use. The carved beasts along its arms were holdovers from an earlier age, more symbolic than functional. But the chair remained a focal point of power within the Wizengamot, a seat from which centuries of rulings had shaped magical Britain.

This morning, it sat empty. For the first time in decades, Albus Dumbledore would not preside over the proceedings.

Instead, he sat in the defendant's chair.

Acting Chief Warlock Tiberius Ogden approached the throne with visible reluctance, his elderly frame seeming diminished by the weight of temporary authority. At eighty-seven, Ogden had served in the Wizengamot longer than most members had been alive, but he had never expected to preside over the trial of his longtime colleague and friend.

"The emergency session of the Wizengamot is called to order," Ogden announced, his voice carrying clearly through the chamber despite its tremor. "We are gathered this day to consider formal charges of gross negligence brought against Chief Warlock Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore in the matter of his guardianship responsibilities toward one Harry James Potter."

The formal words echoed off ancient stone, their weight settling over the assembly like a shroud. In the defendant's chair, Dumbledore sat motionless, his hands folded calmly in his lap. Gone were the vibrant robes and twinkling demeanour that had made him a figure of warmth and wonder. Today he wore simple black, his face grave with the understanding that his political life hung in the balance.

"The accused will rise," Ogden continued, following protocols that had governed these proceedings for centuries.

Dumbledore stood slowly, his blue eyes meeting those of his peers without flinching. Even diminished, even facing disgrace, he carried himself with the dignity of someone who had spent decades wielding power responsibly. It was that very dignity that would make his fall all the more devastating.

"Albus Dumbledore," Ogden read from the formal charges, "you stand accused of gross negligence in your duty as magical guardian to Harry Potter, resulting in the systematic abuse, imprisonment, and psychological trauma of the Boy-Who-Lived. How do you answer these charges?"

The chamber held its breath. Every eye fixed on the man who had led them through two wars, who had stood as their moral compass when darkness threatened to consume their world. The man who had failed the child who saved them all.

"Not guilty," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice carrying none of its usual warmth. "Though I do not dispute the facts as presented, I contest the charge of negligence. Every decision I made was guided by my sincere belief that it would protect Harry Potter from far greater dangers."

A murmur rippled through the assembly, not surprise, but the sound of political calculations being adjusted. Dumbledore was not denying the abuse had occurred. He was not claiming ignorance of Harry's suffering. He was arguing that the suffering had been necessary.

It was, perhaps, the only defence that could save his positions while simultaneously destroying his moral authority.

Lord Regulus Black rose from his place among the Founding Houses, his movement drawing immediate attention. As leader of the Traditional faction, his words would carry enormous weight with nearly twenty allied houses.

"My Lord Chief Warlock," Regulus said, his cultured voice pitched to carry perfect authority, "if I may address the chamber."

Ogden nodded reluctantly. "The chair recognizes Lord Black."

Regulus stepped forward with the fluid grace of someone born to command attention. His grey eyes swept the chamber, measuring allies and opponents with the skill of a master politician.

"Honourable members," he began, "we gather today not in vindictiveness, but in sorrow. Albus Dumbledore has served this body with distinction for over two decades. His contributions to our world's security and stability cannot be denied. Which makes the revelations contained in yesterday's Prophet all the more devastating."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle before continuing.

"The evidence is undeniable. Harry Potter—our Boy-Who-Lived, the child who ended the darkest chapter in our recent history spent over a year imprisoned in a muggle institution. Restrained. Medicated. Treated as a madman for displaying the very abilities that saved us all from the Dark Lord’s tyranny."

Another pause, perfectly timed for maximum impact.

"Lord Dumbledore claims his decisions were made to protect young Potter. I do not question his intentions. But intentions, however noble, cannot excuse results so catastrophically harmful. A guardian who loses track of his ward for over a year is not a guardian at all. He is simply a man who has failed in the most fundamental way possible."

Regulus returned to his seat, his expression grave but satisfied. The Traditional faction's position was clear: Dumbledore had failed irredeemably, regardless of his intentions.

Lord Cyrus Greengrass rose next, his blonde hair gleaming in the torchlight as he claimed the floor with the assured confidence of someone who had spent decades building political consensus.

"Lord Chief Warlock," Greengrass said, his voice carrying the measured authority of someone accustomed to being heard, "the Conservative faction approaches this matter with heavy hearts but clear minds."

He moved to the centre of the chamber, his posture conveying reluctant duty rather than eager accusation.

"We have all read the files leaked to the Prophet. We have all seen the photographs of that hollow-eyed child in bleak clothing. We have all struggled to reconcile the Harry Potter of those documents with the Boy-Who-Lived of our collective memory."

Greengrass's voice took on a tone of profound sadness, though his eyes remained coldly calculating.

"The evidence suggests a pattern of systematic failure spanning multiple years. A monitoring system that somehow ceased to function. A guardian who somehow lost track of the most important child in magical Britain. A coverup that prioritized political embarrassment over a child's welfare."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in before delivering his conclusion.

"The Conservative faction cannot, will not excuse such failures, regardless of who committed them. If we cannot trust our leaders to protect one innocent child, how can we trust them to protect us all?"

As Greengrass returned to his seat, the political mathematics of the chamber became increasingly clear. The Traditional and Conservative factions commanded nearly seventy votes between them. Dumbledore's Liberal allies controlled perhaps forty. The seven Department Heads remained officially independent, but their independence was increasingly theoretical as the evidence mounted.

Augusta Longbottom rose from her place among the Founding Houses, her severe features set in lines of visible conflict. As one of Dumbledore's oldest allies, her words carried particular weight with the wavering members.

"My Lord Chief Warlock," she said, her voice steady despite the obvious pain behind it, "I have known Albus Dumbledore for over forty years. I have served with him and trusted him with my family's lives. Which makes this moment all the more difficult."

She straightened, radiating the quiet authority of a witch who had long since outgrown the need to prove herself.

"Yes, the evidence is damning. Yes, mistakes were made. But let us not forget the context in which those decisions were taken. Albus Dumbledore placed Harry Potter with his relatives immediately following the darkest night in our recent history. Death Eaters were still at large. You-Know-Who's supporters were seeking revenge. The safest place for the Boy-Who-Lived seemed to be hidden among muggles who shared his blood."

Her voice took on a note of passionate defence.

"When the monitoring system failed, they failed silently. When young Potter disappeared into muggle custody, he disappeared without trace. Yes, Lord Dumbledore should have detected these failures sooner. But condemning him for human limitation in an impossible situation serves no one."

Augusta returned to her seat amid murmurs of appreciation from the Liberal faction. But her defence, while heartfelt, could not erase the central fact: Harry Potter had suffered tremendously under Dumbledore's protection.

One by one, the Department Heads rose to speak. Amelia Bones of Magical Law Enforcement expressed grave concern about the Ministry's handling of the coverup. Cornelius Fudge attempted to distance his administration from any responsibility while expressing "full confidence" in the Wizengamot's judgment. Bartemius Crouch delivered a clinical analysis of the legal implications that satisfied no one while offending none.

The pattern became clear: the Department Heads would not save Dumbledore, but neither would they demand his destruction. They were Ministry loyalists first and foremost, not rebels, not reformers. If Fudge did not call for blood, neither would they.

As the morning wore on, the inevitable outcome crystallized. When Acting Chief Warlock Ogden finally called for the formal vote, the chamber settled into tense silence.

"All those in favour of formal censure?"

Wands rose throughout the chamber — first the Traditionalists, precise and unified, then the Conservatives, disciplined in their support. Several Department Heads followed, their bureaucratic instincts favouring the appearance of accountability. Even a handful of Liberal houses, swayed by the overwhelming evidence, reluctantly added their wands to the air.

"All those opposed?"

The Liberal faction's remaining wands rose in quiet defiance, but they were too few to shift the tide.
"The motion carries," Ogden said, voice flat and final. "Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore is hereby formally censured by this body for gross negligence in his guardianship duties toward Harry Potter."
The chamber erupted in muted conversation as members processed the historic moment. Dumbledore remained seated, his expression unchanged, though something fundamental had shifted in his bearing. He was still Chief Warlock. He retained his positions and authority. But the myth of his infallibility, the thing that made him more than a politician had been broken open for all to see.

As the assembly began to disperse, Lord Regulus Black caught Lord Cyrus Greengrass's eye across the chamber. A slight nod passed between them, acknowledgment of a battle won and a war begun. Today they had wounded Dumbledore's authority. Tomorrow they would begin positioning themselves to inherit it.

The ancient chamber slowly emptied, leaving only the echo of footsteps on stone and the lingering weight of justice served and power preserved.

Harry Potter sat on the narrow bed in his room above the Leaky Cauldron, staring at nothing. The sounds of London filtered through his window—distant traffic, occasional voices, the mundane bustle of a world that continued spinning regardless of wizarding politics. He had made no attempt to follow the Wizengamot proceedings, had felt no curiosity about the outcome of his own case.

What was the point? They would decide what they decided, and he would live with the consequences. His opinion had never mattered before. Why should it matter now?

The morning passed in listless solitude. Harry made no effort to eat the breakfast Tom had left outside his door. He ignored the sounds of increased activity in the pub below, voices more animated than usual, conversations that seemed to carry an undercurrent of excitement or satisfaction.

It was nearly noon when someone slid a copy of the Daily Prophet under his door.

Harry stared at the newspaper for several minutes before finally reaching for it. The headline dominated the front page in letters that seemed to pulse with vindication: "DUMBLEDORE CENSURED: Wizengamot Finds Chief Warlock Guilty of 'Gross Negligence' in Potter Case."

Below the headline, a photograph showed Dumbledore sitting in what the caption identified as "the defendant's chair" a piece of furniture Harry hadn't known existed. The old man's face was grave, stripped of its usual grandfatherly warmth. He looked like what he was: a politician facing the consequences of a catastrophic failure.

Harry read the article with growing numbness. The reporter, Rita Skeeter again had covered the proceedings with obvious relish, detailing each speech, each vote, each moment of Dumbledore's public humiliation. The political manoeuvring was laid bare in clinical detail: the Traditional faction's coordinated attack, the Conservative bloc's calculated support, the Liberal allies' futile defence.

"Lord Regulus Black delivered what observers called a 'devastating but respectful' condemnation of the Chief Warlock's failures, while Lord Cyrus Greengrass expressed the 'profound disappointment' of the Conservative faction. The final vote was decisive: 89 in favor of censure, 41 opposed, with 9 abstentions."

But it was the final paragraph that hit Harry like a physical blow:

"Despite the historic censure, Chief Warlock Dumbledore will retain all his positions and authority. The Wizengamot voted against removal, citing his 'decades of distinguished service' and the 'institutional disruption' that would result from his departure. Dumbledore emerged from the chamber without comment, though sources suggest he remains committed to his duties despite this unprecedented rebuke."

Harry set the newspaper aside with trembling hands. They had found Dumbledore guilty. They had publicly condemned his failures. They had acknowledged, in the most formal way possible, that Harry had suffered terribly under his protection.

And then they had let him keep everything.

The man who had abandoned Harry to abuse retained his power. The system that had failed so catastrophically continued unchanged. The politicians who had spent the morning expressing outrage over Harry's treatment had ensured that nothing meaningful would be done about it.

Harry's scar began to throb with a familiar ache, but for the first time, the pain felt almost welcome. It was honest, at least. More honest than the Wizengamot's theatre of justice, more honest than Dumbledore's claims of protection, more honest than the entire magical world's pretence of caring about his welfare.

He lay back on the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling, processing the day's revelations with the cold clarity of someone who had learned not to expect fairness from the world. The wizarding world was no different from the muggle one, it seemed. Power protected power. The connected looked after their own. And children like him, famous or not remained pawns in games played by their betters.

The only difference was that here, the games weren’t different, only dressed in robes and ritual. Magic masked the same transactions: power bought, alliances traded, votes counted like coin in a merchant’s hand.

Outside his window, London continued its indifferent progress toward evening. And in a small room above a magical pub, Harry Potter began to understand that salvation would not come from institutions that had already failed him.

If he wanted power enough to protect himself, he would have to find it elsewhere.

In the gathering dusk, something cold and patient stirred in the shadows of his mind, whispering promises of strength to a boy who had finally learned that justice was just another word for political theatre.

And for the first time since learning he was a wizard, Harry found himself listening.

Chapter Text

The ancient tome lay open across Harry's knees, its leather binding cracked with age and its pages yellowed by centuries of careful study. Magical Traditions and Seasonal Observances had cost him nearly twenty galleons at a dusty shop in Knockturn Alley, a place he'd discovered during one of his increasingly frequent escapes from the Leaky Cauldron. The book's weight felt substantial in his hands, heavy with knowledge that no first-year curriculum would ever touch.

"The wheel of seasons governs more than weather in the magical world," Harry read, his finger tracing lines of text that seemed to pulse with hidden meaning. "Each turning marks a shift in the very fabric of magical power, creating opportunities for rituals and workings that would be impossible at other times."

He turned the page, finding detailed descriptions of ceremonies that made his pulse quicken with their implications.

Samhain—The Thinning. When the veil between worlds grew weak and necromantic magic reached its peak. Ancient families gathered in candlelit chambers to commune with their dead, while the Ministry discretely increased patrols to monitor the "darker practices" that flourished under the October moon.

Yule—The Binding. The winter solstice brought power to oaths and contracts, when magical promises carried the weight of soul-deep compulsion. Sacred fires burned in ancient hearths while pure-blood families renewed their ancestral commitments.

Beltane—The Stirring. Spring's return awakened wandless magic and primal power, when fertility rites and restoration spells reached their peak potency. The book noted that Auror oversight increased dramatically during Beltane week due to "traditional excesses."

Summer Solstice—The Unveiling. When truth-telling magic flowed strongest and magical duels carried the most honor. The book described elaborate ceremonies where ancient grudges were settled by wand and will.

Harry absorbed each description with hungry attention, recognizing the depth and complexity of a world that made muggle society seem painfully shallow by comparison. Here was power that acknowledged its own darkness, traditions that embraced both creation and destruction as necessary forces.

The summer weeks had passed in intensive study. His trunk lay packed nearby, filled with his Hogwarts supplies and the additional books he'd purchased. The basic spells he'd practiced in his room came easier now, though he was careful to keep his magic quiet.

Today was September first. Today, everything would change.

Platform 9¾ stretched before Harry like a gateway to his future. The magical barrier had yielded to his approach without resistance, accepting him into the hidden world with smooth efficiency. He'd arrived early, wanting to avoid the crowds, and found the platform nearly empty except for station staff preparing for the day's departure.

The Hogwarts Express sat gleaming on the tracks, a magnificent scarlet engine that seemed to pulse with barely contained magic. Steam rose from its chimney in spirals that formed briefly recognizable shapes before dissolving into ordinary vapor. Harry felt his chest tighten with anticipation.

As families began arriving through the barrier, Harry watched parents hug their children goodbye while loading trunks and owl cages. He saw a mother kiss her son's forehead before sending him off with homemade sweets, and felt a familiar hollow ache that he quickly pushed aside.

He found an empty compartment near the middle of the train and settled by the window with one of his books. The platform grew busier as departure time approached, but no one seemed to notice the quiet boy reading alone.

The train's whistle sounded, sharp and commanding, and the Hogwarts Express began its journey north. Harry watched London disappear outside his window, replaced gradually by countryside that grew wilder with each passing mile.

The compartment door slid open about an hour into the journey. A pale boy with sleek blond hair stood in the doorway, his expensive robes and confident bearing marking him as pure-blood nobility.

"Mind if I sit?" the boy asked politely. "Most of the other compartments are full of first-years making an awful racket."

Harry looked up from his book. "Of course. I'm Harry Potter."

The boy's eyebrows rose slightly as he settled across from Harry. "Draco Malfoy. Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise."

Draco glanced at the book in Harry's hands. "Light reading for the train ride?"

Harry closed Defensive Magic and Its Applications and set it aside. "Just trying to prepare. I'm... behind on a lot of things."

"Because of the muggles?" Draco's tone carried casual disgust. "I heard about that. Dreadful business, leaving you with those creatures."

Harry felt the familiar tightness in his chest. "It wasn't ideal."

"I should think not. Father says it was typical Dumbledore, all grand gestures and good intentions, never mind the actual consequences." Draco shook his head. "The old fool probably thought he was being noble, placing you with 'loving family.' As if muggles could understand what they were dealing with."

Something in Harry's chest loosened. Finally, someone who understood. "They didn't."

"Of course they didn't. Muggles can barely manage their own affairs, let alone raise a wizard." Draco's voice carried the certainty of someone stating obvious facts. "They probably tried to suppress your magic, didn't they? Beat it out of you?"

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Barbaric," Draco said with genuine anger. "That's what you get when you ignore proper protocols. There are ancient laws about magical children, families who would have taken you in properly. But Dumbledore thought he knew better."

The validation felt like a warm wave washing over Harry. For months, he'd wondered if his anger was justified, if maybe the adults really had been trying to help him. To hear someone else, someone who understood the magical world confirm that his treatment had been wrong...

"Don't worry though," Draco continued with a slight smile. "You're where you belong now. We'll help you catch up on everything you missed."

Before Harry could respond, voices outside the compartment announced new arrivals. The door slid open to reveal two more children, a girl with dark hair and a pug-like face, and a boy with brown hair and watchful dark eyes.

"Draco!" the girl exclaimed, practically bouncing into the compartment. "There you are! We've been looking everywhere for you."

"Pansy, Theodore," Draco greeted warmly. "Come in, meet my new friend."

The boy, Theodore studied Harry with obvious curiosity as they settled into the remaining seats. "Friend?"

"Harry Potter," Draco said with evident satisfaction at their shocked expressions. "Harry, meet Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott."

"The Harry Potter?" Pansy asked, eyes wide. "Really?"

"The same," Harry said quietly, already uncomfortable with the attention.

Theodore was still studying him with those dark, calculating eyes. "Weren't you raised by muggles?"

The question carried a weight Harry didn't understand, but Draco answered before he could. "He was. Another one of Dumbledore's brilliant ideas."

"That's horrible," Pansy said with genuine sympathy. "What were they like?"

Harry hesitated, then decided on honesty. "Awful. They hated magic, hated me. Tried to make me... normal."

"Tried to break you, you mean," Theodore said quietly. "That's what muggles do when they encounter real power. They try to destroy it."

"Because they're jealous," Pansy added matter-of-factly. "They hate us 'cause we’ve got magic and they don’t. It’s like watching pigs oink at a lion."

The casual way they spoke about muggle inferiority should have bothered Harry more than it did. But after years of abuse at muggle hands, their words felt like vindication rather than prejudice.

"Well, you're safe now," Draco said firmly. "Hogwarts will be different. You'll see what it's like to be around proper wizarding families."

"Want to play Exploding Snap?" Pansy asked suddenly, pulling out a deck of cards. "It's much more fun than muggle card games."

"I don't know how," Harry admitted.

"Perfect! We'll teach you," she said enthusiastically. "It's easy once you get the hang of it."

As they explained the rules and began to play, Harry found himself relaxing for the first time in months. These children didn't look at him with pity or fear. They didn't treat him like he was broken or dangerous. They just... accepted him.

"Watch out for the red ones," Theodore warned as Harry reached for a card. "They're the trickiest."

Harry grinned as his card exploded harmlessly, singing his fingertips. "I'll remember that."

"You're getting it!" Pansy said cheerfully. "I knew you would. It's probably in your blood, Potters were never slow with magic, that’s for sure."

"Do you know much about my family?" Harry asked, curious.

"Some," Draco said. "Your father went to school with our parents. From what I've heard, he was... well, he had potential. Shame about the choices he made."

"What choices?"

"Oh, you know. The friends he kept, the side he chose in the war." Draco waved a hand dismissively. "But that's all in the past. What matters is what you do now."

The train rolled north while they taught him Wizard’s Chess, the pieces shouting and smashing one another with gleeful brutality. They passed chocolate frogs between them, and Harry watched, wide-eyed, as the card figures twitched and blinked. With each story they told, each game they played, the tightness in his chest eased.

"You'll love Slytherin," Pansy said confidently as they neared their destination. "It's where the important families go. People who understand that blood matters."

"Blood matters?" Harry asked.

"Of course," Theodore said seriously. "Old blood’s stronger. That’s why families like mine don’t mix with just anyone. That's why proper wizarding families keep careful records, marry within their class. It preserves what makes us better."

"What makes us better than muggles," Draco added with a slight smile.

The train began to slow as Hogsmeade Station came into view. As they gathered their belongings, Pansy grabbed Harry's arm excitedly.

"This is going to be brilliant," she said. "You'll see, with the right friends, Hogwarts will be everything you've dreamed of."

As Harry followed them off the train, he caught his reflection in the window. The hollow-eyed boy from the institutional photographs was gone, replaced by someone who might actually belong somewhere.

For the first time in his life, Harry Potter felt like he was coming home. Home. The word echoed strangely in his mind, sweet, but sharp around the edges. He didn’t trust it. But he wanted to.
And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The boats glided across the black lake like silent sentinels, their lanterns casting dancing reflections on the dark water. Harry sat between Draco and Theodore in their small vessel, trying to focus on his friends' excited chatter rather than the growing knot of anxiety in his stomach.

Hagrid occupied the lead boat, his massive frame making the vessel look almost comically small. "Everyone still with me?" he called back cheerfully. "Won't be long now!"

The man was enormous, easily twice the size of Vernon Dursley, with wild hair and beard that seemed to swallow half his face. When his beetle-black eyes found Harry's across the water, they crinkled with unmistakable warmth.

"Good ter see yeh, Harry," Hagrid had said when collecting the first years from the train. "I'm Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

Harry had mumbled a greeting, struck by the man's obvious kindness but keeping his guard up. Adults who seemed nice had disappointed him before.

As they glided across the dark water, Hogwarts Castle came into view around a bend, and Harry's breath caught in his throat. Towering spires reached toward the star-filled sky, countless windows glowed with warm golden light, and the ancient stones seemed to pulse with centuries of accumulated magic. It was beautiful beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

But even as wonder filled his chest, Harry found himself cataloguing defensive positions, the height of the walls, thin, vertical windows that didn’t look made for letting in light, the way the approach forced visitors into a vulnerable position on the water. Institutional trauma ran deep, and even magical splendour couldn't silence the voice that whispered about escape routes and potential threats.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Pansy said softly beside him, misreading his tactical assessment as simple awe.

"It's incredible," Harry replied honestly, though his wonder was tempered by wariness.

Around them, other first years chattered excitedly about the castle, about their hopes for house placement, about the adventures that awaited them. Harry caught fragments of whispered conversations, his name mentioned more than once, sometimes with curiosity, sometimes with fear. He moved closer to Draco and Theodore, drawing comfort from their familiar presence as they approached the massive oak doors.

Professor McGonagall met them in a small chamber off the entrance hall, her stern face and perfect posture radiating authority. Harry recognized her from the Prophet coverage of his case—she'd been quoted defending Dumbledore during the political scandal.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she began, her voice carrying easily through the nervous crowd. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts."

Family. The word hit Harry harder than it should have. He'd never had a real family, never experienced the unconditional support the word was supposed to represent. But maybe, just maybe, he could find something like it here.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin," McGonagall continued. "Each house has its own noble history, and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honour."

Harry noticed how her gaze lingered on him for just a moment longer than the others, her expression unreadable. Did she pity him? Fear him? He couldn't tell, and the uncertainty made his stomach twist.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

As McGonagall left to prepare the Great Hall, nervous energy filled the small chamber. Students adjusted their robes, smoothed their hair, and whispered anxiously about the sorting process. Harry found himself the focus of many sidelong glances, and he heard his name mentioned in hushed conversations that died abruptly when he looked in their direction.

"Don't mind them," Draco said quietly, noticing Harry's discomfort. "They're just curious. Most of them have never met someone actually famous."

