Chapter Text
“Tell me everything,” Greta said, eyes narrowed like shards of ice. “The whole situation with Yaxley.”
Her room was dim, light from the fire spilling around them. Beyond the glass, a silver-scaled fish cut through the moonlight.
“There’s not much to tell,” Harry replied, leaning against the marble mantle. The heat soaked into his back.
Greta glared at him from her own mirroring position on the other side of the fireplace, hair arrayed wild like a lioness.
“That’s not true, Harry,” Greta snapped.
“What do you want me to say?” Harry snapped back.
Greta’s face fell and Harry’s weak heart seized up. She took his hand.
“What can I do for you to trust me?” Greta asked quietly.
“I do trust you,” Harry promised.
“Not enough,” Greta said, frowning.
“It’s not you,” Harry explained. “I haven’t told Tom everything either.”
Greta’s eyes widened.
Harry deliberated for a moment. There were things he couldn’t tell Tom, mostly because Tom would never respond rationally. A part of Harry also squirmed at the idea of Tom knowing what kind of things Yaxley had said to him. Greta was more measured in some ways. She wouldn’t overreact about it.
“What is Yaxley doing?” Greta asked again, fierceness in her voice. “Why did he hurt you in that duel?”
“I don’t know,” Harry confessed brittlely, resisting the urge to massage his temples.
“Start from the beginning,” Greta said, squeezing his hand. “Please, Harry.”
And for some reason that Harry couldn’t explain, he did. Once he began, it was hard to stop. All of it came out, all the hideous details. His voice went hoarse from speaking of it.
Harry finished and Greta’s eyes pricked with tears.
“Harry, that’s pretty serious,” she whispered.
“You think so?” Harry asked hesitantly.
“I think it’s harassment,” Greta said, the words stark and harsh in her mouth.
“It’s not,” Harry denied immediately, shame creeping up his stomach. “He’s just mocking me.”
“Harry,” Greta said delicately. “The kind of comments he’s making, and the way he keeps trying to touch you—”
“Stop it!” Harry snapped, deeply uncomfortable. He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly chill even in front of the fire. “Don’t say it.”
Greta looked at him, great sorrow in her eyes.
“Does Tom know about that part?” Greta asked.
“What do you think?” Harry replied in a sharp, bitter voice.
“I think you should tell him,” Greta said, unphased by Harry’s curtness.
“But what will he make of it?” Harry asked, a dark misery snapping at his heels like a wounded wolf. What will he think of me?
“That Yaxley’s throat needs to be slit,” Greta said matter-of-factly. “That’s what I’m thinking at least.”
“I’m going to duel him, Greta,” Harry explained. “And I’m going to win. And then he’ll never bother me again.”
“But he’ll still be here afterwards,” Greta said gently. “Maybe we should try getting him expelled, Hare. Or cursing him. My mother can send us something. It’ll be very quick. Painless too, if you insist.”
“We’re not cursing him,” Harry said, the reluctant voice of reason. “We’d get in so much trouble.”
“Not if he dies,” Greta pointed out. “There wouldn't be any evidence.”
Harry stared at Greta open-mouthed, who looked back steadily at him, completely unrepentant.
And Harry found himself simultaneously grateful and worried that she was his dearest friend aside from his jealous basilisk of a beloved. What did it say that both of his best friends were so murderous?
“We’d get in even more trouble then,” Harry argued without any strength.
“Don’t you see, Harry? You have your own allies. If we do it right your reputation will be immaculate and Yaxley will never trouble anyone else again.”
Harry thought about it for a concerningly long long time.
“I think he just needs a shaking up,” Harry said, biting his lip. “But thank you for the offer, Greta… I’ll keep it in mind?” He didn’t know if it was a lie.
“Please, do,” Greta ordered. She leaned forward, pecking Harry’s cheek with sisterly affection, and Harry embraced her tightly back.
♡♡♡
It took a few days for the rumors of what had happened during dueling club to die down and for Harry’s friends to stop fretting over and scolding him, though, of course, it took twice as long for Tom to be appeased.
As soon as Harry recovered, the intensity of his and Tom’s morning practice skyrocketed. There was almost a kind of franticness coursing through them—both of them trying to make use of each minute they had.
Tom was channeling every ounce of his anxious, overbearing energy into it, lecturing Harry about what they’d covered in dueling club before adding in his own research from the library about spell chains, shielding alternatives, and a multitude of advanced dueling techniques he’d found. He gave Harry the next set of spells to memorize