"Famous for the wrong reasons," Harry muttered.

When McGonagall returned, she led them through enormous double doors into the Great Hall, and Harry's breath caught once again. The space was impossibly vast, with four long tables stretching across the stone floor and hundreds of candles floating overhead like captured stars. The ceiling showed the night sky in perfect detail, stars twinkling against deep purple darkness.

But it was the people that made Harry's stomach drop. Hundreds of students filled the house tables, all turning to stare at the incoming first years. All staring at him. The weight of their attention pressed down like a physical force, making his chest tight and his palms sweaty.

At the far end of the hall sat the High Table, where the professors watched the proceedings with varying degrees of interest. And there, in the centre chair that could only belong to the headmaster, sat Albus Dumbledore.

Harry's brief moment of wonder curdled into bitter anger. There he was—the man who had abandoned Harry to the Dursleys, who had lost track of him entirely, who had sat in comfort while Harry suffered in penal darkness. Dumbledore's eyes found his across the hall, those famous blue eyes twinkling with what might have been warmth or sadness or regret. Harry looked away quickly, his jaw clenched with resentment he couldn't voice.

McGonagall placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years and set upon it an ancient, patched wizard's hat. The hall fell silent, and then, impossibly the hat opened what might have been a mouth and began to sing.

Harry barely heard the song about the four houses and their founders. His attention was consumed by the hundreds of eyes watching him, by whispered conversations he could catch fragments of from nearby tables. "That's him." "The one from the Prophet." "Heard he killed someone." "With magic." "He looks so young."

The sick feeling in his stomach intensified. This was his worst nightmare—being the centre of attention, having his private trauma discussed like entertainment, being judged by people who knew nothing about what he'd endured.

When the hat finished its song, McGonagall unrolled a long parchment. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted."

"Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl stumbled forward, put on the hat, and after a moment's pause was declared "HUFFLEPUFF!" The Hufflepuff table erupted in cheers as Hannah rushed to join them.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

The names continued, each sorting bringing fresh cheers from the relevant house table. Harry watched with growing dread as the alphabet progressed toward P. His hands were shaking now, and he felt like he might be sick.

"Granger, Hermione!"

A bushy-haired girl hurried forward, looking almost as nervous as Harry felt. The hat deliberated for nearly a minute before calling out "GRYFFINDOR!" The red and gold table welcomed her enthusiastically.

More names followed. "Goyle, Gregory!" became a Slytherin, lumbering toward the green and silver table with obvious relief.

"Lestrange, Lyra!"

A tall girl with long black hair and violet eyes walked forward with careful composure. The moment her name was called, a ripple of whispers swept through the Great Hall. Harry saw students at the Gryffindor table lean toward each other, their expressions shifting from curiosity to something colder. Even some of the Hufflepuffs looked uncomfortable.

"Lestrange?" someone hissed from the Ravenclaw table. "As in Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"The Death Eater spawn," another voice whispered.

The girl—Lyra kept her chin high as she approached the stool, but Harry could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands clenched slightly at her sides. She knew exactly what they were thinking.

The hat took longer with her than it had with most students. Finally, after what felt like an eternity: "SLYTHERIN!"

The green and silver table cheered, but their enthusiasm was notably more subdued than it had been for other new housemates. Harry noticed that while the Slytherins clapped politely, many students from other houses exchanged meaningful looks or whispered behind their hands.

"Longbottom, Neville!"

A round-faced boy who looked terrified approached the stool. The hat took a long time with him too, and Harry found himself silently hoping the boy would find where he belonged. Finally: "GRYFFINDOR!" Neville looked relieved as he stumbled toward his new house.

"Malfoy, Draco!"

Draco walked forward with confidence, and the hat had barely touched his head before declaring "SLYTHERIN!" The green and silver table erupted in approval, and Draco shot Harry a reassuring look before joining his new housemates.

More names. "Parkinson, Pansy!" became another Slytherin. "Patil, Padma!" went to Ravenclaw. "Patil, Parvati!" to Gryffindor.

And then: "Potter, Harry!"

The Great Hall fell completely silent. Even the ghosts seemed to pause in their eternal wandering. Harry's legs felt like water as he walked toward the stool, every eye in the hall fixed on him with an intensity that made his skin crawl. The whispers that followed him were like physical blows.

He sat on the stool and McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on his head. It was too large and slipped down over his eyes, blocking out the staring faces but not the weight of their attention.

Then a small voice spoke inside his head.

"Well, well, well. Harry Potter. I've been most curious to meet you."

Harry said nothing, too overwhelmed to form coherent thoughts.

"Fascinating mind you have. So much knowledge crammed in there, you've been studying hard, haven't you? Trying to catch up, trying to understand this world that was kept from you. Yes, I see the hunger for learning, the thirst for knowledge that runs deeper than mere curiosity."

Ravenclaw, Harry thought desperately. Anything but the spotlight.

"Ravenclaw would suit you well," the hat mused. "That brilliant mind, that love of learning for its own sake. You could find peace there, among those who value knowledge above all else. Yes, Ravenclaw would be safe."

But even as the hat spoke, Harry's mind drifted to the train journey. Draco's easy acceptance. Pansy's enthusiastic friendship. Theodore's gradual approval. They were the only people who had shown him genuine kindness since he'd entered the magical world. They were sitting at the Slytherin table now, waiting for him.

"Ah, but loyalty calls to you as well. Not the blind loyalty of Hufflepuff, but something more complex. These children who accepted you, who validated your anger, who offered friendship without judgment. They're all in Slytherin, aren't they?"

Yes, Harry thought. They were kind to me.

"Kindness is rare and precious, especially for one who has known so little of it." The hat's voice grew thoughtful, almost sad. "But I sense something else in you, child. Something that stirs in the shadows of your mind. Pain and anger, yes, but deeper than that. A hunger not just for knowledge, but for power. For control. For the strength to ensure you are never helpless again."

Harry's breath hitched. The hat could see too much, understood too well.

"You have been broken in ways that will take years to heal, if they ever heal at all. And in those broken places, darkness can take root. I see the potential for greatness in you, Harry Potter, but also the potential for something far more dangerous."

What are you saying?

"I am saying that Slytherin would give you what you seek—the friends who have shown you kindness, the power you crave, the tools to ensure your own protection. But it may also nurture aspects of yourself that you do not yet understand. There are choices ahead of you, child, and not all of them will be easy."

Harry thought of Dumbledore sitting at the High Table, of the adults who had failed him, of the institutions that had tried to break him. Then he thought of Draco and Pansy and Theodore, waiting for him at the Slytherin table.

I want to be with my friends.

"Yes," the hat said softly, and Harry could hear something like resignation in its voice. "Yes, I thought you might. Very well then. Though I hope you will remember, in the years to come, that the choices we make in darkness often determine whether we find our way back to the light."

The hat paused, as if giving Harry one last chance to change his mind.

"Better be... SLYTHERIN!"

The last word echoed through the Great Hall, and for a moment there was stunned silence. Then the Slytherin table erupted in cheers, and Harry pulled off the hat with shaking hands. As he walked toward the green and silver banner, he caught a glimpse of Dumbledore's face. The headmaster's expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes seemed dimmer somehow, the famous twinkle noticeably absent. A small frown creased his brow as he watched Harry take his seat among the Slytherins.

The Slytherin table welcomed Harry with enthusiasm that felt both overwhelming and wonderful. Draco clapped him on the back as he sat down, grinning broadly.

"I knew it!" Draco said. "Welcome to the best house at Hogwarts."

But the attention wasn't limited to his new housemates. Students from other tables kept glancing over, whispering behind their hands. A group of older Gryffindors were staring openly, their expressions ranging from curiosity to suspicion. Even some of the professors seemed to be watching him with renewed interest.

"So it's true then?" asked an older Slytherin student with dark hair and a prefect's badge. "You really killed your muggle relatives?"

The question hit Harry like a physical blow. His throat closed up, and the sick feeling in his stomach intensified. Around him, more Slytherins leaned in, eager for details about his notorious past.

"Was it intentional?" asked another student. "Did you mean to do it?"

"What was it like?" pressed a third. "Using magic like that?"

"How much for the memory?" someone further down the table called, half-joking but with an edge of genuine interest. "We could bottle it in a Pensieve, bet it’d fetch a fortune from the right collector."

Harry’s stomach turned. The idea of that night—of the smell, the shouting, the sudden silence, being passed around like a novelty made his skin crawl. His hands clenched under the table until his knuckles ached.

Harry opened his mouth but no words came out. The questions kept coming, each one feeling like a probe into wounds that hadn't finished healing. His hands started shaking again, and his vision seemed to tunnel. Too many people, too many questions, too much attention.

Just as Harry thought he might actually be sick, a clear voice cut through the interrogation.

"That's enough," said a girl with long black hair and violet eyes, her tone carrying surprising authority for a first year. "Can't you see he doesn't want to talk about it? Leave him alone."

The older students looked momentarily annoyed but backed off, turning their attention to the sorting ceremony still continuing at the front of the hall. Harry shot the girl a grateful look, though he couldn't manage to speak. She had recognized his distress when no one else had, had stepped in to protect him without being asked.

Thank you, he thought, though he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud.

"Weasley, Ronald!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Zabini, Blaise!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

As the sorting concluded and Dumbledore rose to address the school, Harry tried to focus on the headmaster's words. But his mind kept drifting to the girl who had protected him, to the uncomfortable questions about his past, to the weight of hundreds of eyes that had watched his every move.

"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

Food appeared on the golden plates, and conversation resumed around the hall. But Harry found he had little appetite, despite the magical feast spread before him. He picked at his food while listening to his new housemates discuss Quidditch, professors, and house rivalries.

"First years don't usually get this much attention," observed Theodore quietly, sliding into the seat beside Harry. "You'll probably want to keep a low profile for a while."

"Bit late for that," Harry muttered, gesturing vaguely at the hall where students from other tables were still stealing glances at him.

"It'll die down," Pansy said confidently from across the table. "Something else will become interesting soon enough. Just stick with us and you'll be fine."

As the feast wound down, a tall, dark-haired student with a prefect's badge stood up from the Slytherin table.

"Right then, first years, follow me," he called. "Time to see your new home."

The Slytherin common room was everything Harry had hoped for and nothing like what he'd feared. Located in the dungeons beneath the castle, it felt secure rather than oppressive, with thick stone walls that muffled outside noise and green-tinted light that filtered through windows looking out into the lake. Comfortable armchairs were arranged around a large fireplace, and tapestries bearing the Slytherin serpent hung from the walls.

"Welcome to Slytherin House," the prefect said, addressing the group of new first years. "I'm Marcus Flint, seventh year and Quidditch captain. The password to enter the common room changes every two weeks, this fortnight it's 'pure blood.' Don't share it with students from other houses."

He gestured around the common room with obvious pride. "This is where you'll spend most of your free time. Study tables are along the far wall, and those alcoves have privacy charms if you need quiet for important conversations. The dormitories are through those doors—girls to the left, boys to the right."

Flint's eyes found Harry in the small group. "Potter, isn't it? You'll be in the first-year dormitory with Malfoy, Nott, Zabini, Goyle and Crabbe.

A stocky seventh year with a cruel face stepped forward. "I'm Adrian Pucey. A few house rules you need to understand. First, loyalty to Slytherin comes before everything else. We protect our own, but we expect the same in return. Second, don't bring shame on the house. Your actions reflect on all of us. Third, respect the hierarchy. Older students have earned their positions."

"And finally," added a sharp-faced girl with a prefect badge, "understand that Slytherin values ambition, cunning, and resourcefulness. We're not like the other houses. We don't coddle weakness or celebrate mediocrity. If you're here, it's because you have potential. Don't waste it."

As the older students continued explaining house traditions and expectations, Harry felt a strange sense of homecoming. These weren't the gentle platitudes about friendship and courage he might have heard in Gryffindor. This was honest talk about power, loyalty, and achievement. It resonated with someone who had learned early that the world was divided into those who controlled and those who were controlled.

"First years, time for bed," Flint announced as the evening wound down. "You've got a full schedule tomorrow, and you'll need your rest."

The boys' dormitory was a circular room with five four-poster beds hung with green curtains. Harry's trunk sat at the foot of one bed, and he realized with relief that he was between Draco and Theodore, familiar faces in this new environment.

"Not bad, is it?" Draco said as they began unpacking. "Wait until you see the view from the windows in the morning. You can watch the giant squid swimming around."

"Giant squid?" Harry asked.

"Lives in the lake," Theodore explained. "Harmless, mostly. Sometimes the older students feed it."

As Harry changed into his pyjamas and settled into his new bed, he reflected on the day's events. The sorting had been terrifying, but he was here now, surrounded by people who had accepted him. The girl, he still didn't know her name had protected him when he needed it most. Even the older Slytherins, for all their talk of hierarchy and ambition, seemed genuinely welcoming.

For the first time in years, Harry Potter fell asleep feeling like he might actually belong somewhere.

And if the Sorting Hat's cryptic warnings echoed in his dreams, well, he was too exhausted to give them much thought. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new lessons, and new opportunities to prove himself worthy of the house that had chosen him.

The serpent had claimed him as its own. Now he would learn what that truly meant.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the sound of water lapping against glass. For a moment, disorientation clouded his thoughts as green-tinted light filtered through the dormitory windows, creating shifting patterns on the stone walls. Then memory returned, warm and strange — he was at Hogwarts, in Slytherin House, not in a cupboard or the narrow cot of a penal home, but in a four-poster bed.

The relief was immediate and overwhelming.

"Morning, Potter," Theodore said quietly from the next bed, already half-dressed in his school robes. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in years," Harry admitted, pulling back his hangings. It was true—no nightmares, no hypervigilance keeping him awake, just deep, restful sleep surrounded by the comforting sounds of his dormmates beginning their day.

Draco was already at the washstand, attempting to tame his pale hair into perfect submission. "Excited for your first proper day of classes?" he asked, catching Harry's eye in the mirror.

"Nervous," Harry said honestly, pulling on his robes and checking that his wand was secure in the holster he'd purchased. "What if I'm terrible at everything?"

"You won’t be," Draco said without hesitation, still coaxing his hair into perfect order. “Besides, we’ll all have the same schedule, first years stick together.”

The Great Hall buzzed with morning energy as students filled the long house tables for breakfast. Harry followed his friends to the Slytherin table, still marvelling at the floating candles and enchanted ceiling that showed a crisp September sky. Everything about Hogwarts felt magical in a way that made his chest tighten with wonder.

An older girl in immaculate robes approached, a stack of folded parchments in her hands. The silver-and-green Slytherin crest on her chest gleamed in the candlelight, overlaid with a smaller golden badge that marked her as Head Girl. She moved with measured composure, as though the noise and bustle of the Hall simply bent around her.

“First-years,” she said, her tone clipped but calm. She set a timetable in front of each of them with precise movements, her eyes flicking briefly over each face.

When she had finished, she straightened. “I expect Slytherin will hold the top marks this year.” She was speaking to them all, but Harry noticed — with a faint, disquieting certainty that she was looking straight at him when she said it.

Without waiting for a reply, she turned to leave. As she passed, she gave Lyra a small, almost imperceptible nod, one that Lyra returned with a cool ease that suggested familiarity. Harry’s eyes followed her for a moment longer than he meant to. There was a weight to the way she carried herself, the kind that made people take notice without quite knowing why.

“That was Gemma Fawley,” Draco said once she was out of earshot. “Head Girl. Father says to stay on her good side.”

“Double Transfiguration with the Gryffindors this morning,” Theodore noted, spearing a slice of toast. “Potions after lunch, also with the Gryffindors. McGonagall’s supposed to be brilliant but strict. They say she can turn into a cat.”

“That part’s true,” Draco said. “I’ve heard she does it first thing, just to see if anyone’s paying attention.”

Harry absorbed this with a quiet nod, trying not to think about how far behind he might be despite all his summer reading. The theory was there, but theory wasn’t the same as standing in a classroom with a wand in hand.

“You’ll be fine,” Pansy said, nudging his shoulder.

The Transfiguration classroom was bright and orderly; rows of desks set in perfect alignment. Sunlight streamed in from high, arched windows, catching the dust motes in slow spirals. At the front sat a small tabby cat, its amber eyes unblinking as it watched the first-years file in.

The door shut with a soft click. The cat leapt down, landing with a soundless grace — and in the blink of an eye, the air rippled. Where the cat had been, Professor McGonagall now stood in emerald robes, her hair drawn back into a severe bun.

“Transfiguration is among the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will study,” she said without preamble. “Anyone attempting to experiment in my class will leave and will not return.”

Her gaze swept the room, cool and precise, before she began outlining the theory: the importance of visualisation, the balance between intention and magical stability, the exactness of wand work. “You must see the transformation as inevitable,” she said, “not merely possible. If you picture only part of it, you will achieve only part of it and partial transformations can be hazardous.”

She moved along the rows, placing a small wooden match on each desk.

“Your first task is to turn this match into a needle. The incantation is Permuto, from the Latin permūtāre, meaning ‘to change or exchange.’ The wand movement is a sharp upward flick, followed by a single counterclockwise circle. Maintain the shape and size but change the substance entirely. Begin.”

The room filled with quiet incantations and the soft tap of wood on desks. Matches quivered, shimmered faintly, but most stubbornly remained wooden.

Harry studied his match. He imagined the pale wood stretching, narrowing, its texture smoothing into cool metal. He pictured the gleam of silver, the perfect point sharp enough to pierce fabric. The image in his mind was solid, complete.

“Permuto,” he murmured, his wrist steady.

The match shimmered, warped, and became a perfect silver needle that caught the light like a sliver of ice.

McGonagall, passing his desk, paused. She lifted the needle, examining it from tip to eye.

“Very precise control for a first attempt, Mr. Potter. Five points to Slytherin.”

From two rows ahead, Hermione Granger’s head snapped up. Her eyes flicked to the needle, then back to her own match. She tried again, and again, but her match only grew a faint silvery sheen before reverting to wood with a faint pop.

Harry repeated the spell, producing a second needle identical to the first.

A few minutes later, a soft metallic ping sounded from the far side of the room. Lyra Lestrange sat back, her wand lowering as a flawless needle gleamed on her desk. She glanced at Harry, meeting his eyes for a fraction of a second before turning her attention to McGonagall.

Hermione’s gaze shifted between them, first Harry, then Lyra before she bent over her desk with renewed, almost aggressive focus. The wooden match in front of her stubbornly refused to cooperate.

When McGonagall called time, Harry had a neat row of identical needles, Lyra had one perfect example, and Hermione’s desk held only a half-transformed match with a blunt, silvery tip.

The dungeon classroom was cool and shadowed, lit by wall-mounted torches whose flames wavered in the faint draught. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with jars of preserved things floating in viscous liquid — pale roots with too many tendrils, translucent organs that looked almost human, coils of something serpentine pressed against the glass. The torchlight made their shadows writhe across the stone.

The air was dense with layered scents: dried herbs, acrid chemicals, and a faint metallic tang that made Harry think — uncomfortably of blood and disinfectant.

He chose a seat at the very back, where the wall protected his back and the whole room was in view. The Slytherins filled the right side of the benches, the Gryffindors the left, the divide instinctive and absolute. Daphne Greengrass sat to his left, already unpacking her cauldron and arranging her tools in a tidy line, each item angled the same way.

The door banged open. Professor Snape swept in, black robes billowing in his wake, his presence pulling the air taut.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” he began, voice low and deliberate, carrying to every corner. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I do not expect you to truly appreciate the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron, the delicate power of liquids that can creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…”

Harry listened, noting the weight in Snape’s phrasing. Potions, the way he spoke of them, weren’t simply recipes, they were living things to be coaxed or commanded.

Snape unrolled a sheet of parchment and began calling names.

“Potter,” he said at last, without looking up.

“Here, sir.”

Only then did Snape raise his head, fixing Harry with deliberate precision.
“Ah yes… our new celebrity.”

The room stilled.

“Tell me, Potter… What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

“The Draught of Living Death, sir. A powerful sleeping potion.”

“Correct. Now, name two uses for crushed moonseed pods.”

Harry didn’t blink. “Mixed with hellebore, they form the base for Wolfsbane. Ground into a paste with salamander blood, they’re an antidote for certain venom-based hexes.”

A faint arch of Snape’s brow. “And if fluxweed is harvested under the wrong moon phase?”

“It loses potency. In potions where fluxweed is the binding agent, the effect can collapse entirely — or backfire.”

“Indeed. What would you do,” Snape continued, “if your brewing partner added too much hellebore?”

Harry paused only briefly. “Add powdered firefly thorax to neutralise the excess, then triple-filter the base before reheating.”

Daphne’s quill stopped mid-note. She didn’t look at him, but the smallest flicker of approval touched her expression before she resumed writing.

Snape’s gaze sharpened. “Which is more valuable, powdered unicorn horn or manticore bile?”

“Unicorn horn. Manticore bile’s dangerous to get, but you can still hunt for it. Unicorn horn takes years to regrow.”

There was a pause. Then: “Five points to Slytherin. Let us see if your brewing matches your theory.”

He instructed them to prepare a simple boil-cure potion. Harry and Daphne collected their ingredients in unspoken coordination: dried nettles, snake fangs, porcupine quills. Daphne inspected each container before taking it, tilting one jar to check the cut of the nettles, tapping another lightly to hear the rattle of properly dried fangs.

“You’ve handled worse stock than this, I assume,” Harry said quietly when they returned to the bench.

“Much worse,” she replied without looking up, slicing nettles into perfect, uniform strips. “Half the suppliers my family deals with don’t know the difference between proper drying and rot.”

They fell into rhythm, Daphne preparing, Harry managing the heat and stirring. The mixture shifted from murky green to a clear turquoise, the scent sharpening as the surface broke in slow, even bubbles. Harry adjusted the flame by a fraction, watching the colour settle to match the textbook illustration exactly.

Snape stopped beside them. He studied the potion for a long moment, his eyes lingering on the surface as if weighing more than just the result.
“Acceptable,” he said at last, then moved on.

Daphne doused the flame and straightened the cauldron. “Well, that was clearly a heartfelt endorsement. I’ll have it engraved on a plaque.”
The words slipped past Harry’s guard, and he found himself smiling. Daphne didn’t comment on it, but the corner of her mouth twitched in answer.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was held in a third-floor classroom that smelled faintly of garlic and something sharper Harry couldn’t place. He took a seat toward the back, where the whole room was in view; habit made him prefer knowing where everyone stood.

Professor Quirrell waited at the front, thin and pale beneath a large purple turban. His hands twitched faintly at his sides, but his gaze when it met Harry’s — was steady in a way that didn’t quite match the rest of him.

“W-welcome to Defence Against the D-Dark Arts,” he began, his mild voice carrying across the room. “Here, you will learn to r-recognize, understand, and defend against the darker aspects of magic.”

He paced slowly in front of the blackboard, the occasional stumble in his words at odds with the measured way he moved.

“Before we discuss d-defence, however, we must first understand what we are defending against. What d-defines the Dark Arts?”

Pansy’s hand went up. “Spells that cause harm, Professor.”

“P-partially correct, Miss Parkinson, but incomplete. Miss Greengrass?”

Daphne spoke crisply. “Magic that’s illegal?”

“Again, p-partially true. The Ministry’s definitions change with the political landscape. Many legal spells can still cripple or kill in the wrong hands. So… what makes something truly dark?”

Silence settled over the room. Quirrell let it linger before his gaze landed on the back row.

“Mr. P-Potter?” The stutter was still there, but softer now, almost coaxing.

Harry hesitated. “Intent,” he said finally. “That’s… what makes it dark. You… want to cause pain.”

Quirrell’s pale eyes fixed on him. For a heartbeat, something red glimmered there, and Harry’s scar prickled — but it was gone too fast to be certain.

“E-elaborate.”

“It’s not just the spell,” Harry said. “It’s why you use it. If you enjoy hurting someone — if you like the control, that’s when it’s dark.”

“Precisely,” Quirrell said, and there was something almost hungry in his expression. “Intent is indeed the crucial element. A cutting curse used by a Healer to perform surgery serves a medical purpose. The same curse cast with the desire to maim becomes something far darker.”

He paused, letting the point settle.

“Do not make the mistake of thinking intent matters only in the Dark Arts. It shapes all magic. Even the humblest charm will fail, or falter, if your will is divided — and the same charm, properly directed, can be made sharper, stronger, more precise than the caster beside you. Intent focuses magic like the point of a blade.”

Quirrell’s gaze lingered on Harry for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. “Five points to Slytherin, Mr. Potter

He turned to the blackboard and, with a flick of his wand, wrote:

First-Year Defensive Drill — Aegis

“Today,” he said, “you will learn the Aegis Charm. Less powerful than Protego, but faster to cast. It can turn aside minor hexes and jinxes, like the stinging hex and slow a d-disarming spell enough to dodge.”

He demonstrated, his wand snapping up as a volunteer fired a harmless Expelliarmus. The charm shimmered into being — a brief, curved glimmer of force, and the red bolt skidded harmlessly away.

“You will work in p-pairs. One will attack with the stinging hex or Expelliarmus, the other will block. Switch every three attempts.”

Harry ended up with Theodore. The other boy gave him a short, considering nod before raising his wand.

“Expelliarmus!”

Harry’s wand came up almost before he thought about it. “Aegis!”

The pale shimmer flared into being, Theodore’s spell sliding past Harry’s shoulder without touching him. The magic felt clean and immediate, almost effortless, as if his mind and body were finally speaking the same language.

They switched. Harry tried the stinging hex — a quick jab that landed neatly on Theodore’s forearm, making him grunt. On the next try, Theodore blocked it, the charm flickering in place like glass catching the light.

They traded spells and blocks in silence, each attempt sharper and faster than the last. Harry’s focus narrowed to the snap of his wrist, the feel of magic taking shape, the small surge of satisfaction each time the shield absorbed an incoming hex. By the end of the exercise, sweat pricked at his collar and his mind hummed with possibility.

As they packed up, Quirrell passed by Harry’s desk. His voice dropped low enough that only Harry heard:

“You have an instinct for this, Mr. Potter. My door is always open… for students willing to learn more than the curriculum allows.”

The words stayed with Harry long after he left the classroom.

The corridors between Defence and Charms were crowded with students changing classes, and Harry found himself swept along in the flow of bodies. The conversation with Quirrell lingered in his thoughts, along with the strange moment when the professor's eyes had seemed to... shift. He shook his head, dismissing the unsettling feeling. He had enough real problems without imagining new ones.

"You look thoughtful," Theodore observed as they navigated around a group of chattering third years.

"Just thinking about what Quirrell said," Harry replied. "About intent being what makes magic dark."

"Makes sense," Draco said, shouldering past a Hufflepuff who was walking too slowly. "Father always says magic is just a tool. It's the wizard who decides how to use it."

The casual way his friend spoke about such concepts still struck Harry as remarkable. In the muggle world, such discussions would be purely theoretical here; they were practical considerations for everyday life.

Charms was held in a bright, airy classroom on the fourth floor, its high windows letting in the late-morning sun. The walls were lined with shelves of odd magical devices, some ticking softly, others spinning lazily in mid-air. Harry and the other Slytherin first-years filed in to find the diminutive Professor Flitwick standing on a stack of books behind his desk, sorting through a sheaf of parchment with brisk efficiency.

“Good morning, everyone!” Flitwick called, his voice high and cheerful. With a flick of his wand, the register floated from his hands, quills scratching names onto it as though alive. “Today we begin with one of the foundational spells you’ll use throughout your magical lives: the Levitation Charm.”

He hopped down from the books with surprising agility, wand in hand. “Now, don’t be fooled by its simplicity. Levitation is the foundation for countless more complex charms, and requires precision in wand movement, a steady magical current, and clear intent. Get those wrong, and you’ll have objects wobbling, spinning out of control, or dropping unexpectedly. None of which is safe in a crowded space.”

A small, battered feather floated onto each student’s desk with a graceful drift. “The incantation is Wingardium Leviosa. Not Levio-sar, not Levio-sah — Levio-sa.” He exaggerated the final syllable with a smile. “Wand movement: a swish, then a flick. Not the other way around.”

Flitwick demonstrated, his feather rising into the air and hovering perfectly before gliding back down. “Pair up and take turns. Watch each other’s technique and remember: focus on what you want the magic to do. Not on what you don’t want it to do.”

Harry found himself paired with Theodore. He swished and flicked, saying the incantation clearly. Nothing happened. He tried again, narrowing his focus, picturing the feather rising into the air, still nothing.

Theodore’s attempt at least made his feather twitch, though it flopped back onto the desk like a stunned insect. “I read once it’s about pushing your will through the wand tip, not just saying the words,” Theo muttered, trying again.

Harry adjusted his grip, trying to channel the image in his mind into the movement of his wrist. “Wingardium Leviosa.” The feather quivered… and then lay still. His jaw tightened.

Across the room, Hermione Granger’s feather shot three feet into the air on her second try. She looked around, clearly expecting praise, but Flitwick merely nodded approvingly before moving to correct another pair’s form. Draco managed a smooth hover soon after, glancing over just long enough to smirk.

Harry barely noticed. Failure here didn’t make him want to give up; it had the opposite effect. This wasn’t like Potions, where he could follow clear instructions, or Transfiguration, where he’d felt the spell click into place. This was slippery. Elusive. And that made him want to catch it all the more.

By the end of the period, his feather had managed a slow, shaky rise of a few inches before dropping back down. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Not bad,” Theodore said as they packed away their things.

Harry shook his head, determination setting in. “Not good enough.” He was already planning to check the library after dinner — there had to be a book that broke down the mechanics better. Something with diagrams or exercises he could repeat until his wrist ached.

As they filed out, Flitwick called after them, “Remember, practice makes perfect! And no levitating your classmates — not until at least your third year!”

Harry allowed himself a small smile at that, but his mind was already elsewhere, chasing the problem in the spell, turning it over like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

The Slytherin common room was busier in the evening, filled with students from all years working on assignments or simply socialising by the fire. Harry settled into one of the leather armchairs with a thick book open in his lap, Foundations of Magical Theory, trying to read ahead for Charms. The diagrams were neat and exact, the text explaining how a successful spell required not brute force, but control: guiding the magic like a current, shaping it without breaking its natural flow.

He let the words sink in slowly, imagining his feather rising and holding steady in the air. He read the same paragraph twice, turning over in his mind what had gone wrong earlier in the day.

Quirrell’s voice drifted back to him from that first Defence class: Intent is the crucial element. Even something as harmless as a feather could be made sharper, stronger, if you knew what you wanted from it and how to direct it. The thought should have unsettled him; instead, it made him want to understand.

Around him, the common room hummed with life. Draco and Blaise were locked in a tense chess match, pieces clashing with noisy enthusiasm. Pansy’s laughter carried from a corner where she was gossiping with Millicent and Tracey. Theodore was tucked away with a book of his own, occasionally glancing up to follow the game. Daphne and Lyra sat by the window, heads bent over an advanced Charms text.

It was exactly the kind of warmth and belonging he’d never had — and still, he stayed on the edge of it, content to watch.

Harry turned another page, his eyes tracing the clean lines of a wand movement diagram. The more he read, the more certain he became; control wasn’t just about passing a class. It was about never being powerless again.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall filled with the familiar rush of wings as the morning post arrived, dozens of owls swooping between the floating candles in practiced formation. Harry looked up from his porridge, watching a magnificent eagle owl land gracefully beside Draco with a thick parchment tied to its leg.

"Father's written," Draco said, untying the letter with practiced ease. The owl accepted a piece of bacon before launching itself back toward the enchanted ceiling.

Harry returned to his breakfast, but his attention drifted as Draco read the letter with obvious pleasure. The other Slytherins continued their morning conversations—Pansy arguing with Millicent about Transfiguration homework, Theodore reading a thick book propped against his juice goblet, Blaise regaling Crabbe and Goyle with an elaborate story about his mother's latest suitor.

"Oh, brilliant," Draco said, folding the letter. " Father mentioned the Ministry’s been particularly agreeable lately, nothing he can’t get through with the right word." He glanced at Harry with a slight smile. "He asked how you're settling in. I told him last week that you're top of our year in Transfiguration."

A warm flutter in Harry's chest quickly cooled into wariness. Adults asking about him rarely led anywhere good. "Did he say why he wanted to know?"

"Just family interest, I expect," Draco said casually. "He likes to know who my friends are. He probably wants to make sure you're comfortable."

Before Harry could respond, another owl landed directly in front of Draco, a smaller barn owl carrying a carefully wrapped package. The attached note was written in elegant script that Harry could read from across the table: For Draco and Harry.

"Mother's sent something," Draco said, his face brightening as he unwrapped the package. Inside were an assortment of expensive sweets—chocolate cauldrons, sugar quills, crystallized pineapple, and a smaller wrapped bundle set apart from the rest.

Draco picked up the second bundle and read the attached note. "She's sent something specifically for you, Harry." He held out the package with genuine warmth. "Honeydukes' finest, apparently. She thought you might like them."

Harry stared at the small package. Nobody had ever sent him anything before—not sweets, not gifts, not even a letter. His hands remained motionless on the table.

"Go on," Pansy encouraged, noticing his hesitation. "It's not going to bite you."

Harry took the package with careful fingers, unwrapping it to reveal a selection of chocolate truffles in a small wooden box. Each piece was perfect, dusted with gold and arranged with obvious care. A small card lay tucked inside the lid: Welcome home Harry, where you belong. N.M.

The words blurred slightly as Harry stared at them. He read it twice. Welcome home. Nobody had ever said that to him. The warmth in his chest returned, stronger now, almost overwhelming. He closed the box quickly and slipped it into his robe pocket, the weight of it strange and precious against his ribs.

"She makes the best choices," Draco said approvingly, already working his way through a chocolate cauldron. "Those are her favourites. She only gives them to people she really likes."

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice. The chocolate sat warm and solid in his pocket, a tangible reminder that someone, somewhere, had thought of him with kindness.

Around them, the Great Hall continued its morning rhythm. Other students received their own letters and packages, but Harry found himself watching the easy way they accepted these small gestures of care. For them, it was routine. For him, it was revolutionary.

"Right then," Theodore said, closing his book and checking his timetable. "Double Charms this morning, then Herbology after lunch. At least Flitwick doesn't assign essays every lesson like McGonagall."

As they gathered their bags and prepared to leave for class, Harry's hand drifted unconsciously to his pocket, checking that the chocolate box was still there. The small weight of it felt like an anchor, grounding him in this new reality where people cared enough to send gifts to a boy they barely knew.

The Charms classroom buzzed with quiet conversation as students settled into their seats for review exercises. Professor Flitwick had assigned them to practice the spells they'd learned over the past week, working in pairs to perfect their wand movements and pronunciation.

Harry found himself paired with Theodore again, both of them making steady progress with the Levitation Charm. Theodore's feather rose smoothly to shoulder height and held steady, while Harry's managed a respectable hover despite the occasional wobble.

Two tables ahead, Neville Longbottom struggled with his own feather. The boy's wand movements were too forceful, his incantation slightly off-pitch, and his feather barely twitched before falling flat against the desk.

"Wingardium Leviosa," Neville muttered for the dozenth time, sweat beading on his round face as he concentrated. "Wingardium Leviosa."

The feather gave a halfhearted flutter and died.

"More like Wingardium Levios-ugh," Draco said quietly, just loud enough for the nearby Slytherins to hear. "He's going to be there all day at this rate."

Theodore snorted softly. "Ten galleons says he sets something on fire before the period ends."

"You're on," Blaise whispered from the next table. "Though I think he'll manage to break his wand first."

Pansy covered her mouth to hide a giggle as Neville's feather gave another pathetic twitch. "Poor thing. Someone should put him out of his misery."

Harry found himself smiling along with the rest of them, caught up in the comfortable warmth of shared amusement. It felt good to be part of the group, to belong to something that accepted him so easily. The laughter was gentle enough—they weren't being truly cruel, just observing what everyone could see.

From across the room, Ron Weasley’s head lifted. His eyes found Harry’s, took in the smirk, the laughter, the company he kept, and cooled into something like contempt.

The look landed like a slap, quick and clean. For a heartbeat, Harry saw himself as Ron did: the boy who laughed at weakness, who fit neatly among those who measured worth by who could be mocked.

The warmth of belonging curdled in his stomach, but then Draco murmured another cutting remark about Neville’s technique, and the moment cracked. Harry turned back to his feather, pushing down the uncomfortable flutter of guilt. Weasley didn’t understand. Easy to judge when you’d never had to choose between being feared and being prey.

The chocolate box pressed against his ribs, a reminder of unexpected kindness. These people had given him something he'd never had before. He could feel every step they took with him. If there was a price for them, he didn’t want to think about it, not tonight.

The library's afternoon quiet wrapped around Harry like a comfortable blanket as he settled into his usual spot near the restricted section. Draco and Theodore had come with him, as had become their habit, but their commitment to serious study lasted only as long as it took to find comfortable chairs.

"Did you read Binns' assignment on the Goblin Rebellions?" Draco asked, pulling out a half-finished essay. "I swear the man could make a dragon attack sound boring."

"Third rebellion or fifth?" Theodore replied, not looking up from his own parchment. "I've lost track of which century we're supposed to be covering."

"Does it matter? They all end the same way—goblins lose, wizards win, everyone pretends to be friends until the next rebellion."

Harry half-listened to their conversation while spreading his own materials across the table. Charms: Theory and Fundamentals lay open beside his notes, the pages dense with diagrams and theoretical explanations that made his struggles with practical application all the more frustrating.

The successful execution of charm work requires not merely correct pronunciation and wand movement, he read, but a fundamental understanding of the magical theory underlying each spell. The wizard who comprehends why a charm functions will always surpass the wizard who merely mimics its components.

That was the problem, Harry realized. He'd been treating charms like recipes, follow the steps, expect the result. But magic wasn't cooking. It was something deeper, more personal. The book described magic as a conversation between wizard and spell, a negotiation rather than a command.

Draco's voice faded into background noise as Harry lost himself in the text. Diagrams showed the flow of magical energy through different wand movements, the way syllable emphasis could shape a spell's power, the importance of emotional clarity in achieving consistent results. It was fascinating in a way that made his skin prickle with possibility.

"...suppose we should actually study something," Theodore was saying when Harry finally looked up. "Though I'm not sure how much more goblin history my brain can absorb."

"Mm," Harry murmured absently, already turning back to his book.

Draco exchanged a glance with Theodore, then shrugged with good humour. "We'll leave you to it, then. Try not to memorize the entire library while we're gone."

They gathered their things and drifted toward the History section, voices dropping to whispers as they disappeared between the stacks. Harry barely noticed their departure. The chocolate box in his pocket had grown warm from his body heat, a constant reminder of unexpected kindness, but his mind was entirely absorbed in magical theory.

Intent shapes magic, the book explained, more than any physical component. A charm cast with unclear purpose will produce unclear results. The wizard must know not only what they wish to accomplish, but why they wish to accomplish it.

Harry thought of Quirrell's words during Defence class: Intent is the crucial element. The professor had been speaking about Dark Arts, but perhaps the principle applied more broadly. Perhaps Harry's struggles with Charms stemmed not from lack of skill, but from lack of focus.

He wanted to master the Levitation Charm, yes—but why? To pass his classes? To prove himself capable? To ensure he never appeared weak or incompetent in front of his peers?

The answers felt insufficient, somehow. Shallow. Harry closed his eyes and tried to imagine the real reason, the driving need beneath the surface.

Control. The word rose unbidden in his mind. He wanted control—over his magic, over his environment, over himself. He wanted to never again be helpless while others decided his fate. Magic was power, and power was safety, and safety was something he'd never truly had.

When Harry opened his eyes and returned to his reading, the words seemed clearer somehow. More purposeful. He took careful notes in the margins, copying diagrams, breaking down the theoretical framework until he could see the underlying structure.

The library grew quieter as the afternoon progressed, most students heading to dinner or returning to their common rooms. Harry remained at his table, surrounded by open books and scattered parchment, completely absorbed in the pursuit of understanding.

He would master this. All of it. Whatever it took.

The corridor on the fourth floor stretched empty before them as Harry, Draco, Theodore, and Blaise made their way back from their final class of the day. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the stone floor.

"This way," Blaise said suddenly, veering left down a narrower hallway. "Shortcut to the stairs."

Theodore raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you know shortcuts?"

"Since I've been exploring while you lot bury your noses in books," Blaise replied with a grin. "Trust me."

The hallway was quieter than the main corridors, lined with doors that looked like they hadn't been opened in years. Dust motes danced in the slanted light, and their footsteps echoed softly off the ancient stones.

"There," Blaise said, pointing to a door that stood slightly ajar. "Wonder what's in here."

Before anyone could object, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The others followed, curiosity overcoming caution.

The classroom had clearly been abandoned for some time. Rows of empty desks faced a blackboard covered in a fine layer of dust, and afternoon sunlight streamed through grimy windows, illuminating the particles that swirled in the still air. The scent of old parchment and neglect hung heavy in the space.

"Cozy," Draco observed, running a finger along one of the desk tops and examining the dust that came away on his skin.

"Perfect, really," Blaise said, and without warning, he drew his wand and sent a mild stinging hex directly at Draco's backside.

"Ow!" Draco yelped, spinning around with his hand pressed to the afflicted area. "What was that for?"

"Target practice," Blaise said innocently, already moving to put a desk between himself and Draco's rapidly appearing wand.

"You little—" Draco's jinx shot across the room, missing Blaise by inches and leaving a small scorch mark on the wall.

"Can't have you losing to Zabini," Theodore said with a grin, drawing his own wand and sending a tripping hex toward Blaise's feet.

Blaise leaped aside with theatrical grace, his laughter echoing off the walls. "Two against one? That's hardly sporting." His eyes found Harry, who stood near the door watching the impromptu battle with uncertain fascination. "Come on, Potter. Help even the odds."

Harry hesitated, wand halfway out of his robes. This was unfamiliar territory, play-fighting as equals, magic used for fun rather than survival or dominance. The easy camaraderie felt foreign, almost dangerous in its casualness.

But Blaise was grinning at him with genuine invitation, and Draco was already lining up another shot, and Theodore was laughing as he dodged a return hex. They wanted him here. They wanted him to play.

Harry drew his wand and sent a simple jinx at Draco's side.

"Traitor!" Draco exclaimed, but he was grinning as he said it, already pivoting to return fire.

The abandoned classroom erupted into controlled chaos. Spells fizzed through the dusty air, leaving trails of coloured light and small scorch marks on the ancient stones. Theodore's shield charm deflected one of Blaise's hexes into a desk, which promptly sprouted legs and began tap-dancing in place. Draco's cutting curse took a chunk out of the blackboard, sending chalk dust cascading to the floor.

Harry found himself laughing—actually laughing—as he ducked behind an overturned desk and fired blind shots over the top. His chest felt lighter than it had in months, the constant tension he carried loosening for the first time since he could remember. Magic flowed through his wand not as a weapon or tool of survival, but as pure expression of joy.

"Cease fire!" Blaise called eventually, emerging from behind the teacher's desk with his sleeve singed and his hair askew. "I yield! I yield!"

They lowered their wands, all four of them breathing hard and grinning. Draco had dust streaks across his expensive robes, Theodore's usually perfect hair stuck up at odd angles, and Harry could feel a matching smile stretching across his own face.

"Another week of practice and you might even be dangerous, Potter," Blaise said, examining his blackened cuff with mock concern.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Harry replied, surprised by how easily the words came.

"It was meant as one," Blaise assured him. "Though next time, I'm picking teams more carefully."

They straightened their robes and attempted to restore some semblance of respectability before heading back toward the main corridors. The dancing desk had finally exhausted itself and stood panting in the corner, while small wisps of smoke curled up from various scorch marks they'd left behind.

"Should we clean up?" Theodore asked, glancing back at the destruction.

"And deprive the house-elves of work?" Draco said with a grin. "I think not."

As they made their way through the corridors toward Slytherin territory, their laughter gradually faded into comfortable conversation. Harry found himself walking slightly apart from the others, not from his usual wariness, but from a strange sense of wonder. This was what friendship looked like when it wasn't born from shared trauma or mutual protection. This was what it meant to simply belong.

The warmth in his chest had nothing to do with the chocolate box in his pocket and everything to do with the memory of Blaise's grin, Theodore's easy inclusion, Draco's mock outrage. They had invited him into their circle not because they pitied him or feared him, but because they genuinely wanted him there.

It was a revelation.

The Slytherin common room hummed with its usual evening energy when they finally arrived, their robes mostly straightened and their hair finger-combed back into respectability. Students clustered around chess boards and study tables, their conversations creating a comfortable backdrop of belonging.

Near the windows overlooking the lake, Daphne and Lyra sat with their heads bent over a potions text. In the centre of the room, Draco and Blaise had claimed the best armchairs for what appeared to be an intense chess match, their pieces clashing with miniature battle cries.

Pansy's laughter carried from a corner where she sat with Millicent and Tracey, the three of them sharing what looked like gossip magazines smuggled in from the older students. Even Crabbe and Goyle had found their place, sitting by the fire with a collection of Chocolate Frog cards spread between them.

Harry paused in the doorway, struck by the scene's warmth. Everyone belonged somewhere, had found their niche within the larger community. He'd been accepted into this world, given a place at their table, included in their conversations. It should have been enough.

But instead of joining any of the groups, Harry moved to his usual spot, a leather armchair tucked into an alcove near the back wall, partially hidden behind a pillar. From here, he could observe the entire room while remaining somewhat apart from it.

He settled into the chair and opened Charms: Theory and Fundamentals across his knees, but his attention drifted as he watched his housemates. They moved through their evening routines with such easy familiarity, as if they'd never questioned their right to be here, never wondered if their acceptance might be withdrawn without warning.

Harry envied them that certainty. Even after weeks at Hogwarts, part of him still expected to wake up back in the cupboard under the stairs, or in the sterile confines of Millfield, this magical world revealed as nothing more than an elaborate dream.

"Checkmate!" Draco announced triumphantly, his king delivering the final blow to Blaise's beleaguered army.

"Impossible," Blaise protested, studying the board with genuine confusion. "I had you three moves ago."

"You had a strategy three moves ago," Draco corrected with a grin. "Unfortunately, so did I."

Harry shifted in his seat, catching Lyra’s reflection in the darkened window beside her. She was watching him, expression unreadable, until a sharp snap from the fire drew her gaze away and she bent once more over her work.

It was becoming a habit, these tiny moments of recognition— not quite friendship, not yet, but something building between two people who understood what it meant to carry more than their fair share of shadows.

The fire crackled softly, sending dancing shadows across the stone walls as one by one, students began heading off to their dormitories. Conversations died down to murmurs, chess pieces settled into dormancy, books closed with satisfied sighs.

Harry remained in his chair, reading by the fading firelight. The common room emptied around him until only a few dedicated studiers remained, hunched over their homework at the far tables. The ancient stones seemed to exhale the day's accumulated warmth, creating an atmosphere of deep contentment.

This was what belonging felt like, Harry realized. Not the desperate clinging he'd once imagined, but this quiet certainty of place. These people accepted him. They'd given him friendship, mentorship, even family. The chocolate box in his pocket had grown soft from his body heat, but it remained a tangible reminder of care freely offered.

He would protect this. Whatever it took.

The fire burned lower, reducing to glowing embers that cast the room in shades of green and gold. Harry closed his book and sat in the comfortable darkness, listening to the distant sounds of the castle settling for the night—footsteps in distant corridors, portraits murmuring to each other, the soft movements of house-elves going about their duties.

It felt as if the castle were holding its breath, and Harry was holding his with it. Something was coming—he could sense it in the way the shadows seemed to lean closer, in the weight of possibilities gathering like storm clouds on the horizon.

But for now, in this moment, he was exactly where he belonged.

Harry tucked his book under his arm and headed for the dormitory, anchored by the small, certain truth that, tonight at least, he belonged.

Chapter Text

The garlic scent in Professor Quirrell's classroom had grown stronger over the weeks, though Harry had long since stopped noticing it. October's pale morning light filtered through the grimy windows as first-years filed in for what had become Harry's favourite class of the week.

"T-today we progress beyond basic theory," Quirrell announced, his mild stutter echoing off the stone walls. "You will learn two essential defensive spells—practical magic that could s-save your life."

Harry straightened in his seat, wand already in hand. Around him, other students fumbled for their materials, but Harry's attention was fixed entirely on the professor's demonstration.

"The K-Knockback Jinx," Quirrell said, his wand moving in a sharp, decisive thrust. "Repello!" A burst of silver light shot from his wand tip, striking a practice dummy and sending it sliding backward across the floor. "Useful for c-creating distance between yourself and an attacker."

He turned to face the class, and for just a moment, Harry caught something in the professor's pale eyes—a flicker of intensity that didn't match his nervous demeanour.

"The second spell is more p-precise," Quirrell continued, his wand now tracing a quick zigzag pattern. "Serra Cruor!" The Leg-Locker Jinx struck the dummy's legs, binding them together with visible magical bonds. "When retreat is not an option, immobilization becomes n-necessary."

Theodore leaned closer to Harry. "These are actually useful spells," he murmured. "More practical than just theory."

Harry nodded absently, but his focus remained on Quirrell's wand movements. There was something elegant about the way the professor cast—each motion precise, economical, deadly effective despite the stammering delivery.

"P-pair up and practice," Quirrell instructed. "Begin with the Knockback Jinx. Remember, intent m-matters as much as technique."

Harry found himself partnered with Theodore again, both of them moving to an open section of the classroom. Around them, other students began their halting attempts at the new spells, most managing only weak sparks or misfired hexes.

"Repello!" Harry's first attempt sent a solid bolt of silver light toward Theodore, who deflected it with a hastily cast shield charm.

"Not bad," Theodore said, raising his own wand. "Repello!"

His spell caught Harry in the shoulder, spinning him sideways but not knocking him down. Harry grinned and tried again, this time picturing exactly what he wanted—distance, protection, the attacker stumbling backward in surprise.

The second attempt sent Theodore skidding three feet across the stone floor.

"Much better, Mr. Potter," came Quirrell's voice from directly behind him. Harry turned to find the professor watching with obvious approval. "Your form is quite n-natural. Most students struggle with the visualization required."

"It just... makes sense," Harry said, unable to articulate why defensive magic felt so instinctive.

Quirrell's pale eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary. "Indeed. Some wizards are born with an affinity for certain branches of magic. S-survival magic, in particular, often calls to those who have... experienced its necessity."

The words sent a chill down Harry's spine, though he couldn't say why.

They switched to the Leg-Locker Jinx, and again Harry's spells flew true and strong. By the end of the period, he and Theodore were among the few pairs successfully executing both hexes with reasonable accuracy.

As students began packing their bags, Quirrell approached Harry's desk again.

"How are you settling in, Mr. Potter?" he asked quietly. "Finding your studies... manageable?"

"Most of them," Harry admitted. "Charms is still... like trying to catch smoke."

"Ah yes, Charms requires a particular mindset," Quirrell nodded sympathetically. "P-perhaps some additional reading would help. Foundations of Magical Theory, Beginner's Edition has excellent chapters on charm theory." He paused, seeming to consider his words carefully. "Remember, Harry, I'm always here if you need guidance beyond what the textbooks offer."

The gentle reminder hung in the air as Harry packed his books. Something about the professor's tone suggested layers of meaning beneath the surface, but Harry simply nodded his thanks.

As he left the classroom, Harry found himself thinking about those pale eyes and the way Quirrell's stutter seemed to disappear when he was focused on magic. There was more to the nervous Defence professor than he showed the rest of the class.

Harry tucked that observation away for later consideration.

The library's late afternoon quiet wrapped around Harry like a familiar embrace as he settled into his usual spot with a thick tome on advanced Transfiguration theory. October's early sunset painted the tall windows in shades of amber and gold, and the ancient stone seemed to exhale the day's accumulated warmth.

He'd been reading for perhaps an hour when movement near the Ancient Runes section caught his peripheral vision. Lyra Lestrange moved between the shelves with her characteristic precision, occasionally pulling books to examine their contents before replacing them with quiet care.

Harry returned to his reading, absorbed in a particularly complex passage about elemental transformation, and didn't notice when she settled at a table across from his own. When he finally looked up, blinking away the strain of dense text, he found her watching him with those distinctive violet eyes.

"You read like you're trying to absorb everything at once," she observed softly.

Harry glanced around the library, suddenly aware that the light outside had faded to deep purple and they were among the few students remaining. "Didn't realize you were there."

"I noticed." She closed her own book, something about protective enchantments and tilted her head toward the windows. "Getting dark. Should probably head back to the common rooms before curfew."

"Right." Harry gathered his materials, surprised by how the time had passed. As they walked toward the library entrance, an unexpected comfortable silence settled between them.

The corridors were quieter than usual for this time of evening, most students already settled in their houses for studying and evening activities. Their footsteps echoed softly off the ancient stones as they made their way toward Slytherin territory.

"How are you finding it?" Lyra asked suddenly. "Being back... home, I mean."

Harry considered the question. "Strange," he said finally. "Good, strange, mostly. But strange."

"The magical world can be overwhelming when you're trying to catch up," she agreed. "I imagine it's particularly difficult when you're constantly being judged for what the muggles did to you."

The word 'muggles' carried a slight edge when she said it, and Harry found himself nodding more emphatically than he'd intended. "They look at me like I'm dangerous because of what happened. Like I chose any of it."

"I know what you mean," Lyra said quietly.

Harry glanced at her, struck by something in her tone. "Do you?"

"My mother." The words came out carefully controlled. "Bellatrix Lestrange. I see it every day—the way Professor McGonagall looks at me during Transfiguration, like she's waiting for me to show signs of madness. The way Gryffindors whisper when I pass. Even some of the professors treat me like I'm already corrupted."

They walked in silence for a few more steps, the weight of shared understanding settling between them.

"What are your favourite classes?" Harry asked, wanting to move away from heavier topics.

Charms and Potions," Lyra replied immediately, some of her usual animation returning. "I want to take Ancient Runes when we’re old enough, there’s so much potential in combining runes with enchantment work. What about you?

"Defence and Transfiguration. Something about them just... clicks." Harry hesitated, then added, "Sometimes I feel completely lost in magical society. All the etiquette, the customs, the things everyone else just knows..."

"That's understandable," Lyra said. "You can ask me about anything, you know. Or Daphne, she's brilliant with traditional customs. You're one of us now, Potter, and we take care of our own."

Harry found himself smiling, tentative but genuine. "Thank you."

Lyra grinned back, and for a moment she looked like any other eleven-year-old girl rather than the carefully composed young woman she usually presented. "Besides," she added with a conspiratorial tone, "the muggles clearly didn't understand what they were dealing with. Did you know Uncle Regulus tried passing a law that would prevent muggles from raising wizarding children? But Dumbledore blocked it."

Harry felt a sharp stab of interest. "Uncle Regulus?"

"Lord Black, my uncle," Lyra explained. "He's head of the Black family now."

The name clicked in Harry's memory—he'd read about Lord Regulus Black in the Daily Prophet, seen him quoted attacking Dumbledore over Harry's placement with the Dursleys. The man had called it a "catastrophic failure of duty" and demanded accountability.

"That would be a good law," Harry said quietly, thinking of Vernon's belt and Petunia's cold hatred.

"Uncle Regulus thinks so too. He was furious when he found out what happened to you." Lyra's expression darkened. "But Dumbledore has too much influence in the Wizengamot."

Another surge of resentment toward the headmaster washed over Harry. Here was someone who had actually tried to prevent what had happened to him, but Dumbledore had stood in the way.

"For what it's worth, Potter," Lyra continued, "they probably had it coming. What you did was right."

The validation hit Harry harder than he'd expected. Here was someone his own age, someone who understood the weight of family reputation and public judgment, telling him that his actions had been justified. The warmth in his chest was almost overwhelming.

"I never thought about it that way," he said quietly.

"Most people don't understand what it's like to be pushed too far," Lyra replied matter-of-factly. "They think there's always another choice, always some perfect solution. Sometimes survival requires—"

The sound of footsteps ahead cut off her words. Three older boys rounded the corner, their Gryffindor ties visible even in the corridor's dim lighting. Harry recognized none of them, but their expressions were unmistakably hostile.

"Well, well," the leader drawled, a fourth year with close-cropped brown hair and cold blue eyes. "The little dark wizard and his Death Eater friend."

Harry’s hand moved toward his wand before he even thought about it, shoulders tightening, balance shifting to the balls of his feet. Beside him, Lyra’s weight altered subtly too guarded, calculating.

"We’re just heading back to our common room," Harry said, his voice flat.

"Are you now?" The leader stepped closer, his companions sliding into place like a pack tightening its circle. "See, that’s interesting, because we’ve been hearing stories about you, Potter. Stories about what you did to your family."

The words pressed into Harry like a shove. His mind reached out before he could stop it—reflex, instinct, survival. Contact flared: hatred spitting like sparks, righteous conviction burning hot and jagged. Teach the killer a lesson. The boy’s thoughts flooded him in shards of violence, enough to make Harry’s jaw clench and his grip on his wand turn white.

"Murder," one of the others spat. "That’s what the Prophet called it. You killed your own family."

"They weren’t my family," Harry said quietly. The words cut sharper than a shout, and for a moment the older boys faltered.

The leader’s sneer twisted. His gaze slid to Lyra. "Speaking of family, look at this. Bellatrix Lestrange’s spawn." His lips curled. "Should’ve finished the job on your whole lot when they had the chance."

Lyra’s wand snapped into her hand so fast Harry barely tracked it. "Back off," she said, her voice steady as iron.

"Death Eater blood," the boy pushed, savoring it. "Your mother rots in Azkaban where she belongs, and you’ll follow her soon enough."

Harry’s wand was in his hand before the words were finished. The hex burst from him raw, a streak of red light cracking into the leader’s face. The scream that followed was high and ugly; hands clawed at an eye gone livid and streaming.

"The bastard hit me in the eye!"

The other two struck instantly. "Diffindo!" one cried. "Repello!" shouted the second.

The cutting curse tore through robe and skin, leaving a line of fire across Harry’s chest. At the same instant, the knockback jinx smashed him into the armor looming at the corridor’s edge. Steel rang like a struck bell as breastplate and greaves collapsed, the stink of rust and dust exploding in his lungs. He crashed to the floor tangled in cold metal, ribs jolting sharp against bone, scalp split and bleeding.

The world narrowed to ringing ears, hot blood crawling into his eyes, and the taste of iron flooding his mouth. His arm lay pinned under a fallen gauntlet; every breath felt jagged.

Lyra’s voice cut through, furious, wand slashing arcs that lit the stones in bursts of wild color. Harry tried to rise, but the corridor tunneled, exits too far, his limbs slow.

The Gryffindors’ faces gleamed with triumph as they raised their wands again.

"That’s quite enough."

The voice slid through the chaos like a knife through silk, soft but absolute. The Gryffindors froze mid-motion.

Gemma Fawley stood at the end of the corridor, Head Girl badge catching the torchlight. She didn’t hurry. She walked with measured steps, and the three fourth years found themselves shrinking back before she even drew level with them.

"Attacking first-years in corridors," she observed mildly, as though commenting on the weather. "How very… noble of you."

"They started it," the leader croaked, clutching his face.

"Did they?" Her voice sharpened like frost over stone. "Three fourth years, against one first-year. Terrifying odds. I’ll lose sleep over your bravery."

Her wand twitched almost lazily. "Thirty points from Gryffindor. Ten each. Detention with Professor Snape, one week apiece. Now leave before I decide humiliation alone isn’t enough."

They fled.

Gemma turned first to Lyra, eyes scanning, wand flicking quick diagnostics. Then she knelt beside Harry. Her magic came efficient, practiced: Episkey closed the scalp wound with a sting, Tergeo drew away the blood in a cold sweep. She worked without fuss, her hand steady on his temple.

Harry’s mind reached out again, automatic as breathing, searching for intention behind the calm. He slammed against something solid, smooth as stone and utterly impenetrable. The backlash snapped behind his eyes like breaking glass. Gemma’s hand hesitated for the barest moment; her gaze flicked to him, cool and assessing, with the faintest curl of interest at the corner of her mouth.

"You two have enemies," she said evenly, helping him to his feet. "Learn to defend yourselves. I might not be here next time." She stepped back, wand lowering. "See Madam Pomfrey for the rest."

And with that, she was gone.

The corridor felt colder in her absence, the scattered armor pieces gleaming like bones.

Harry touched his temple, finding only smooth skin. Lyra bent to retrieve her wand, lip split, movements taut. "Fourth years," she muttered. "Three of them, and still, they couldn’t manage it properly."

They gathered their things in silence. Harry’s ribs ached, his clothes stuck damp to his chest, but his mind ran ahead of the pain, cataloguing mistakes, rehearsing counters. Vulnerability had nearly undone him again.

It wouldn’t happen twice.

The Slytherin common room hummed with its usual evening activity when Harry and Lyra finally arrived, their robes straightened, and their injuries healed but their faces still bearing traces of tension. Students clustered around study tables and chess boards, their conversations creating a comfortable backdrop of belonging that felt precious after the corridor attack.

Harry moved toward the dormitory stairs, but Lyra caught his attention with a subtle nod toward the corner where their friends sat playing Exploding Snap.

"Later," he said quietly. "I have something I need to do first."

She followed his movements with curiosity as he headed toward the common room door.

Harry retrieved his Defence textbook and notes, then made his way back through the castle corridors. The walk to Quirrell's office felt longer than usual, each shadow seeming to hide potential threats. The attack had shaken him more than he wanted to admit, reminding him forcibly that his new life at Hogwarts wasn't the safe haven he'd begun to believe it was.

He knocked softly on Quirrell's office door.

"C-come in," came the familiar stuttering voice.

The office was smaller than Harry had expected, with shelves lined with Defence texts and curious artifacts, the ever-present scent of garlic heavy in the air. Quirrell sat behind his desk grading essays, and he looked up with apparent pleasure when Harry entered.

"Harry! What a pleasant s-surprise. Please, sit down." He gestured to the chair across from his desk, setting aside his quill. "What brings you here so late?"

Harry settled into the offered chair, suddenly unsure how to begin. "I... had some trouble tonight. With older students."

Quirrell's expression shifted, becoming more attentive. "Oh? What sort of trouble?"

"Three fourth-year Gryffindors cornered me and Lyra in a corridor. They..." Harry hesitated, then decided on honesty. "They called me a murderer. Said things about Lyra's mother. When I defended her, they attacked us with cutting curses."

"I see." Quirrell leaned back in his chair, his pale eyes fixed on Harry's face. "And how did this... encounter end?"

"The Head Girl intervened. Healed our injuries and sent them away." Harry's hands clenched in his lap. "But she said she wouldn't always be there to help. That we needed to learn to defend ourselves properly."

"Wise advice," Quirrell said softly. "Miss Fawley is quite accomplished for her age." He paused, studying Harry with an intensity that seemed at odds with his usual nervous demeanour. "Tell me, Harry, how did you respond when they threatened Miss Lestrange?"

"I hexed the leader. Didn't really think about it—just reacted."

"Good." The word carried quiet approval. "You were right to defend yourself and Miss Lestrange. Those who would attack children in corridors understand only one language—strength."

Harry felt some of the tension in his chest ease. Here was an adult who understood, who didn't lecture him about turning the other cheek or finding peaceful solutions.

"The problem," Quirrell continued, "is that this won't be the last time. Your reputation precedes you, and there are those who see you as a symbol of everything they fear about our world. You need to be prepared."

"That's why I came to you," Harry said. "You offered to help, and I... I think I need it."

Quirrell smiled—not his usual nervous expression, but something warmer and more genuine. "Of course, my boy. I've been hoping you would ask." He stood and moved to one of his bookshelves, running his finger along the spines until he found what he was looking for.

"Private lessons," he said, pulling out a worn notebook bound in dark leather. "Not just the curriculum, real defensive magic. The kind that will ensure you're never helpless again."

He held out the notebook, and Harry took it with careful hands. The leather was soft with age and use, and when he opened it, he found pages covered in neat handwriting—notes on spells, diagrams of wand movements, theoretical discussions of magical combat.

"My own notes from first and second year," Quirrell explained. "I was... not unlike you, Harry. Targeted by other students, forced to learn quickly or suffer the consequences."

Harry flipped through the pages, fascinated by the detailed analysis of defensive spells, offensive hexes, and what the notebook termed "practical applications of aggressive magic."

"Stick close to your friends," Quirrell advised, settling back into his chair. "Young Mr. Malfoy and his companions understand the realities of our world. They'll watch your back, and you'll watch theirs. It's how pure-blood families have survived for centuries."

"What about the professors? Shouldn't they protect students from this kind of thing?"

Quirrell's laugh was soft and slightly bitter. "My dear boy, the professors can't be everywhere. And many of them... well, let's just say they have their own opinions about students with your particular history." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "The truth is, Harry, in our world, there is no good and evil—there is only power, and those too weak to seek it." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "With enough discipline, enough knowledge, you could ensure that no one would ever control you again."

The words resonated in Harry's chest like a struck bell. No one would ever control you again. After years of helplessness, years of being at the mercy of others' decisions, the promise felt like salvation.

"When do we start?" Harry asked.

"Tomorrow evening, after dinner. Meet me here." Quirrell's pale eyes glittered with something that might have been satisfaction. "We'll begin with practical applications of the spells you learned today. But Harry..." He paused, making sure he had the boy's full attention. "What we discuss in these lessons stays between us. Not all forms of magic are appreciated by the current administration."

Harry nodded his understanding. He'd learned long ago that survival sometimes required keeping secrets from authority figures.

“Excellent.” Quirrell smiled again, though the warmth never reached his eyes. “Strength recognizes strength, Harry. Don’t waste what I give you.”

Harry tucked the notebook under his robes and stood to leave. "Professor? Thank you. For understanding."

"Of course, my boy. We must look after our own."

As Harry made his way back through the darkened corridors, the notebook felt warm against his chest. For the first time since the attack, he felt something other than helpless anger. He felt hope.

Tomorrow night, he would begin learning how to ensure he was never vulnerable again.

The castle corridors were nearly empty as Harry made his way back to Slytherin territory, most students already settled in their dormitories for the night. His footsteps echoed softly off the ancient stones, and the notebook pressed warm and solid against his ribs beneath his robes.

The attack replayed itself in his mind as he walked—the sudden appearance of the Gryffindors, the flash of hatred in their eyes, the sickening impact with the armor. But now, instead of helpless anger, he felt something else: anticipation.

Quirrell’s words echoed in his thoughts: Power is the only real protection. It made sense in a way that all the platitudes about forgiveness and understanding never had. The world was divided into those who controlled and those who were controlled, and Harry had spent far too much of his life in the second category.

He paused at a window overlooking the grounds, watching moonlight paint the lake in shades of silver. The castle felt different, not just a haven, but a place where he could learn to become something more than a victim. Something powerful enough to protect what mattered to him.

The notebook contained secrets, he was certain of it. Real knowledge, practical applications, the kind of magic that would not hesitate to strike back when threatened. Yet another thought gnawed at him as he walked: Gemma had known. She had felt him pressing against her mind, and she had shut him out with a wall as solid as stone. That meant there were defenses, ways to turn even his most instinctive power aside. He could wound and strike, yes, but others could block.

The realization didn’t discourage him. It sharpened his intent. If there were walls, he would learn to break them. If there were shields, he would learn to slip past them. Power was not enough on its own—it had to be paired with knowledge, with control, with the ability to strike and to resist.

He would never again allow himself to be at someone else’s mercy. Not the Gryffindors. Not the professors. Not Dumbledore.

Harry tightened his grip on the notebook. Tomorrow, he would begin.

Chapter Text

The abandoned classroom on the fourth floor lay shrouded in darkness when Harry slipped inside, closing the door behind him with careful silence. Professor Quirrell waited in the shadows like a dark confessor; his pale face illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through grimy windows.

"You came," Quirrell said softly, his stutter notably absent in the privacy of their meeting. “Good. Discipline is the root of power, Harry. Even something as simple as being on time.”

Harry approached the desk where Quirrell had arranged several objects—pieces of parchment, a wooden block, an empty inkwell. The classroom felt different at night, charged with possibility and secrets.

"Tonight, we begin your real education," Quirrell said, rising from behind the desk. "The magic they teach in classrooms is sufficient for sheep. You, however, have the potential for something far greater."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Quirrell’s pale eyes glittered in the gloom. "Do you know why most wizards are weak, Harry? Because they shout their intentions before they strike. They give their enemies warning. Power concealed is power multiplied." He gestured at the murk that clung to the corners of the classroom. "Darkness surrounds us already—banish it, if you can. But not with words. With will alone."

Harry hesitated. His wand felt heavier than usual, the silence pressing in like a weight. He thought of the familiar incantation, the syllables balanced on his tongue—but Quirrell’s gaze pinned him in place. No words. Only intent.

He closed his eyes, remembering the corridor attack, the helplessness of stumbling in the dark while curses hissed unseen. He didn’t want light for comfort, he needed it to survive. To spot threats. To never be blind again.

When he opened his eyes, his wand tip sputtered, then steadied into a white glow. The light grew stronger as he pressed harder on that memory, until the shadows shrank back from the desk.

Quirrell’s lips curved faintly. “Good. Most cannot manage that trick until their sixth or seventh year. You did it on instinct. But keep it hidden, Harry. The moment others know what you can do, you surrender the advantage.”

They moved to the next exercise. Quirrell placed the wooden block on a student desk and stepped back.

"Depulso," he said, demonstrating with casual precision. The block shot across the room and slammed into the far wall hard enough to leave a dent in the stone. "The art of turning intent into raw force. Your turn."

Harry pointed his wand at a second block and spoke the incantation clearly. His first attempt was too weak, the block merely shuddered and toppled off the desk.

"You're pushing with muscle," Quirrell observed. "Push with will. The word shapes it, but your intent drives it. Imagine driving an attacker away—not requesting, not hoping, but commanding reality to bend to your desire."

Harry focused on the memory of the Gryffindors in the corridor, their sneering faces and raised wands. "Depulso!" This time the block launched across the room with considerable force, though not quite matching Quirrell's demonstration.

“Better,” Quirrell said, though his voice stayed cool. “But you telegraph. You point your wand at the target and then cast. That is a child’s mistake.”

He circled Harry, the hem of his robes whispering against the stone floor. “In real combat, the second you raise your wand, you’ve already lost. Don’t let your opponent see the strike until it lands. Move as if you are casting elsewhere—then change direction at the last possible instant.”

He demonstrated, his wand drawing a loose motion in the air before snapping suddenly toward the block. The Depulso cracked out like thunder, slamming the wood into the wall with brutal force.

“Do you see? Deception. Timing. Control. Even the weakest spell becomes lethal if your enemy cannot guard against it.”

The final exercise proved more challenging. Quirrell placed a piece of parchment on the desk and raised his wand.

"Diffindo," he said clearly, slashing downward in a precise motion. The parchment split cleanly in two, the edges so neat they might have been cut with scissors.

"The opposite of brute force, intent honed like a blade," he explained, handing Harry a fresh piece of parchment. "Say the incantation but focus on the cut itself. Do not lash out. Cut with purpose. Imagine the world parting because you will it so."

Harry's first attempts were ragged, leaving uneven tears in the parchment. Quirrell circled him patiently, his voice low and coaxing, offering small corrections to his wand movement and focus. Finally, after perhaps a dozen tries, Harry managed a reasonably straight cut, though not nearly as precise as Quirrell's demonstration.

"Better," Quirrell said with measured approval. "With both spells, remember, always try them first without words. You'll fail, except perhaps with the most basic charms, but the habit will change the way you think about magic. If you ingrain it early, true mastery will come to you far sooner than it does for others."

Harry attempted the silent version of Diffindo, but nothing happened beyond a faint spark from his wand tip.

"As expected," Quirrell murmured, gathering the ruined scraps of parchment. "But the seed is planted. Force and precision, master these concepts, and you will never be weak again."

He lingered over the scraps, as though weighing them, then let them fall from his fingers. His gaze returned to Harry—not at the wand now, but at the boy himself.

“You seem to anticipate reactions well, Harry,” he said carefully, his pale eyes narrowing. “Have you always been… perceptive about others’ intentions?”

Harry hesitated. “…Sometimes I just know things. What people are about to do. What they’re feeling.”

The words pressed on Harry’s chest. He thought of Uncle Vernon’s fist clenching, Dudley’s little smirk before the swing of a stick. He had always known when pain was coming.

Quirrell leaned close, his voice hushed, intimate.

“There is an art long practiced by the powerful. A discipline older than most spells. The Mind Arts. Occlumency and Legilimency, the defence and the intrusion of thought. To master them is to rule every exchange before a word is spoken. You see truths others would hide. You feel intent as though it were heat on your skin.”

Harry’s pulse quickened. Something in him recognized the shape of what Quirrell described, like a puzzle piece sliding into place.

“Magic is intelligence, Harry,” Quirrell continued, his tone solemn now. “Master your mind, and you master your magic. Only the great achieve this, only those willing to discipline thought as fiercely as they discipline the wand. I believe you might become one of them.”

The pale man’s eyes flickered with something like pride before hardening again.
“I will not teach you this. Not yet. You are too raw, too young. First, you must prove control. Each night before sleep, sit in silence. Push away the day’s noise. Empty your mind until you can hold it still as water. When you can do that—when you can command your own thoughts, then I will show you more.”

Harry swallowed, the weight of the promise settling into him like a secret oath. For the first time in his life, the chaos in his head seemed like something that might be tamed.

Quirrell regarded him for a long moment, then reached into the folds of his robes and withdrew a slim, leather-bound volume. The gilt letters on the spine gleamed faintly in the candlelight: Magic Is Might, by Thaddeus Thorne.

“A work of philosophy,” he said softly. “Old, not forbidden, but… provocative. Too many would sneer at it without understanding. Keep it in your dorm. Read in silence. Think carefully on what it says.” His pale eyes lingered on Harry’s face. “In our last lesson this year, we will speak of it. Until then, consider it a conversation between you and the pages, no one else.”

He pressed the book into Harry’s hands. The leather was cool, smooth, but beneath it Harry felt the weight of something more than parchment.

“Read it slowly,” Quirrell murmured. “Let it work on you. Spells without conviction are nothing. But a wizard with belief is unstoppable.”

Weeks blurred together in stolen hours and growing confidence. Each lesson with Quirrell left echoes in Harry's wand work—a sharpness of movement, a steadiness of control. In class it wasn’t brilliance, not yet, but a quiet improvement. Enough for teachers to take notice, for his housemates to watch him differently.

In Charms, Professor Flitwick observed his steadier technique with mild approval. The Levitation Charm that had once frustrated Harry now responded with surprising ease, feathers rising and holding with a control that felt instinctive. A few students glanced his way, but most were too wrapped up in their own efforts.

Transfiguration remained difficult, but even there Harry felt the difference. When McGonagall assigned the ambitious task of turning beetles into buttons, his attempt came closer than anyone’s. The beetle’s shell shimmered with the sheen of polished wood for several seconds before flickering back.

“Promising, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall murmured as the class filed out. “That level of sustained change is advanced for your year.”

It was in Defence where his growth was undeniable. During paired drills, Theodore Nott raised an aegis shield with his usual confidence—only for Harry to snap a crisp Petrificus Totalus into being. The spell cracked through the defence and froze Theodore rigid on the flagstones. The room went silent. Even Quirrell’s thin lips curved faintly.

“I–Impressive, Mr. Potter. That spell is well b–beyond first-year level, and you applied it with precision.” Draco’s eyebrows shot up, Pansy let out a quiet laugh of disbelief, and Blaise gave a low whistle. Harry said nothing, only lowered his wand, the rush of control thrumming in his chest.

The Quidditch tryouts came in a blur of speed and shouting. Harry and his friends watched from the stands, the pitch below alive with green-clad figures competing for the team. Harry studied their movements with quiet focus—not just admiring skill, but analysing weaknesses, searching for patterns.

“I’ll have Father put us on the team next year,” Draco said with satisfaction, leaning back.

“The Nimbus Two Thousand and One is coming out soon—you’ll see, we’ll have the best brooms in the school.”
Harry nodded absently, his eyes fixed on the clash above. Quidditch wasn’t merely sport. It was strategy and territory, attack and defence—battle played in the sky.

By late October, Harry’s world had settled fully into the rhythms of Hogwarts. Meals, lessons, and evenings in the common room; nights spent pushing himself further; the sense that he belonged here, among the people who saw him as one of their own. The idea of looking beyond them never crossed his mind.

The morning of October thirty-first dawned crisp and cold, the Great Hall alive with a stir of excitement as the post owls descended. A magnificent eagle owl swept down and landed beside Harry’s plate, a thick envelope tied with silver ribbon to its leg.

The envelope bore the Malfoy family crest and was addressed in elegant script: Master Harry Potter. Around him, his friends leaned forward with obvious curiosity as Harry broke the wax seal and unfolded the heavy parchment within.

Malfoy Manor
Wiltshire
October, 1991

Master Potter,

In the spirit of the season, and in acknowledgment of your friendship with my son, it would please my family greatly should you consent to spend the Yule holiday as our guest at Malfoy Manor.

It is the duty of our House to preserve the traditions that bind us together, and the Yule observances are best shared among those who understand their meaning. Draco and his kin will be most gratified by your presence.

Arrangements for travel will, of course, be made with the utmost propriety and discretion, should you accept.

You need only send word at your earliest convenience.

With respect,
Lord Lucius Malfoy
Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy
Honourable Member of the Wizengamot

"Brilliant!" Draco exclaimed, reading over Harry's shoulder. "I was hoping Father would invite you. Yule at the Manor is incredible, you'll love it."

"What exactly happens at Yule?" Harry asked, still staring at the formal invitation.

"Magical traditions," Pansy said excitedly. "Feasts, ceremonies, proper wizarding customs. It's nothing like what muggles do for Christmas."

"I'll be there too," Lyra added with a small smile. "Uncle Regulus always brings me to important gatherings. We can show you how everything works."

The warmth that spread through Harry's chest was almost overwhelming. Someone wanted him for the holidays. Not out of duty or obligation, but because they genuinely desired his company. The formal language of the invitation couldn't hide the underlying message—he was being welcomed into a family.

"You should definitely go," Theodore said seriously. "The Malfoys know how to do things properly. And Lord Malfoy is... influential. It would be good for you to know him."

Harry nodded, already composing his acceptance in his mind. At the High Table, he caught a glimpse of Dumbledore watching their table with that familiar twinkle in his blue eyes, though something in the headmaster's expression seemed strained. The smile covering what looked like genuine unease.

But Harry had long since stopped caring about Dumbledore's opinions. The man had placed him with the Dursleys, had blocked Lord Black's protective legislation, had failed him in every way that mattered. Let him disapprove, Harry finally had somewhere he belonged.

Samhain arrived on October thirty-first with a chill that seemed to seep through the castle's ancient stones. The day passed quietly, with professors making subtle references to the thinning veil and the importance of honouring memory, but it wasn't until evening that Harry truly understood what the holiday meant to his housemates.

The feast that night was subdued, the Great Hall decorated with orange and black banners that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the candlelight. Dumbledore spoke briefly about the cycle of seasons and the importance of remembering those who came before, but his words felt distant and philosophical rather than personal. The students ate more quietly than usual, the atmosphere solemn rather than celebratory.

The mood shattered when Filch burst through the great doors, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead and his usual composure completely shattered.
“Troll!” he gasped, pointing wildly toward the dungeons. “Mountain troll in the lower corridors! Students in danger!”

Professors leapt to their feet, wands already drawn as they rushed toward the source of the disturbance. The Great Hall dissolved into confusion, students whispering and craning for news. Rumours spread like fire: Gryffindors had encountered the beast, Hermione Granger had been trapped, Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom had somehow managed to bring it down.

By the time the staff restored order, most of the food had gone cold, and the evening’s solemn dignity had been broken beyond repair. Disappointed murmurs drifted through the student body as they were shepherded back to their dormitories, the feast already reduced to half-remembered fragments of candlelight and uneaten sweets.

In the Slytherin common room, however, the night’s true ritual was only beginning. Torches were dimmed to near-darkness, their usual warm light replaced by flickering green flames that cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, sharp herbs and bitter smoke that made the atmosphere feel thick with reverence and mystery.

Older students clustered in small groups throughout the room; their voices dropped to hushed whispers. Some spoke names under their breath like prayers, while others wrote on slips of parchment that they fed to the green flames, watching the words curl into ash and smoke.

Professor Snape stood in the shadows near the entrance, his black robes making him nearly invisible against the dark stone. His presence maintained order without need for words, and even the youngest students seemed to understand the solemnity of the occasion.

Harry lingered near the back, uncertain of his place in this ancient ritual. Around him, his housemates honoured memories he couldn't share, called upon connections he'd never known. When he tried to summon images of his parents, there was only absence, blank silhouettes where faces should have been.

"Abraxas Malfoy," he heard Draco whisper softly, feeding a piece of parchment to the flames. "Grandfather, killed by blood traitors in the war."

Near the fire, Daphne spoke the names of grandparents lost to dragon pox, while Millicent honoured an uncle who'd died fighting giants in Romania. Even Crabbe and Goyle stood quietly before the flames, their usual blank expressions softened by something almost solemn as they remembered family members Harry had never heard them mention.

The weight of others' traditions pressed against him like a physical force. He envied them their connections, their ability to reach across death and touch something real. When Lyra’s gaze met his across the room, her violet eyes held sympathy but no answers. She returned to her own whispered litany, and Harry was left alone with the hollow space where his family should have been.

He tried whispering “James” and “Lily,” but the names felt foreign in his mouth, words without warmth or meaning. They were concepts rather than people, historical figures rather than parents who had loved him.

Later, lying in his four-poster bed and staring at the green-tinted darkness above, Harry found himself thinking about his parents, not as the heroic figures from stories, but as the absence they represented. Names without warmth, faces he couldn’t remember, voices he had never heard.

What would a mother’s love feel like? The question hung in the silence like an accusation, a reminder of everything he’d been denied. The Dursleys had given him survival and pain in equal measure, but never love—real, unconditional love remained as foreign to him as the whispered names in the common room flames.

His hand brushed the invitation letter on the bedside table, its heavy parchment warm beneath his fingers. Soon he would experience something approaching family, would learn what it meant to be wanted and welcomed. The Malfoys weren’t his blood, but they offered him something rare and precious: a place at their table, inclusion in their traditions, acceptance without judgment.

Harry closed his eyes and tried, just as Quirrell had instructed, to quiet his thoughts. For a heartbeat the noise receded, leaving only stillness. Then it all came rushing back, louder than before. Yet that single flicker of silence lingered in his chest like an ember. Proof that his mind didn’t have to remain chaos forever.

It would have to be enough. And perhaps, Harry thought as sleep pulled him under, it might one day be more than enough.

The castle settled into silence around him, and somewhere in the darkness, Harry Potter dreamed of green flames and whispered names, of families that existed and love that might finally be within his reach.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore

The fire crackled softly in the grate as Professor Snape rose from his chair, the staff meeting finally concluded. The other heads of house had departed minutes ago, but Dumbledore had requested that Severus remain behind. The Potions Master stood with his usual rigid posture, black robes making him appear like a shadow against the warm glow of the office.

"Thank you for staying, Severus," Dumbledore said gently, settling back into his chair behind the great desk. Fawkes rustled quietly on his perch, and the portraits of former headmasters had fallen into their painted slumber. "I wanted to speak with you privately about young Harry."

Snape's expression remained carefully neutral. "What about Potter?"

"How do you believe he is settling in?" Dumbledore asked, his blue eyes twinkling with what he hoped was paternal warmth. "I confess, I have been somewhat... distant, allowing him space to find his footing. But I am curious about your observations."

"He appears to be settling," Snape replied with characteristic brevity. "At least he is not a complete fool like his father."

The words carried their usual sharp edge, but Dumbledore chose to focus on the underlying assessment rather than the barb. "I am pleased to hear it. The boy has endured so much—it is good to know he is finding his place among his peers."

Snape's dark eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement. "You are aware, Headmaster, that Lucius has invited the boy to stay at Yule."

A flicker of unease passed through Dumbledore's chest, but he pushed it aside with practiced ease. "I am aware, thank you, Severus. It is good that he is making friends. We should not judge children by the sins of their parents—surely you, of all people, understand this principle."

"Indeed," Snape said flatly. "How fortunate that the boy has found such... nurturing companionship."

Dumbledore chose to ignore the sarcasm. "Harry deserves to experience proper wizarding traditions, to learn what it means to be part of a magical family. The Malfoys may have their flaws, but they are not without honor when it comes to hospitality."

"How reassuring." Snape's tone could have frozen water. "Speaking of Potter's social integration, I believe you should know about the incident in the corridors several weeks ago."

"Incident?" Dumbledore leaned forward, his casual demeanor sharpening. "What incident?"

"Three fourth-year Gryffindors cornered Potter and the Lestrange girl. Verbal abuse escalated to hexes. Potter was injured before Miss Fawley intervened."

The warmth drained from Dumbledore's face. "Injured? How badly?"

"Cuts and bruises. Nothing permanent. But the boy defended himself... effectively."

Anger flared in Dumbledore's chest—not at Harry, but at the situation itself. Hogwarts was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place where children could feel safe regardless of their past. That Harry was still being persecuted, still under threat, felt like a personal failure.

"This is unacceptable," he said quietly. "Hogwarts should be a refuge for all students. I shall speak with Minerva at once."

"Will you speak with Potter as well?" Snape asked, his voice carrying an odd weight.

Dumbledore hesitated. "I... had hoped to give him more time. The boy has shown little inclination to seek me out, and I fear that any overture on my part might feel intrusive."

"He resents you."

The words hit like a physical blow. Dumbledore's hands stilled on his desk, and for a moment the only sound was the soft crackling of the fire.

"I have made mistakes," he admitted quietly. "That is... natural, given the circumstances. In time, he will forgive, and then perhaps I can reach out to him properly."

Snape's laugh was soft and bitter. "Anger that is not doused is kindled, Headmaster. Smoldering coals... they spread."

“You see snares where there are none,” Dumbledore said gently, his gaze fixed on the fire. His voice carried the softness of conviction, but underneath it a thread of quiet reproach. “The boy needs only what all children need: love, forgiveness, and time. These things heal all wounds.”

Snape's expression darkened. "How fitting," he muttered, "James's son in Slytherin at Lucius Malfoy's side."

"Lily's son, Severus." Dumbledore's voice sharpened with sudden intensity. "Lily's boy. Surely you have seen it—his curiosity, his hunger for knowledge. The boy spends more time in the library than anyone. He is already top of his year in Slytherin."

Snape stiffened almost imperceptibly, his mask of indifference slipping for just a moment before sliding back into place.

"Promise me, Severus," Dumbledore continued, leaning forward with earnest blue eyes. "Watch over Lily's son. Care for him as she would have wanted."

For a long moment, Snape said nothing. Pain flickered across his sharp features—grief, guilt, and something that might have been self-loathing. His lips pressed into a hard line, as though the words he wanted to say might tear him apart if he let them out.

Then, softly, dangerously: “Watch over him. As Lily would have wanted.”

"Yes, exactly—"

"Tell me, Headmaster," Snape interrupted, his black eyes glittering with barely contained fury, "where was this concern for Lily's wishes when you placed her son with Muggles who despised magic? Where was it when he spent a year in that... institution, learning to survive among criminals and madmen?"

Dumbledore's face went very still. "Severus, you know I had no choice—"

"You had every choice." The words came out like venom. "You chose to place him with his mother's sister because it was convenient. You chose to ignore the reports of abuse because it fit your plans. You lost track of him entirely when he needed protection most."

"The blood wards—"

"Failed." Snape's voice cut through the office like a blade. "Spectacularly. And now you ask me to watch over what remains of Lily's son, a boy you allowed to be broken and shaped into something she would never recognize."

Dumbledore opened his mouth to respond, but Snape continued relentlessly.

"I swore to protect him, Headmaster. To honour her sacrifice. But you... you have already lost him. The boy sitting in Slytherin House, learning to embrace darkness as safety—that is your creation, not hers."

"I will... observe him," Snape said finally, his voice hollow with barely contained rage.

"Thank you." Dumbledore's relief was palpable. "I know this is not easy for you, given your history with James, but—"

"I require no lecture on my duties, Headmaster." Snape's voice cut through the air like a blade. "If there is nothing else?"

Dumbledore waved a hand in dismissal, and Snape swept from the office in a swirl of black robes, leaving the headmaster alone with his thoughts and the dying fire.

Albus Dumbledore sat back in his chair, staring into the orange flames and reassuring himself that patience was wisdom, that love would triumph over darkness, that time would heal the wounds that his own choices had created. Harry was a good boy, Lily's boy and goodness would ultimately prevail.

But beneath that comfortable certainty, a whisper of doubt stirred in the darkness. What if patience was not wisdom? What if it was simply cowardice dressed in noble robes?

Dumbledore pushed the thought away and reached for his tea, determinedly focusing on the warmth of the cup rather than the chill that had settled in his chest.

Ron

The Gryffindor common room had finally quieted after the chaos of the troll incident, most students having retreated to their dormitories to process the evening's excitement. Ron sprawled in an armchair near the dying fire, his body still humming with the adrenaline rush of facing down a mountain troll. Beside him, Hermione sat with perfect posture, a book open in her lap though her eyes weren't focused on the pages.

Other students clustered in small groups throughout the room, their voices dropping to whispers whenever certain topics arose. And tonight, inevitably, the conversation kept circling back to Harry Potter.

"Did you see him during the feast?" Dean Thomas was saying to Seamus Finnigan near the window. "Just sitting there at the Slytherin table like nothing happened. Didn't even look concerned about the troll."

"Course he didn't," Seamus replied with a slight shiver. "Probably scarier than the troll anyway."

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He'd noticed Harry too—had been noticing him since the train ride to Hogwarts, though he'd never worked up the courage to actually approach. There was something about Harry Potter that made conversation feel impossible, something in those green eyes that suggested he'd already seen too much of the world's darkness to be interested in jokes about Chocolate Frogs or complaints about homework.

"I still can't believe Dumbledore let him come here," Lavender Brown said, her voice carrying clearly across the common room. "After what he did to that Muggle woman."

"Aunt Marge," Parvati Patil corrected with morbid fascination. "The Daily Prophet said she was his guardian's sister. He killed her with magic when he was only ten."

Ron felt a familiar stab of... something. Not quite sympathy, not quite fear, but a confused mixture of both. He could imagine his own Aunt Muriel being insufferable—she often was—but the idea of actually hurting her, let alone killing her, made his stomach turn.

"Maybe she deserved it," he said quietly, surprising himself.

The other students turned to stare at him, and Ron felt his ears grow hot.

"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione's voice was sharp with disapproval. "How can you say such a thing? Nobody deserves to be murdered, regardless of their behaviour."

"I didn't say murdered," Ron protested weakly. "Just... maybe she was being awful to him. You know how some Muggles get about magic."

"If Dumbledore said his Muggle guardians were safest for him, then they were safest," Hermione replied with rigid logic. "Potter probably didn't do as he was told and was punished for it. That doesn't excuse killing. He should be in Azkaban."

The coldness in her voice rattled Ron more than he wanted to admit. Hermione was usually so passionate about fairness and justice, but when it came to Harry Potter, she seemed to have decided that the law was more important than circumstances.

"But he was just a kid," Ron said, his voice smaller now. "Ten years old. Maybe he didn't mean to—"

"Magic doesn't work that way," Hermione interrupted. "Accidental magic rarely causes serious harm, and never death. What Potter did required intent. He chose to kill that woman."

Ron sank deeper into his chair, unable to find a rebuttal that didn't sound naive or stupid. Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe Harry Potter really was dangerous, really was someone who chose violence over other solutions. But then why did Ron feel this nagging sense that something was wrong with that picture?

He thought about his own family—the chaos and warmth of the Burrow, his mother's fierce protectiveness, his father's gentle humour. What would it be like to grow up without that? What would it do to a person to have no one who cared whether they lived or died?

The other students had moved on to discussing the troll incident again, but Ron found himself staring into the dying embers of the fire, thinking about train rides and missed opportunities. What if Harry had been sorted into Gryffindor? What if they'd become friends? Would Harry have been different—less cold, less frightening—if he'd been surrounded by warmth instead of whatever it was he'd found in Slytherin?

But even as he considered it, Ron knew he was lying to himself. Harry Potter had looked dangerous from the moment he'd stepped onto the Hogwarts Express. There was something about him that suggested he'd already travelled roads that most adults never walked, and Ron wasn't sure he wanted to know where those roads led.

Harry Potter felt less like a boy and more like a storm hovering outside the window—dangerous, magnetic, and already too far away to reach.

Lyra

The Slytherin girls' dormitory lay in deep silence, her roommates having long since fallen asleep after the excitement of Samhain. Lyra sat at her small desk near the window, a floating orange flame hovering above a piece of parchment while she carefully composed her weekly letter to Uncle Regulus. Beside the parchment sat a small silver frame containing a photograph of a woman with wild black hair and violet eyes that matched her own.

Lyra paused in her writing to study her mother's face, not with love or longing, but with the careful attention of someone examining a puzzle piece that never quite fit where it was supposed to. Bellatrix Lestrange had been beautiful, that much was obvious from the photograph. But there was something unsettling in her smile, something that made Lyra wonder what thoughts had been moving behind those familiar eyes.

She returned to her letter, her quill scratching softly against the parchment in the orange glow.

Uncle Regulus,

I hope this letter finds you well. Hogwarts continues to exceed my expectations, and I am grateful for the education you have provided me. My marks remain exemplary in all subjects, particularly Charms and Potions

You asked in your last letter whether I have made any noteworthy new acquaintances. I am pleased to report that I have made friends—with Harry Potter.

Lyra paused, considering her next words carefully. Uncle Regulus's questions were never casual, and she suspected he had particular reasons for wanting to know about her social connections.

He is interesting. He does not follow Dumbledore blindly. He questions things, which I find refreshing among our peers. He is also quite dedicated to his studies, I often find him in the library late into the evening, reading texts that are well above our year level.

She thought about the corridor incident, about the way Harry had immediately moved to protect her when the Gryffindors had started their cruel taunts about her mother. No one had ever defended her before—not from whispers, not from stares, not from the weight of a name that carried more darkness than most people could imagine.

He stood up for me when some older students were being unpleasant. I believe you would approve of his character.

That was as much as she could say without sounding childish or sentimental. Uncle Regulus valued strength and loyalty above sentiment, and she hoped her words conveyed both qualities without making her sound like a silly girl with a crush.

The other Slytherins have been welcoming as well. Draco in particular has been kind, though I suspect this is largely due to his father's instructions regarding my place in your household. Daphne has proven to be an excellent study partner, and Theodore shares my interest in magical theory.

Lyra set down her quill and looked again at her mother's photograph. Sometimes, late at night like this, she wondered what Bellatrix would think of her daughter's careful letters and dutiful studies. Would she be proud? Disappointed? Would she recognize anything of herself in the daughter she'd never had the chance to raise?

If my mother were free, Lyra thought with a familiar ache, they would never dare touch me or my friends.

It wasn't love she felt for the woman in the photograph—how could she love someone she'd never truly known?—but rather a complex mixture of curiosity and longing. Not for Bellatrix herself, but for what she represented: the kind of fierce protection that came from having family who would fight for you without question, who would make enemies pay for their cruelties.

Uncle Regulus provided that protection now, of course. The Black name carried weight, and his position in the Wizengamot ensured that she was treated with appropriate respect. But sometimes she wondered if people respected her for herself or simply because they feared the consequences of crossing House Black.

Harry Potter understood that uncertainty, she thought. He carried his own complicated legacy, his own burden of whispered names and fearful glances. But unlike her, he seemed to have found a kind of peace with being dangerous. There was something appealing about that, the idea that danger didn't have to be the enemy, that it could be a tool like any other.

I hope to see you soon. The approaching Yule season fills me with anticipation for our traditional observances.

With respect and affection,
Lyra

She signed her name with careful flourishes, then reached for the stick of black sealing wax that bore the crest of House Black. Uncle Regulus had given it to her when she'd first come to live with him, along with the reminder that she was a Black before she was anything else.

As the wax melted and pooled on the parchment, Lyra found herself looking once more at her mother's photograph. The woman in the picture smiled back at her with mad, beautiful eyes that offered no answers to the questions that haunted her daughter's dreams.

"Would you have protected me?" Lyra whispered to the photograph, her voice barely audible in the silent dormitory.

The orange flame flickered as if responding to her words, then guttered out entirely, leaving her alone in the darkness with her sealed letter and her unanswered questions.

Outside the window, the Black Lake reflected the stars like scattered diamonds, and somewhere in the castle, Harry Potter was probably still awake, reading by wandlight and preparing himself for whatever battles tomorrow might bring.

Lyra found that thought oddly comforting as she finally made her way to bed.

Chapter Text

November had slipped away into December, the days sharpening colder, the lessons sharpening harder. In the abandoned classroom that had become their sanctuary, Quirrell's lessons had grown more sophisticated, more dangerous. Harry had mastered the basic shield charms and moved on to hexes that left scorch marks on stone walls, learned to cast multiple spells in rapid succession, and begun to understand magic not as a tool but as an extension of his will.

"Clear your mind," Quirrell had instructed during their most recent lesson, his pale eyes intent on Harry's face. "Before sleep, each night. Empty it of the day's clutter, the meaningless chatter of others. A disciplined mind is a powerful mind."

Harry had taken to the practice with surprising ease, finding that the mental emptiness Quirrell taught actually helped quiet the chaotic whispers that sometimes leaked from other minds. The technique felt natural, necessary—another tool in an arsenal that grew stronger with each passing week.

In classes, his improvement had become impossible to ignore. Professor Flitwick had begun assigning him spells from the second-year curriculum, while McGonagall's stern approval followed his increasingly complex transfigurations. Even Snape had offered grudging acknowledgment of his potion work, though the Potions Master's dark eyes seemed to study Harry with an intensity that went beyond academic interest.

But it was the book Quirrell had given him during that first lesson that occupied Harry's thoughts most often. Magic is Might lay heavy in his trunk, its leather binding worn smooth by countless hands, its pages filled with arguments that grew more compelling with each reading. The author wrote with elegant logic about the natural order of things—how magic elevated those who possessed it, how the wizarding world's greatest mistake had been pretending that magical and non-magical people were somehow equal.

“The Muggle sees fire and fears it,” one passage read. “The wizard sees fire and commands it. This is not coincidence—this is hierarchy made manifest. To deny this truth is to deny the very foundation upon which our world is built.”

Late at night, while his dormmates slept, Harry would read by wandlight and find himself nodding along with arguments that would have horrified him months ago. But wrapped in the warmth of Slytherin acceptance, validated by genuine friendship and academic success, these ideas felt less like prejudice and more like simple truth.

Harry closed the book and tucked it away as December deepened toward the Solstice, carrying him toward the promise of something he had never dared hope for—a real holiday, spent with people who wanted him there.

The Hogwarts Express thrummed with chatter as compartments filled, trunks and owl cages rattling with every sway of the car. Harry sat among his Slytherin friends, knees pressed to his trunk, the air dense with sugar and wool and the faint metallic scent of snow outside the glass.

“You’re going to love the Manor, Harry,” Draco said for perhaps the tenth time. He was practically vibrating, his polished composure shaken into something younger, brighter. “The library alone, shelves that go higher than the ceiling here. Father says some of the volumes were copied before Hogwarts was founded.”

Harry tried to imagine it, row on row of bindings that no one would ever throw away.

“And the wards,” Draco pressed on, lowering his voice as if repeating a secret. “Strong enough to stop even the Dark Lord himself. Father says it’s the safest house in Britain.”

“Very comforting,” Daphne murmured. “A fortress full of books. Nothing says holiday cheer like ancient grimoires glaring down at you.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’ve never seen them. The place is magnificent.”

Crabbe finally looked up from a pile of Fizzing Whizbees, sugar clinging to his fingers. “There’ll be food, right?”

Without lifting his eyes from the Chocolate Frog in his hand, Goyle grunted, “It’s the Malfoys.”

“That’s not an answer,” Crabbe muttered, already unwrapping another sweet.

“There will be feasts,” Draco declared grandly. “Courses upon courses. Mother has the elves planning menus weeks ahead.”

Tracey Davis, perched near the door, broke in. “Speaking of Yule, what’s everyone else doing? My family’s off to France.”

“Germany,” Millicent said, sounding unimpressed. “Grandmother’s estate. She insists on old traditions.”

“Traditional sounds wonderful,” Pansy sighed. “Better than my cousin’s wedding. I’ll be suffocated in satin before January’s out.”

“At least you’re not being forced into Quidditch trials,” Theodore said. “Father’s convinced I should try next year. I’d rather study.”

“You should,” Draco said at once. “We need a better team if we’re going to crush Gryffindor. Did you see Wood last match? Hopeless.”

“He blocked half the shots Flint sent at his head,” Daphne observed mildly.

“That’s called strategy,” Blaise said with a grin.

“That’s called Gryffindors crying foul because they can’t keep up,” Pansy smirked.

“It’s Slytherin,” Draco declared, clearly pleased with himself.

The voices clashed and tangled, but there was rhythm to it, a familiarity. Harry let it press around him, the warmth of bodies and sound replacing the usual cold knot between his shoulders.

"What about you, Harry?" Lyra asked, noticing his silence. "Nervous about your first real Yule celebration?"

“A bit,” he said. His hands tightened on his knees, then loosened. “I don’t know what to expect.”

“You’ll like it,” Draco assured him. “Ceremonies with the other families, private traditions with us—”

“—and food,” Daphne cut in.

“—and food,” Draco agreed without missing a beat.

“The best part,” Pansy added, “is the gifts. Everyone brings something personal. Something that shows you notice things.”

Harry’s stomach dipped. He’d chosen presents, but what could you give people who already owned everything?

“It’s not expense,” Theodore said, catching his expression. “It’s attention. Father always says the right gift proves you’ve been listening.”

“Exactly,” Draco agreed. “Like Mother giving Father a rare artifact for his collection, or Father finding her some plant for the gardens.”

“What about you, Harry?” Tracey asked. “What do you collect?”

“Books,” Harry said, thinking of his small, hard-earned shelf.

“Books are the best gift,” Lyra said seriously. “Knowledge is never wasted.”

“Spoken like a Ravenclaw,” Blaise teased.

Lyra sniffed. “I’m in Slytherin, and proud of it. I simply value intellect.”

“Tragic,” Daphne said with mock solemnity. “Brains and ambition in one person. You’ll have the rest of us expelled.”

Harry surprised himself by laughing, and Lyra’s violet eyes softened.

“Unlike some,” Daphne murmured, as Crabbe dropped a Chocolate Frog card onto the floor.

“Eating’s an intellect,” Goyle muttered around a mouthful. “You have to… think about flavors.”

Theodore gave a solemn nod. “Profound.”

The laughter came easily after that, spilling over Quidditch debates, family gossip, exams still looming in January. Harry sat among it, the noise threading close until it felt almost like armour. No one asked him to vanish. No one watched him with suspicion.

When the train began to slow, Draco leaned forward, bright-eyed. “This is it, Harry. Mother and Father are going to adore you. I told them how sharp you are in Defense, how you actually understand magic instead of just memorising like—”

“Granger,” Pansy supplied with a smirk.

“Exactly,” Draco said. “You’ll see. They’ll treat you like family.”

As trunks were pulled down and cloaks shrugged on, the chatter turned to holiday farewells. Tracey promised owls from France; Millicent scowled about German etiquette; Lyra said, “Uncle Regulus insists we attend one of the ceremonies—he has plans this year.”

Draco looked delighted. “Perfect. You can help me show Harry everything.”

“I’ll be there too,” Pansy added, excitement bubbling.

Theodore smirked. “So will I. Curious to see how Potter manages his first proper gathering.”

Harry gathered his things in silence, the train slowing beneath him, heart beating fast in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

King's Cross Station bustled with the familiar chaos of term's end, families reuniting in clouds of steam and shouted greetings. Harry stood on Platform 9¾ with his trunk and Hedwig's cage, watching other students disappear into welcoming embraces. For the first time in his life, he felt anticipation rather than dread as he waited for Draco to find his parents.

"There they are!" Draco's voice carried over the crowd as he pointed toward the barrier. "Come on, Harry!"

Harry followed Draco through the press of people, catching glimpses of an elegant couple waiting near the platform's edge. The man was tall and pale with long platinum hair, and something about his presence made the crowd unconsciously part around him. People didn't seem to notice they were giving him space—they simply found themselves moving away, as if drawn by some invisible force. He stood perfectly still while chaos swirled around him, untouched by the noise and confusion. This, Harry realized with fascination, was what real power looked like. Not shouting or violence, but the kind of quiet authority that bent the world to your will without effort.

The woman beside him was beautiful in a cold, aristocratic way, her blonde hair perfectly styled despite the station's chaos.

"Mother! Father!" Draco called out, practically bouncing with excitement as they approached.

The woman—Narcissa, Harry remembered, smiled at her son with obvious affection. "Draco, darling. How was the journey?"

"Brilliant," Draco said, then turned to gesture at Harry. "This is Harry Potter. Harry, my parents—Lord and Lady Malfoy."

Harry felt suddenly aware of his own awkwardness under their scrutiny. The man's pale eyes studied him with calculating intelligence, and Harry could feel the same quiet authority that had parted the crowd at the station. This was someone accustomed to being obeyed, to having his will shape the world around him. The woman's gaze seemed to take in everything from his ill-fitting clothes to his uncertain posture.

"Mr. Potter," Lucius said with a slight nod. "Welcome."

"Thank you for having me, sir," Harry replied carefully.

Narcissa's expression softened slightly. "I hope the journey wasn't too tiring. Platform 9¾ can be quite overwhelming during the holidays."

Before Harry could respond, Draco had grabbed his arm with characteristic enthusiasm. "Wait until you see the Manor, Harry! It's going to be incredible. Father, can we take the long way through the gardens? Harry's never seen anything like it."

Lucius's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. "I suppose we could manage a brief tour before tea. If Mr. Potter isn't too tired?"

"I'm not tired," Harry said quickly, curious despite his nervousness.

"Excellent," Narcissa said. "Shall we?"

The Apparition journey was disorienting, Harry had only experienced it once before, and the crushing sensation still made his stomach lurch. He found himself gripping Lucius's arm perhaps tighter than necessary, but the man said nothing about it.

They materialized on a wide gravel drive, and Harry's first impression was simply... much. Everything was bigger, grander, more elaborate than anything he'd ever seen. The Manor rose before them like something from a history book, all elegant stone and soaring windows, while perfectly maintained gardens stretched away in every direction.

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor," Lucius said, and there was unmistakable pride in his voice.

"It's huge," Harry said, then immediately felt stupid for such an obvious observation.

Draco grinned. "Wait until you see inside. Come on!"

He started toward the front entrance, but his mother's voice stopped him. "Draco, perhaps your friend would like to freshen up first? The journey can be quite—"

"Oh, Mother, he's fine," Draco said dismissively. "Aren't you, Harry? We'll just do a quick tour, then you can rest before tea."

Harry nodded, caught up in Draco's obvious excitement. His friend was practically vibrating with eagerness to show off his home, and Harry found it oddly endearing.

The interior was even more impressive than the exterior. Rich tapestries covered stone walls, while portraits in ornate frames watched them pass with aristocratic dignity. Everything gleamed with care and expense—polished wood, gleaming silver, fresh flowers that must have cost a fortune in December.

"This is the main hall," Draco explained, gesturing grandly. "Those portraits are mostly great-great-grandparents and such. Terribly boring, really, but they like to give advice." He leaned closer to Harry and whispered conspiratorially, "Most of it's rubbish."

A stern-looking wizard in one of the portraits cleared his throat meaningfully, and Draco waved at him with cheerful irreverence.

A house-elf appeared with a soft pop, bowing deeply. "Young Master Draco, welcome home. Shall Dobby take Master Harry's belongings to the blue guest room?"

"Yes, and make sure everything is properly arranged," Narcissa instructed. "Fresh flowers, extra blankets, and have the fire lit."

"Of course, Mistress," Dobby said, disappearing with Harry's trunk.

"The drawing room's through there," Draco continued, pointing to an elaborate doorway. "That's where we'll have tea and where Mother entertains her friends. The dining room's enormous—you could fit half of Hogwarts in there. Oh, and wait until you see the library!"

He led Harry down a corridor lined with more portraits and ancient weapons, chattering excitedly about family history and the various treasures they passed. Despite his initial nervousness, Harry found himself relaxing. This was just Draco being Draco—enthusiastic, proud, eager to share something he cared about.

"Here's the library," Draco said, pushing open heavy oak doors to reveal a room that took Harry's breath away.

Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, reached by elegant ladders that moved along brass rails. Comfortable reading chairs were scattered throughout, and tall windows let in the grey December light. The air smelled of leather and parchment and something indefinably magical.

"It's incredible," Harry breathed, his eyes tracking along the countless volumes.

"Father's collection," Draco said with obvious pride. "Some of these books are older than Hogwarts. There are texts on magic theory, history, spell creation—practically everything." He grinned and added in a stage whisper, "Though I'd stay out of here too much if I were you. Mother says it's not natural for boys our age to spend all their time reading."

Harry smiled at that. "Good thing she doesn't know about my study habits at school."

They continued through the Manor, visiting a conservatory filled with exotic magical plants that bloomed despite the winter cold, a music room where a grand piano played soft melodies by itself, and a portrait gallery where painted ancestors offered commentary on everything from the weather to Draco's posture.

"The family chapel," Draco said, opening another door to reveal a small but elegant room with stained glass windows depicting magical scenes. "We hold some of the traditional ceremonies here during Yule. Very old magic."

Finally, he led Harry to a set of French doors that opened onto a stone terrace. "And this," Draco said with a flourish, "is the best part."

They stepped outside to gardens that seemed to stretch to the horizon. Magical plants bloomed despite the winter season—silver roses that chimed softly in the breeze, moonflowers beginning to glow as dusk approached, and climbing vines with leaves that shimmered like precious metals. Warming charms kept the air pleasantly mild despite the December weather, and magical lights began to twinkle among the flowering bushes.

"You have your own Quidditch pitch?" Harry asked, spotting the goal posts in the distance.

"Course we do," Draco said matter-of-factly. "Father had it built when I was eight. We can have a proper game tomorrow if you want.

Harry nodded, still taking in the sheer scale of everything. The gardens, the pitch, the Manor itself—it was like stepping into a different world, one where magic and money had combined to create something almost impossibly perfect.

"It's beautiful," he said quietly.

"It's home," Draco replied simply, and something in his tone made Harry look at him more carefully. Beneath the obvious pride was something deeper—a bone-deep security, the confidence of someone who'd never doubted their place in the world.

Harry envied him that certainty.

Tea was served in the morning room, a gentler space dressed in pale yellows and soft golds, far warmer than the marble austerity of the entrance hall. The fire murmured in the grate, and the windows admitted a cool wash of winter light. Harry found himself on a low sofa beside Narcissa, Draco sprawling in the armchair nearest the flames with the possessive ease of someone at home.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Harry,” Narcissa said, her hands steady as she poured from a silver pot chased with ivy. “Draco has spoken of little else these past weeks.”

“Mother,” Draco muttered, ears colouring.

“It’s true,” she said with a smile that took some of the sting from his protest. “He’s planned every detail of what he wants to show you. I believe Quidditch features heavily.”

“Already inspected the pitch,” Draco cut in quickly. “And the library. You should see it, Harry—the collection goes back centuries.”

“Some families hoard baubles,” Lucius remarked as he accepted his cup. “We keep what endures.”

Draco looked pleased. “You’ll like the east wing, Harry. Father lets me use the smaller study sometimes—it’s full of duelling manuals and early treatises. Real history, not just what Binns drones about.”

Harry nodded, the knot in his stomach loosening. “I’d like that.”

“And your studies more broadly?” Narcissa asked, passing him a plate of delicate cakes whose sugared surfaces seemed too fine to touch.

“Some subjects more than others,” Harry said, cautious, before Draco jumped in.

“Defence,” he declared. “He’s the best in our year. Quirrell says so.”

“An admirable strength,” Lucius said smoothly. “Defence is never wasted.” His gaze lingered on Harry a beat longer than comfort allowed. “And what of the future? Have you thought where your path might lead?”

Harry shifted. He hadn’t thought, not really—survival left little space for futures. “Maybe theory. Research. I like understanding why magic works, not just the spells themselves.”

Lucius inclined his head, pale eyes sharpening with interest. “Just so. True mastery lies in comprehension, not repetition.”

Encouraged, Harry spoke of intent shaping effect, of the strange elasticity between will and outcome. For a while, the words carried him, and the silence that met them felt less like judgment than consideration.

Then Lucius asked, almost idly, “And after summer, Harry? Where will you stay?”

The question landed like a trap snapping shut. His fingers tightened on the teacup. He hadn’t thought of it—not once. Hogwarts would close, term would end, and then what? Millfield was gone to him, his name scrubbed from their ledgers. There was no home waiting, no place that was his.

Narcissa shifted the teapot though it was already full, her gaze sliding once to her husband. A look passed, quick and exact. Agreement, calculation. Lucius returned it with the smallest incline of his head before facing Harry again, expression smoothed to courtesy.

“Forgive us,” Narcissa said softly, turning back to him with a smile that felt almost like mercy. “We only mean such matters are often settled early. You needn’t trouble yourself tonight.”

Draco broke in before Harry could answer, his voice bright with relief. “Show him around the library tomorrow, Mother. That’ll keep him occupied for days. He nearly memorized half the Defence section at school.”

“Then the library it is,” Narcissa said, letting the moment close. “Dinner will be at seven, in the smaller dining room. Much more comfortable than the formal hall.”

The small dining room felt intimate, though its polished panelling and tall windows spoke of wealth. The elves moved with noiseless precision, serving courses as though the dishes arranged themselves.

Narcissa complimented each one as if the elves were artisans rather than tools. Polite, cool, but never unthinking cruelty, Harry noted. It was more unnerving than kindness.

Conversation coiled easily: the shifting tides at Hogwarts, rumours from the Wizengamot, innovations in charmswork. Harry found himself drawn in, surprised by how intently they listened to him.

“The Ministry’s reforms in education are dangerous,” Lucius said smoothly, cutting into a slice of venison. “To strip away practical training and hide behind abstractions it leaves our children unarmed.”

“Defence isn’t theory,” Draco said, quick to support his father. “It’s being able to stand when someone wants you on the ground.”

Harry thought of Quirrell’s lessons, the thrill of fire on stone. “Defence should mean you can survive. Anything less isn’t worth teaching.”

Lucius’s eyes sharpened, approval glinting like a blade. “Precisely. Harsh truths, Mr. Potter, but truths nonetheless.”

The words lodged in him, cold and heavy, even as Narcissa guided the conversation into safer waters—family alliances, winter gatherings, who would attend which ceremony.

The drawing room glowed with firelight, marble and gilt softened by warmth. Draco sprawled near the hearth, paging through a book of enchanted architecture sketches, occasionally calling Narcissa’s attention to a design.

Lucius gestured to the chessboard. “A game, Harry? You’ll learn more by playing than watching.”

“I’m not very good,” Harry admitted.

“Then we shall correct that,” Lucius said, tone even but expectant. “Chess teaches strategy. Patterns. The discipline to see the whole field.”

They began. Harry moved on instinct, Lucius with measured patience. Even in defeat, he found himself drawn into the rhythm—the clack of marble pieces, the slow unfolding of intent.

“You lasted longer that time,” Lucius observed as a knight swept down for checkmate. “You begin to see the angles.”

“It’s harder than it looks.”

“Most things of worth are.” Lucius leaned back, pale fingers resting lightly on the arm of his chair. “But victory without difficulty has no savour.”

From the rug, Draco snorted. “Father always turns chess into a sermon.”

“Better sermons than complacency,” Lucius replied without heat.

Narcissa looked up from her correspondence, amused. “Enough strategy for one night. Tomorrow will be long, and both of you need sleep.”

“Can we explore the east wing after breakfast?” Draco asked, shutting his book.

“If you’re properly dressed,” she said, rising with elegant finality.

Harry followed them upstairs, the echo of Lucius’s words clinging like smoke: see the whole field.

The blue guest room felt like a sanctuary after the day's experiences. Someone had lit a fire in the grate and turned down the bed, while fresh flowers filled the air with subtle fragrance. Harry's trunk had been unpacked, his clothes hung neatly in the enormous wardrobe.

As he prepared for bed, Harry reflected on the day's events. Everything felt surreal—the luxury, the warmth, the sense of being wanted and valued. For the first time in his life, he understood what Draco had been trying to tell him about family and tradition and belonging.

He settled into bed with Magic is Might but found himself too content to concentrate on reading. Instead, he practiced the mind-clearing exercises Quirrell had taught him, letting the day's experiences settle into organized thoughts.

The warmth of Narcissa's attention. The respect in Lucius's voice when they discussed magical theory. The pride in Draco's eyes as he showed off his home. The easy acceptance of people who valued intelligence and strength and understanding.

Outside his window, snow began to fall across the manor's gardens, and somewhere in the house, he could hear the soft sounds of a family preparing for sleep. For the first time in his life, Harry Potter felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

As sleep began to claim him, one thought echoed through his peaceful mind: This is what I've been missing. This is what I want to protect.

But beneath that, another thought stirred, darker and more ambitious. He remembered the way people had moved around Lucius at the station, the unconscious deference, the quiet authority that needed no words or threats. He thought of the Manor's ancient elegance, the respect in the house-elves' voices, the weight of centuries of accumulated power and influence.

I want that too, Harry thought as consciousness faded. I want to be someone people move aside for. Someone who commands respect just by existing.

He would do anything to keep this feeling, this family, this home. And maybe, if he was clever enough and strong enough, he could earn a place not just as a guest in this world, but as someone who helped shape it.

In the darkness of Malfoy Manor, surrounded by warmth and acceptance he'd never dared dream of, Harry Potter drifted toward sleep with dangerous ambitions taking root in his heart.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to sunlight streaming through tall windows and the soft crackle of a fire that had been tended while he slept. For a moment, disorientation clouded his thoughts—this room was too large, too beautiful, too warm to be real. Then memory returned: Malfoy Manor, genuine welcome, the first night of his life spent in a place where he was truly wanted.

The blue guest room looked even more impressive in daylight. Someone had laid out fresh clothes on the chair beside his bed, not his own shabby robes, but new ones in deep forest green that looked expensive enough to feed a family for months. Fresh flowers filled crystal vases throughout the room, their subtle fragrance mixing with the wood smoke from the fireplace. Every detail spoke of care and attention that went far beyond mere hospitality.

Harry dressed slowly, running his fingers over the fine fabric of the new robes. They fit perfectly, tailored with the kind of precision that suggested they'd been made specifically for him. The realization sent a warm flutter through his chest, someone had cared enough to ensure he looked appropriate for breakfast at Malfoy Manor.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," he called, expecting to see one of the house-elves.

Instead, Draco's head appeared around the door, his pale hair still messy from sleep but his eyes bright with excitement. "Finally awake! Mother's been asking after you for the past hour. She's worried you're not eating enough."

"I'm fine," Harry said, though the concern in Draco's voice made something warm unfurl in his chest. When had anyone ever worried about whether he was eating enough?

"Course you are but try telling Mother that. She's convinced all Hogwarts students are half-starved." Draco grinned and stepped fully into the room. "Those robes look brilliant on you, by the way. Mother had them made when Father sent word you'd be staying. She said first impressions matter, even at breakfast."

Harry stared at him. "Made for me?"

"Obviously. Can't have you representing the Malfoy name in ill-fitting clothes, can we?" Draco said it casually, as if having clothes tailored for a houseguest was perfectly normal. "Come on, she's waiting in the morning room. And Harry?" He paused at the door, suddenly serious. "She really does want you to feel welcome here. This isn't just politeness."

The morning room was smaller than the grand dining hall they'd used the previous evening, decorated in warm yellows and golds that caught the winter sunlight streaming through tall windows. Narcissa sat at an elegant table set for three, already dressed in robes of pale blue that made her look like winter personified. She looked up as they entered, her face lighting up with what appeared to be genuine pleasure.

"Harry, dear," she said warmly, rising to greet him. "You look much better this morning. I hope you slept well?"

"Very well, thank you," Harry replied, still adjusting to being addressed with such maternal warmth. "The room is beautiful."

"I'm so pleased you're comfortable." She gestured for him to sit beside her, her movements carrying the unconscious grace of someone born to elegance. "I've asked the kitchen to prepare a proper breakfast, something lighter than the Hogwarts feasts, but prepared with more care."

As if summoned by her words, house-elves began appearing with platters of food that made the Great Hall's offerings look sparse by comparison. Fresh fruit arranged like artwork, pastries that gleamed with honey and butter, eggs prepared three different ways, bacon that smelled like heaven, and bread so fresh it was still warm from the ovens.

"Where's Father?" Draco asked, claiming the chair across from Harry and immediately reaching for a particularly decadent-looking pastry.

"Wizengamot business," Narcissa replied with a slight frown. "Their Solstice session always runs long, and Lucius insists on attending a few meetings afterward. He sends his regrets and promises to return by evening."

Harry felt a flicker of disappointment. He'd been looking forward to more conversation with Lucius, to studying that quiet authority and learning how it worked.

"Don't look so glum," Narcissa said, apparently noticing his expression. "This gives us more time for the things that truly matter. Draco's been practically vibrating with excitement to show you our library properly."

"It's incredible," Draco said through a mouthful of pastry. "Wait until you see the restricted section—books on magic theory that aren't available anywhere else, artifacts that have been in our family for centuries."

"Knowledge is the Malfoy family's true wealth," Narcissa said quietly, her blue eyes serious. "Gold can be lost, property can be seized but understanding—real understanding of magic and its applications, that becomes part of you. It's the inheritance that can never be taken away."

Something in her tone made Harry look at her more carefully. This wasn't idle conversation, she was trying to tell him something important.

"The library has been growing for over four hundred years," she continued, delicately cutting her fruit with silver implements that probably cost more than the Dursleys' car. "Each generation of Malfoys has added to it, preserved knowledge that might otherwise have been lost. We consider ourselves guardians of magical tradition."

"What kind of traditions?" Harry asked, intrigued despite himself.

"All kinds," Draco said eagerly. "Spell creation, ritual magic, family histories, philosophies—Father says knowledge of the past is the key to shaping the future."

"Very true," Narcissa agreed with a proud smile at her son. "Power without understanding is mere brutality. But understanding without the will to use it is mere academic exercise. The combination of both..." She let the sentence hang in the air, but her meaning was clear.

Harry thought of his lessons with Quirrell, of the way power and control had felt so natural in his hands. "I'd love to see it," he said honestly.

"Excellent," Narcissa said, her smile brightening. "After breakfast, then. I think you'll find it quite... educational."

The Malfoy library was even more impressive in daylight than it had been during his quick tour the previous day. Tall windows allowed natural light to stream across thousands of leather-bound volumes, while strategic placement of magical lamps ensured that even the deepest corners remained illuminated. The air smelled of aged parchment, leather, and something indefinably magical that seemed to emanate from the books themselves.

"This section here," Narcissa said, leading them to a wall lined with ancient tomes, "contains the core magical theory texts. Some of these are the only surviving copies of works by the great magical theorists of the past."

Harry’s eyes tracked along the spines, reading titles that made his pulse quicken. Advanced Principles of Magical Dominance. The Nature of Power: A Theoretical Framework. Bloodlines and Magical Inheritance. These weren’t the primers passed out in classrooms, but books that seemed to hum with authority, the kind that promised to explain not just how magic worked but why.

“And here,” Draco said, practically bouncing with excitement, “are the family histories and essays. Records going back to the founding of the Wizengamot.”

Harry tilted his head to study the rows of heavy tomes, their bindings embossed with crests and names he half-recognized from whispered conversations in Slytherin.

“Most people never read beyond the Ministry-approved texts,” Narcissa said lightly, though her gaze lingered on him. “But the truth is rarely so tidy. Families keep their own accounts, their own perspectives. A wise man learns to compare them.”

Harry ran his fingers over a volume stamped with a serpent-inlaid crest, wondering what it might contain.

“Are they… different from what we’re taught?” he asked.

“Different,” Narcissa agreed, her smile faint and unreadable. “More complete.”

She didn’t elaborate, and Harry felt a faint shiver of curiosity. What did she mean? What had been left out? He suddenly wanted to pry open every book in the room and see for himself.

"Look at this one," Draco interrupted, pulling down a slim volume bound in dark leather. "It's a collection of family spells—magic that's been passed down through generations of Malfoys. Father taught me some of them last summer."

"Family magic?" Harry asked, temporarily distracted from darker thoughts.

"Oh yes," Narcissa said with obvious pride. "Many old families have developed their own spells, charms, and rituals over the centuries. It's part of what makes magical bloodlines so important, the accumulated knowledge and power that comes from generations of careful study and practice."

She moved to a glass case in the centre of the room, gesturing for Harry to follow. Inside were various magical artifacts, crystalline orbs that seemed to pulse with inner light, jewellery that radiated power even through the protective glass.

"These are some of our family treasures," she explained. "Each one has a story, a purpose, a legacy. This ring, for instance, has been worn by the head of House Malfoy for over three centuries. It's not just ornamental, it carries protective enchantments and serves as a focus for certain family magics."

Harry stared at the ring, fascinated by the idea of magic that was passed down through bloodlines, power that came not just from individual skill but from being part of something greater.

"The amulet beside it was created by Armand Malfoy in 1467," Narcissa continued. "He was researching protective magic after his brother was killed in a duel. The enchantments he developed are still used by our family today."

"It's incredible," Harry breathed, meaning every word. This wasn't just a library—it was a repository of power, a treasure house of knowledge that had been carefully preserved and passed down through generations.

“This is the work of those who endure,” Narcissa said softly. “We safeguard the past, shape the future, and ensure that true knowledge never dies. Such responsibility lies beyond ordinary ambition.”

Harry felt something shift inside his chest—a longing so powerful it was almost painful. This was what he'd been missing his entire life, not just a family but a legacy. The sense of being part of something larger than himself, something that stretched back through centuries and would continue long after he was gone.

"Could I..." he started, then stopped, suddenly uncertain.

"Could you what, dear?" Narcissa prompted gently.

"Could I read some of these books? I mean, while I'm here?"

"Of course," she said with obvious pleasure. "I was hoping you'd ask. Knowledge shared is knowledge strengthened, and you strike me as someone who would appreciate what these texts have to offer."

Draco’s face lit up. "Brilliant! We can start with the family spells, or maybe the history section—there are some really old accounts you’d never find at Hogwarts. Father taught me one of the charms last summer, I could show you."

Narcissa smiled at her son’s enthusiasm, then looked back to Harry. "You see? Some treasures become greater when they’re passed along."

The weight of her words settled over Harry like a warm cloak. Worthy of their trust. Part of their circle. Someone who could be trusted with the family's most precious possessions.

"Thank you," he said quietly, and meant it more than any words he'd ever spoken.

"Then we’ll choose something together," Narcissa replied, her smile warming. "Books are companions, Harry, and the right ones find us when we need them most."

As they continued the tour, Harry found himself studying not just the books, but the way Narcissa moved through the space—the pride in her voice when she spoke of family achievements, the reverence with which she handled ancient texts, the obvious love she had for this repository of accumulated wisdom.

This was what it meant to have a heritage, Harry realized. Not just money or property, but generations of knowledge and tradition that shaped who you were and what you could become. For the first time in his life, he understood what he'd been denied by growing up with the Dursleys, and what he might be able to claim if he proved himself worthy.

"Shall we choose a few books for you to start with?" Narcissa asked as their tour wound down. "I think you might find Foundations of Magical Authority particularly interesting, given your obvious aptitude for the subject."

Harry nodded eagerly, already imagining the hours he could spend here, absorbing knowledge that would make him stronger, sharper, more capable of protecting what mattered to him.

As Narcissa selected several volumes,

Draco leaned against a shelf, watching him with an easy smirk. “Not many people get to see these,” he said, tapping a leather spine with one finger. “Even some of our cousins aren’t allowed near half the collection.”

Standing in the heart of the Malfoy library, surrounded by centuries of accumulated knowledge and power, with Narcissa’s warm approval washing over him like sunlight, Harry felt pieces of himself clicking into place that he hadn’t even known were missing.

He belonged here. He was meant for this.

And he would do whatever it took to earn his place in this world of tradition and power.

The afternoon passed in a pleasant blur of exploration and conversation. Draco insisted on showing Harry more of the Manor's grounds, despite the December chill that hung in the air. Warming charms kept them comfortable as they wandered through gardens that looked like something from a fairy tale, even in winter.

"The summer house," Draco explained, pointing to an elegant structure nestled among bare trees whose branches were strung with lights that would twinkle to life at dusk. "Mother holds garden parties there during the social season.

They passed ornamental pools where the ice had been enchanted to form intricate patterns, topiary hedges carved into fantastic shapes that moved subtly when no one was looking directly at them, and statues that seemed to follow their movement with marble eyes.

Draco gestured broadly toward the sweeping lawns and frost-dusted gardens. “The grounds go on for ages. Father says the landscaping was designed by one of the great artificers in the seventeenth century. There are charmed fountains, seasonal wards on the orchards, even a rose garden that blooms in midwinter.”

Harry followed his gaze, taking in the sprawling estate with something between awe and disbelief. Compared to Millfield’s barren yards, this place felt like another world entirely—every stone, every hedge, every glittering warded lantern humming with purpose.

As they walked, Draco chattered about family traditions and upcoming celebrations, his excitement infectious despite the cold air. "Tomorrow begins the Winter Solstice observances," he explained as they made their way back toward the house. " "Mother’s been planning for weeks. Lyra will be here with her uncle, and Theo too. The Parkinsons and Greengrasses are coming as well."

"What exactly happens during the observances?" Harry asked.

"Traditional ceremonies, mostly. Ancient magic that's been passed down through pure-blood families for centuries. Father says it's important to maintain the old ways, even if the Ministry pretends they don't exist." Draco's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "You'll love it, Harry. It's nothing like the watered-down celebrations most people have these days."

They returned to the house as dusk was falling, cheeks flushed from the cold and the exhilaration of flying. The brooms had cut sharp paths through the frosty air above the manor’s grounds, their laughter carrying across the gardens until their fingers grew numb even with warming charms.

 Narcissa met them in the entrance hall, her expression warm but slightly concerned.

“You boys have been out for hours,” she said, reaching up to smooth Draco’s wind-ruffled hair with automatic maternal care. “I hope you didn’t catch cold.”

"We're fine, Mother," Draco assured her, though he submitted to her fussing with obvious affection. "I was showing Harry the grounds. We even flew a few laps over the pitch."

"Of course you did," Narcissa said, her lips curving in a small smile. She turned to Harry with the same gentle concern. "I hope it wasn’t too cold for you? Winter air can be deceptively sharp."

Harry shook his head. "It was brilliant."

"I'm glad," Narcissa said warmly. Then her tone softened into something a shade more formal. "Tomorrow evening will be your first introduction to some of the other families. I thought it best you know what to expect."

"Formal?" Harry asked, feeling a flutter of nervousness.

"Nothing too intimidating," she assured him quickly. "Simply dinner with a few old friends who are curious to meet you. Lord Black will be attending with his niece, and Lord Nott will be bringing Theodore. You know most of the children already from school."

The mention of Lord Black made Harry's pulse quicken slightly. After everything Lyra had told him about her uncle, and the hints about his attempts to protect magical children from muggle abuse, Harry was curious to meet the man in person.

"What should I expect?" he asked.

"Intelligent conversation, excellent food, and the kind of traditions most of the wizarding world has forgotten," Narcissa replied with obvious satisfaction. "These are the families who remember what it means to be part of magical society, Harry. Not the watered-down version that passes for culture these days, but the real thing."

As they made their way toward the drawing room for tea, Harry found himself thinking about her words. The real thing. The implication was clear—there was authentic magical culture, and there was the pale imitation that most people settled for. The Malfoys and their associates represented the genuine article, the families who maintained proper standards and preserved important traditions.

"You should rest early tonight," Narcissa advised as they settled by the fire with tea and cakes. "Tomorrow will be a long day, and I want you to be at your best when you meet the others."

"What time do the observances begin?" Harry asked.

"The formal ceremonies start at sunset," Draco explained. "But there'll be preparations all day. Traditional foods, decorating with winter greenery, making sure everything is perfect."

"The Winter Solstice is the most important celebration of our calendar," Narcissa added seriously. "It represents the triumph of endurance over adversity, the promise that even the longest darkness will eventually give way to light. For families like ours, it's also a time to renew our commitment to preserving what matters most."

The weight in her voice made Harry look at her more carefully. This wasn't just about holiday traditions—there was something deeper here, something that connected to the books in the library and the hints about complex political realities.

"What kinds of commitments?" he asked quietly.

"To family. To tradition. To ensuring that the magical world remembers its true heritage." Narcissa's blue eyes were serious as they met his. "These are values that go far beyond politics or personal advantage, Harry. They're about preserving something precious for future generations."

As the evening wound down and they prepared for bed, Harry found himself thinking about everything he'd learned during his short time at the Manor. The library full of forbidden knowledge. The hints about political complexities he'd never imagined. The sense of being part of something larger and more important than individual ambition.

Tomorrow, he would meet other families who shared these values. He would participate in traditions that stretched back through centuries of magical history. For the first time in his life, he would be part of something that mattered, something that connected him to powers and purposes beyond his own survival.

As Narcissa had said, it was time to rest and prepare. Tomorrow would mark another step in his education about what it truly meant to be part of the magical world.

The real magical world, where knowledge was power and tradition shaped the future, where families like the Malfoys preserved what was most important against the forces that would see it diminished or destroyed.

Harry fell asleep that night with anticipation humming in his veins, ready to discover exactly what he was capable of becoming when surrounded by people who understood the true nature of power.

Chapter Text

The Manor had transformed overnight. Where yesterday there had been elegant emptiness, now there was purposeful activity in every corner. House-elves moved through the halls with silent efficiency, carrying silver platters and crystal decanters, while floating arrangements of winter greenery appeared in alcoves that had stood bare the day before. The very air seemed charged with anticipation, as if the ancient stones themselves understood the significance of what was to come.

Harry stood at his bedroom window, watching carriages arrive through the morning mist. Each vehicle was more elaborate than the last—some drawn by winged horses that landed gracefully on the gravel drive, others appearing from thin air with the soft crack of Apparition. Elegantly dressed figures emerged, their children trailing behind with the careful posture of those trained from birth in proper deportment.

A soft knock interrupted his observations. "Come in," he called, turning from the window.

Draco entered, already dressed in formal robes of deep green that made his pale hair look almost silver. "You're not ready," he observed with mild panic. "Mother will have kittens if we're late for the welcoming ceremony."

"I wasn't sure what to wear," Harry admitted, gesturing helplessly at the wardrobe where several sets of robes hung in pristine order.

"The midnight blue ones," Draco said immediately. "With the silver trim. They're formal enough for the ceremonies but not so elaborate that you'll look like you're trying too hard." He paused, studying Harry's face with the sharp perception that made him such a good friend. "Nervous?"

"A bit," Harry confessed. "I've never done anything like this before."

"You'll be fine," Draco assured him, settling into a chair while Harry changed. "Just follow my lead and remember—these people respect strength and intelligence. You've got plenty of both."

As Harry fastened the silver clasps on his robes, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The boy looking back at him bore little resemblance to the hollow-eyed waif who had arrived at Hogwarts four months ago. The midnight blue fabric was cut perfectly to his frame, the silver trim catching the morning light. He looked like he belonged in this world of ancient traditions and carefully preserved power.

"Come on," Draco said, rising from his chair with obvious excitement. "Time to meet everyone properly."

The main drawing room buzzed with controlled energy as guests mingled in small groups, their conversations creating a sophisticated hum that spoke of long familiarity and carefully maintained relationships. Harry followed Draco through the crowd, acutely aware of the way conversations paused as they passed, of the measuring looks directed his way.

"Lord and Lady Nott," Draco said, approaching a severe-looking couple standing near the fireplace. "May I present Harry Potter?"

The woman inclined her head with regal grace. "Mr. Potter. We've heard so much about you from Theodore." Her voice carried the crisp accent of old money and older power.

"All good things, I hope," Harry replied carefully, offering a slight bow that felt natural despite his lack of training.

"Quite good," Lord Nott said with what might have been approval. "Theodore speaks highly of your academic performance and your... practical approach to problem-solving."

Before Harry could ask what that meant, Theodore appeared at his elbow, looking as polished as Harry had ever seen him. "Harry! There you are. Come meet the others."

The next hour passed in a blur of introductions. Harry met the Greengrasses, whose keen intelligence reminded him of Daphne herself. Their younger daughter, Astoria, nearly gave him away at once—eyes wide as she blurted, “Mum, that’s Harry Potter!” Daphne promptly elbowed her and hissed, “Astoria!” through clenched teeth, which only deepened Harry’s awkward smile.

The Parkinsons proved as effusive as Pansy herself, while the Fawleys offered polite warmth—Gemma giving Harry a quick, knowing glance that recalled the corridor at Hogwarts. Each family spoke with polished ease of their chosen domains: the Notts of magical theory with the zeal of academics, the Greengrasses of trade in rare potion ingredients as if it were fine art.

Through it all, Harry felt the weight of their attention. Every nod, every measured question, every polite remark was an assessment, as though he were being studied against some standard he couldn’t yet name. Instead of shrinking under it, he felt something stubborn kindle inside him—a determination to match their scrutiny, to prove he belonged in this circle.

The doors opened again, Lyra stepped inside at Regulus’s side, her robes a deep charcoal trimmed in silver thread, the muted tones making her violet eyes shine all the brighter in the firelight. Composed, regal. While Regulus carried none of Lucius’s theatricality. His presence was quieter, but the shift it caused in the room was immediate. Conversations did not cease, but they sharpened, tones lowering, glances becoming more careful, as though everyone had remembered something important all at once.

“Narcissa,” Regulus greeted, and she leaned forward to kiss him on both cheeks, her smile warm but touched with deference. “The Manor is as it should be—refined, alive.”

“Regulus,” she returned smoothly, her hand brushing Lyra’s arm in quiet welcome. “And Lyra, darling—you look perfect.”

Regulus’s gaze moved then, catching on Harry across the crowd. It was not curiosity, nor politeness, but a direct, deliberate assessment that made Harry feel the floor tilt beneath him.

“Potter,” Regulus said simply, his voice calm, even pleasant, yet weighted with something Harry couldn’t place.

Harry inclined his head, the same gesture he’d given the other lords and ladies, though it felt heavier under that scrutiny. “My lord.”

For a beat, Regulus studied him in silence, then offered a thin smile that never reached his eyes. “So it begins.”

Lucius appeared beside Narcissa, his robes of deep gray catching no light at all. “Regulus,” he said with formal warmth. “We are ready.”

“Then let us not delay,” Regulus replied, his tone steady, almost ceremonial. His gaze swept the guests once more, and without needing to raise his voice, he drew them with him. “The night will not wait.”

The guests were led from the warmth of the Manor out onto the frost-bitten lawns. Their breath steamed in the dark, boots crunching on frozen earth as they gathered beneath a vault of stars so sharp it seemed they might fall. At the center of the grounds, a great fire pit waited, ringed with tall iron torches, all unlit.

The assembled families formed a wide circle on the frosted lawn, their breath rising pale against the starlight. At the center stood the pyre: a tower of seasoned oak stacked with mathematical precision, waiting for flame. The night was bitter, the kind of cold that bit through wool and fur, yet no one shivered. Silence settled, heavy and expectant, as though the very sky leaned close to listen.

Harry found himself standing between Draco and Lyra, the weight of tradition pressing on his shoulders like a mantle. Behind them, Theodore leaned a little toward Daphne, his voice pitched low.

“They’ve widened the circle since Samhain,” he muttered, ever the observer.

“Or you’ve finally noticed the geometry,” Daphne replied, her tone dry as frost.

Theo gave her a sideways look but said nothing further. Lyra, catching the exchange, shook her head almost imperceptibly, her attention fixed forward.

Around the circle, attendants moved with lit torches, passing flame from hand to hand until every family line bore a single light. The fire that reached the Malfoys was handed to Lucius, who stepped forward with ritual gravity.

“Tonight,” Lucius intoned, his voice cutting cleanly through the winter air, “we mark the longest night. Darkness holds sway, yet within its dominion, light is born anew. So it has been, so it shall be.”

He lowered the torch into the heart of the pyre. Flame roared to life, racing up the oak until the night itself seemed to recoil from the blaze. Shadows leapt across noble faces, painting them in flickers of gold and black.

“Light endures,” Lucius continued, his gaze sweeping the circle. “Not the frail comfort of morality, nor the shallow glow of sentiment. Our light is will. Our light is lineage. Our light is the unbroken flame that binds us across generations.”

At his gesture, attendants moved again, this time bearing smaller candles. Each child received one, the wick catching from the great fire. Harry stared at his flame—fragile, flickering, yet alive against the void of night.

“Carry this fire,” Lucius said, his voice resonant, “and know that it carries you. Through shadow, through silence, through the longest night, our line endures.”

The circle repeated the vow in unison, a low murmur rising like an incantation: Through the longest night, we endure.

Harry whispered it with the others, the words strange on his tongue but heavy with meaning. Beside him, Draco held his candle like a soldier with a banner. Lyra’s expression was solemn, reverent. Theo’s eyes darted to the fire, calculating, while Daphne leaned closer to him again.

“Don’t drop yours, Theo,” Daphne murmured, her voice deceptively sweet. “Wouldn’t that be awkward?”
Theo’s grip faltered at once, hot wax lurching dangerously close to his fingers. He caught the candle just in time, shooting her a murderous glare.

Daphne only grinned, entirely unrepentant.

Harry said nothing but a chill that wasn’t the cold swept through him. The fire crackled, ancient and unyielding, and he felt the vow take root somewhere deep inside, binding him to something larger than himself—something both comforting and terrifying.

Across the circle, beyond the wall of flame and shadow, Regulus Black was watching him. Not idly, not in passing—his gaze was fixed, steady, as though weighing something Harry couldn’t name. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, and Harry looked away first, unsettled by the sense of being seen too clearly.

After the public ceremony, as the other families began to drift back toward the warmth of the Manor, Narcissa approached Harry with gentle insistence.

"Come," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder with maternal warmth. "There's one more tradition I'd like you to witness. Something just for family."

She led him and Draco away from the dying bonfire, through gardens that seemed almost ethereal in the moonlight, to the small family chapel Harry had glimpsed during his tour. The ancient stone building glowed softly from within, lit by what appeared to be floating candles that cast everything in warm, golden light.

The chapel was smaller than the grand halls of the Manor, its very scale making it feel more solemn. Golden candlelight floated high against the vaulted stone, glimmering across stained-glass windows that depicted wizards calling fire from the void, bending storms, passing luminous flame into the hands of their heirs.

Harry followed Narcissa into the front seats of the chapel, where shadows from the stained glass fell across the stone floor. Draco already taking his place with the quiet confidence of someone who had been here many times before. Lyra slipped in beside them with unstudied grace, her violet gaze solemn. The weight of being here—of being chosen to see what even few outsiders ever had—settled on Harry’s shoulders like a mantle.

Lucius stood at the altar, one hand resting on a tome bound in midnight-blue leather. His voice carried the cadence of ritual, measured and unyielding.
“For four centuries, the Malfoy line has guarded what others cannot even perceive. Knowledge not invented but entrusted. Power not seized but inherited. We are the vessels of something older than any name we give her.”

Narcissa’s voice joined his, softer but no less certain.
“Magic is not invention. She breathes in the rivers, whispers in the wind, burns in the fire, roots in the soil, and watches from the stars. We do not create her—we are chosen to carry her. To guide her. To ensure she endures.”

Draco’s chin lifted as though the words themselves passed into him, the heir of this lineage by right. Harry, watching, felt a strange flicker of envy—and, just as quickly, belonging.

“Magic does not endure where she is not respected,” Lucius continued, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “The Muggle world poisons earth and sky because it cannot hear what it destroys. They burn and cut, blind to the living current beneath their feet. But we—” his voice sharpened, proud and merciless—“we are her stewards. She chooses the worthy, and through us, she survives.”

Lyra bowed her head. “That is why the old ways matter. Why not everyone is fit to carry them.”

Narcissa laid a hand briefly on Draco’s shoulder, then Harry’s, her touch both tender and binding. “This is why bloodlines matter. They carry not only history but responsibility. To squander this gift is treachery—not only against our kind, but against magic herself.”

The vow ended in unison, Lucius and Narcissa’s voices rising as one. For a breathless instant Harry thought the candles flared in answer, shadows stretching like living things across the walls.

When silence fell, Narcissa turned to them. “Do you understand what you’ve witnessed?”

Draco spoke first, steady as stone. “That magic must be preserved. That it is our duty.”

Harry’s throat was dry, but he forced the words out. “It’s about more than family. It’s about being worthy, about protecting magic herself.”

Lucius’s approval was sharp as a blade. “Exactly. Magic endures through us, or she dies with us. That is why she cannot be entrusted to the blind.”

The weight of the moment sank into Harry’s chest, heavier than any chain, more intoxicating than any freedom. As they left the chapel, he walked in silence, carrying the weight of it with him. And somewhere within, a realization stirred—haunting and beautiful. Magic had never been a tool, never merely the accidents that had burst from him in terror or rage. She had been there all along: breathing with him in the cupboard, answering him in his despair, shielding him when no one else had. She was not his to command. She had chosen him, when all others had abandoned him.

A shiver ran through him, not of fear but of recognition. This was what had been kept from him—what the Muggles had tried to crush, what Dumbledore had denied by leaving him in their hands. They had called his gift dangerous, unnatural. Here, it was holy. Here, it was destiny.

And for the first time, Harry felt the sharp beginning of a faith: not in men, not in families, not even in himself—but in Magic, the only power that had never betrayed him. In that certainty, he felt a fierce, unshakable comfort, one that could never be taken from him.

One he knew, instinctively, he would kill to protect.

The banquet that followed was unlike anything Harry had ever experienced. The formal dining room had been opened for the occasion, its massive table accommodating all the guests with room to spare. Course after course appeared—foods Harry couldn't identify but that tasted like they'd been prepared by angels, wines that seemed to warm him from the inside out, desserts that looked like works of art.

But more fascinating than the food was the conversation that flowed around the table. These people spoke of magic and politics with the casual expertise of those born to power, their words layered with meanings that went far beyond surface topics.

"The Ministry's latest educational initiatives," Lord Nott was saying with obvious disdain, "seem designed to produce workers rather than thinkers."

"Dangerous precedent," Lady Greengrass agreed. "When you restrict access to real magical knowledge, you create a dependent population."

"Exactly what they want," Lord Parkinson added darkly. "Citizens who rely on official sources for everything, who never learn to think critically about what they're told."

Harry listened with growing fascination as the adults discussed the political currents that shaped their world. These weren't the simplified good-versus-evil narratives he'd heard at Hogwarts, but complex analyses of power structures and competing interests.

"The real question," Regulus said quietly, his voice cutting through the other conversations, "is what happens when people begin to realize how much they've been denied."

Something in his tone made the table fall silent. Harry felt the weight of unspoken implications, the sense that these words carried meanings he wasn't quite ready to understand.

"Change is coming," Lucius said finally, his pale eyes reflecting the candlelight. "The only question is whether it will be guided by wisdom or driven by chaos."

"Then we must ensure," Narcissa said with quiet determination, "that wisdom prevails."

Around the table, heads nodded in agreement. These people weren't just preserving tradition for its own sake—they were preparing for something, positioning themselves to guide events that were already in motion.

Harry felt a thrill of excitement mixed with apprehension. Whatever was coming, these people would be at the centre of it. And they were offering him a place among them, a role in shaping the future of the magical world.

As the evening wound down and guests began to take their leave, Harry found himself overwhelmed by the weight of everything he'd experienced. The ceremonies, the conversations, the sense of being welcomed into something vast and important—it all swirled together in his mind like pieces of a puzzle he was only beginning to assemble.

Needing air and quiet, he slipped away from the lingering conversations and made his way onto one of the Manor's many balconies. The night air was crisp and clean, filled with the scent of dying fires and winter roses. Above, stars glittered like scattered diamonds against the velvet sky.

Harry gazed upward, trying to process everything that had happened. The rituals had stirred something deep in his chest, a sense of connection to forces larger than anything he'd imagined. The conversations had opened his eyes to political realities he'd never considered. Most importantly, the acceptance he'd found here felt more real and meaningful than anything he'd experienced in his short life.

The soft sound of footsteps made him turn. Lord Regulus Black stepped onto the balcony, moving with the same silent grace Harry had noticed earlier. For a long moment, neither spoke, both simply looking up at the star-filled sky.

"It's quieter out here," Regulus said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "The stars are better company than courtiers."

Harry nodded, surprised by the observation. He'd expected political conversation or adult interrogation, not this moment of shared solitude.

"Potter," Regulus continued, turning slightly to study Harry's profile in the moonlight.

"Sir?"

"What did you think of tonight's observances? Did they... resonate with you?"

Harry considered the question carefully. "They felt important," he said finally. "Like they connected to something real."

"Good. And what have you learned during your time at Hogwarts? About magic, about power, about the nature of the world we inhabit?"

"I've learned that most people don't understand what magic really is," Harry said slowly. "They think it's just about casting spells and following rules, but it's deeper than that."

"Indeed. Magic is the wild heart of nature, untamed and eternal. We do not own her—we survive by learning how to bend close enough to hear her pulse." Regulus's voice carried the weight of someone stating fundamental truth. "But tell me, Potter—what do you think separates those who truly understand power from those who merely pretend to?"

Harry felt the weight of the question, the sense that his answer mattered in ways he couldn't fully grasp. "Strength, I suppose. And not being afraid to use it."

"Strength, yes. But what kind of strength?" Regulus turned to face him more fully, his grey eyes reflecting the starlight. "Many boys your age mistake cruelty for power, loudness for authority. They see a Quidditch captain shouting orders and think that's leadership. They watch a bully hexing first-years and believe that's strength."

Harry nodded, thinking of some of the older students he'd observed. "But that's not real power, is it?"

"No, it's not. Real power is quieter. More... fundamental." Regulus paused, studying Harry's face in the moonlight. "Many people prefer comfortable illusions to difficult truths. They believe in simple answers, clear divisions between right and wrong. But the world is more complex than that, isn't it?"

Harry felt like he was being tested, like this moment could determine whether he was truly worthy of the acceptance he'd found tonight. The pride from the evening's ceremonies, the sense of belonging to something greater, made him want to prove that he understood—that he was more than just another naive boy playing at being grown-up.

"There is no good and evil," he said with quiet conviction, trying to match the sophisticated certainty he'd heard in the adults' conversations all evening. "There is only power, and those too weak to seek it."

The silence that followed was deafening. Regulus went completely still, every line of his body sharpening like a blade brought to perfect focus. The casual warmth that had characterized their conversation vanished as if it had never existed.

"What did you just say?" The question was soft, deadly quiet.

Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the December air, but he'd come too far to back down now. "There is no good and evil," he repeated, his voice smaller but determined. "There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. Professor Quirrell taught me that."

Regulus studied him with an intensity that made Harry feel as though he were being peeled apart, layer by layer, until nothing was left hidden. Then, at last, a long, deliberate breath escaped the man—heavy, carrying emotions Harry couldn't identify.

When he spoke again, his expression had smoothed back into perfect composure, but something fundamental had shifted. His voice was soft, controlled, and unnervingly cold.
"If you are repeating his lessons, then the world is closer to changing than I thought."

The words sent a chill down Harry's spine. There was no praise in them, no reassurance—just an ominous recognition that made the night air feel suddenly oppressive.

Regulus leaned closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Those are not Quirrell's words, boy. They belong to another—a man whose shadow has not left this world."

Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

Regulus’s eyes caught the moonlight—hard, reflective, unreadable as polished stone. For a moment, Harry thought he saw something like pity flicker across those aristocratic features.
"You may not understand the weight of what you've just repeated," he said finally. "But you will. The world has a way of teaching such lessons quickly."

Without another word, he turned and walked back into the Manor, leaving Harry alone on the balcony with questions he didn’t know how to ask and fears he couldn’t name.

He stood there for a long time, staring out over the dark gardens where torches still flickered like distant stars. The warmth of acceptance and belonging still filled his chest, but now it was tainted with something colder—a growing awareness that he had stepped into currents far deeper and more dangerous than he could yet comprehend.

The pride he'd felt in sharing Quirrell's wisdom had curdled into unease, leaving him with the unsettling sense that he had crossed a boundary he hadn't even seen. And though dread twisted in his stomach, another feeling rose with it—dark curiosity, sharp and undeniable.

And in the silence of that thought, he realized with a jolt of exhilaration that he did not want to turn back

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the sound of house elves moving through the corridors with purpose, their soft voices carrying hints of excitement and urgency. Through his window, the Manor's grounds sparkled under a fresh coating of snow that seemed to make everything glow with ethereal beauty. Today was Yule proper, the culmination of all the traditions and ceremonies he'd witnessed over the past few days.

The dining hall had been transformed overnight into something from a winter fairy tale. Floating candles cast warm golden light over everything, while wreaths of evergreen and holly adorned the walls between silver and green banners that seemed to shimmer with their own inner light. Enchanted snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, melting just before they touched the gleaming table settings.

Harry dressed carefully in his finest robes, the midnight blue ones that had served him so well during the Solstice ceremonies. As he fastened the silver clasps, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and barely recognized the boy looking back. Gone was the hollow-eyed waif who had arrived at Hogwarts months ago. In his place stood someone who looked like he belonged in this world of ancient traditions and carefully preserved power.

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts, followed immediately by Draco bursting through the door without waiting for permission.

“Finally awake!” Draco announced, already dressed in robes of deep forest green that made his pale hair look almost silver. “You’re moving like a house-elf with a broken leg, Potter. We’ve got gifts to exchange, a feast to attend, and it’s not just dinner—it’s Yule.”

Harry adjusted the clasp of his robes for the third time, fingers tugging as though the fabric might sit differently. He gave no reply, and Draco smirked as if he’d heard one anyway.

“This is the best part,” Draco went on, too excited to notice. “Wait until you see what everyone’s chosen for you. Mother says gift-giving reveals character better than any other ritual.

As they made their way downstairs, Harry could hear laughter and conversation coming from one of the smaller parlours. Through the doorway, he glimpsed the other families already gathered around a crackling fire, their children clustered together while adults watched with indulgent smiles.

"There they are," Narcissa said warmly as Harry and Draco entered. She looked radiant in robes of pale silver that caught the firelight like captured starlight. "We were just about to begin."

The parlour had been arranged with comfortable seating around the fireplace, while a side table groaned under the weight of carefully wrapped packages. Harry felt a flutter of nervousness as he took in the sheer number of gifts, he'd never experienced anything like this before.

"Traditionally," Lucius explained, settling into his chair with practiced elegance, "we begin with the youngest and work our way up. Miss Greengrass?"

Astoria stepped forward shyly, clutching a small package wrapped in green silk. The gift exchange that followed was unlike anything Harry had ever imagined—each present chosen with obvious care and thought, revealing relationships and understanding that went far beyond mere politeness.

When his turn came, Harry felt all eyes upon him as he approached the gift table. His own offerings looked modest compared to some of the elaborate packages, but he'd chosen each one with careful consideration.

For Theodore, he’d owl-ordered a slim volume of magical theory, its arguments sharp and meticulous in a way he knew Theo would appreciate. The leather binding was scuffed with age, but the words inside carried weight. For Daphne, an elegant set of silver potion stirrers that he'd had engraved with her initials. Pansy received a delicate charm bracelet with tiny moving figures of their Slytherin friends, while Draco got a first-edition copy of Quidditch Through the Ages bound in dragon leather.

For Lyra, he'd chosen something more personal—a silver locket that could hold not just a photo but a memory, allowing the wearer to experience a moment whenever they opened it. The thoughtfulness of each gift clearly surprised and pleased the recipients, earning him warm smiles and genuine gratitude.

Then it was time for Harry to receive his own gifts, and the overwhelming generosity left him speechless.

From the Malfoys came dress robes so perfectly tailored they might have been made by angels, the deep green fabric shot through with silver thread that caught the light with every movement. "For formal occasions," Narcissa said with a meaningful smile. "I have a feeling you'll need them."

Draco's gift made Harry's breath catch—a silver quill with HJP inlaid in tiny diamonds along its length. "For all that studying you insist on doing," Draco said with affectionate teasing. "Now you can at least look dignified while you're being a swot."

Theodore’s present was practical but elegant—a chess set carved from silver and obsidian, the pieces so detailed they seemed almost alive. He handed it over with a faint smirk.
“Now you’ll have no excuse not to join us at chess, Potter.”

Daphne’s gift was a small pouch of dark green dragonhide, its surface etched with runes so fine they shimmered when the light struck at an angle.

“It keeps potions fresh,” she said, handing it over with studied casualness. “Slip a vial in, and it won’t spoil. Ask for one back, and the right bottle comes out. It even shrinks to fit in your pocket.”

Her tone sharpened with the faintest curve of a smile. “So, when you inevitably botch something in class, at least you’ll have a decent brew hidden away to save face.”

The pouch was light in his palm, yet the magic threaded through it hummed like a promise.

Pansy's gift nearly brought tears to Harry's eyes—a magical photograph charmed from her own memory, showing all the Slytherin first-years laughing together in their common room. In the moving image, Harry could see himself truly part of the group, his face bright with genuine happiness. "So you'll never forget that you belong with us," she said softly.

Lyra's gift was perhaps the most meaningful of all—a leather-bound tome that proved to be a compiled Potter family history, supplemented with notes and intelligence from the Black family archives. "I thought you should know where you come from," she said quietly. "Your heritage is more complex than most people realize."

The final gift from the group came from Regulus himself, a pendant on a silver chain that seemed to pulse with subtle magic. "Protective wards," he explained in his cool, measured voice. "It will detect certain... dangers. Poison, malicious enchantments, things of that nature." The weight of his gaze made it clear this was no casual gift.

As the afternoon wore on and the gift exchange concluded, Harry found himself overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness and generosity he'd been shown. These people had taken the time to understand him, to choose presents that spoke to who he was becoming rather than who he'd been.

The Yule feast itself was a spectacle beyond anything Harry had ever imagined. The great dining hall had been opened for the occasion, its massive table accommodating all the guests with room to spare. Golden goblets gleamed in the candlelight, while platters of food appeared and disappeared with house-elf efficiency.

Course after course materialized—roasted swan with herbs that made the air fragrant, vegetables that seemed to glow with their own inner light, puddings that sparkled like captured stars. Wine flowed freely for the adults, while the children enjoyed flavored punches that tasted like liquid celebration.

The conversation flowed as smoothly as the wine, touching on everything from Quidditch prospects to business ventures. Harry listened with growing fascination as the adults discussed current events with the casual expertise of those who shaped rather than merely observed the world around them.

"The Thornfield property acquisition seems to be proceeding smoothly," Lord Nott was saying with satisfaction. "Prime location, excellent access to both magical and mundane transportation networks."

"Quite strategic," Lady Greengrass agreed. "The import licensing should follow naturally once the proper relationships are established."

"Speaking of relationships," Regulus observed quietly, his grey eyes reflecting the candlelight, "I hear there have been some interesting appointments to the Board of Magical Imports. Fresh perspectives, one might say."

Harry felt the weight of unspoken implications in their words, the sense that these seemingly business-focused conversations carried meanings that went far beyond profit margins. These people weren't just commenting on commerce, they were positioning themselves to influence something larger.

As the evening progressed, the formal atmosphere gradually relaxed. The adults settled into comfortable conversation while the children were given permission to explore the Manor's winter gardens. Outside, fresh snow had begun to fall, creating a wonderland of white that sparkled under the magical lights strung through the trees.

What started as a casual walk quickly devolved into chaos as someone, Harry suspected Theodore—launched the first snowball. Within minutes, all pretence of dignity had been abandoned as the children engaged in gleeful magical warfare.

Enchanted snowballs darted through the air like tiny white missiles, exploding in bursts of powder when they found their targets. Harry found himself laughing as he dodged Pansy's latest volley, but when he retaliated, the spell came too easily to his wand. The snowball shot forward with perfect accuracy, catching Draco square in the chest with enough force to knock him backward a step.

"Brilliant shot!" Draco called out, grinning as he brushed snow from his robes.

Harry smiled back, but his arm still hummed with the memory of channelling intent through magic. The satisfaction of a perfectly placed strike felt familiar in a way that had nothing to do with childhood games.

Even Lyra abandoned her usual composure, her laughter ringing across the gardens as she sent a barrage of snowballs spinning in complex patterns that seemed to defy gravity. For a brief, precious moment, they were simply children playing in the snow—though Harry couldn't quite shake the awareness of how naturally his magic had responded to the desire to hit his target.

"Truce!" Daphne called eventually, holding up her hands in surrender as she emerged from behind a topiary hedge covered in snow. "I'm frozen solid!"

They made their way back to the Manor in high spirits, their cheeks pink from cold and exertion, their robes damp with melted snow. The warmth of the house enveloped them like an embrace, and Harry felt his shoulders relax in a way they rarely did, the constant alertness he carried finally easing.

As they shed their wet outer robes in the entrance hall, Harry caught sight of his reflection in one of the polished mirrors. The boy looking back bore no resemblance to the hollow-eyed waif who had lived in cupboards and institutions. This version of himself belonged here, among friends who valued him, in a house where his presence was wanted rather than merely tolerated.

Later that evening, as the guests began to take their leave and the Manor settled into quieter rhythms, Harry found himself back in his room with his collection of gifts spread across the bed. Each one represented a connection, a relationship, a place in this world he'd found.

He was arranging them carefully when he noticed something he'd missed earlier—an additional package sitting on his nightstand, wrapped in midnight blue silk that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the candlelight.

Harry approached it cautiously, noting that there was no card or indication of who might have sent it. The wrapping fell away to reveal something extraordinary—a cloak that seemed to shimmer and flow like liquid moonlight, so fine it might have been woven from captured starlight itself.

When he lifted it, the fabric felt impossibly light in his hands, and as he held it up to the candlelight, his own reflection disappeared entirely. An Invisibility Cloak—he'd read about them in the library, knew they were incredibly rare and valuable, but he'd never imagined actually touching one.

A small piece of parchment fluttered to the floor as he examined the cloak. In spidery handwriting, it read: Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well.

Beneath the cloak lay something else—a leather-bound journal, thick with years of accumulated knowledge. The cover was unmarked save for three letters that glinted faintly in the firelight: TMR. There was no note, no explanation, just the weight of the book in his hands and the sense that someone had chosen this gift with careful deliberation.

Harry opened the journal to the first page, where elegant script greeted him: A legacy of learning from one who understood that knowledge is the truest form of power. Study well what others have discovered, that you might surpass their achievements.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, the journal heavy in his hands. The initials meant nothing to him, but the weight of the book suggested it contained substantial content. The leather was well-worn, as if it had been handled frequently over many years, and when he opened it to the first page, he found neat handwriting in faded ink.

Year One - Basic Principles and Observations

The pages that followed were filled with detailed notes, spell variations, theoretical discussions, and what appeared to be original magical research. Whoever TMR was, they had been a serious student of magic, documenting everything from classroom lessons to independent experiments with meticulous care.

The script beyond was precise, margins ordered, each word written with the control of someone who expected never to be corrected.

Fractura — Bone-breaker. Force narrowed to a point snaps bone with clean violence. Fingers and wrists fold instantly; ribs give way with hollow crack. Shock of pain floods the body, leaving the rest of the fight broken before it begins. Movement afterwards grinds the break worse. A single strike is enough to cripple.

Furunculus — Boil Hex. Flesh swells and bursts in angry blisters, spreading fastest across the face. Pain sharp, constant; vision often clouded as boils swell around the eyes. Targets claw at their own skin, worsening the damage. Lingers unpredictably, minutes in some cases, hours in others. Humiliation is half its strength. Leaves scarring if sustained.

Flagrantis — Flame whip. Fire thinned to a lash. Difficult to sustain; will must shape it or it frays into sparks. With practice, flame can be bent to the caster’s will—extended, coiled, even looped. One strike across the face causes lasting damage. If drawn tight at the throat, can drag a target back or choke. Control more important than force.

Observation: Pain responds to intent. The more anger driven into the spell, the stronger the effect. Controlled rage fuels precision better than excitement. Weak will produces weak curses. Strength is not in the words but in the emotion behind them.

Harry read line after line, the letters cutting across the page like etched steel. These weren’t notes for lessons. They were challenges. Every charm, every theory, bent past its classroom use toward something harder, more dangerous.

He kept turning pages. Observations on teachers, written coolly as if dissecting insects. Fragments of spells that looked raw and unfinished, yet already stronger than anything he had been taught. Even stray thoughts carried the same refusal to accept limits.

The room stayed silent around him, the only sound the faint shift of parchment under his hands. The fire burned low, shadows tightening across the walls. Still, he read, eyes tracing every measured line until the candle guttered.

When at last he closed the book, the initials TMR caught the dying flame, stark and plain. It felt less like discovery than recognition, as though the words had been waiting for him all along.

Harry set the journal on the nightstand beside the folded cloak. Tomorrow he would begin again from the start. Tonight, the words already circled in his mind, sharp and certain, too clean to ignore.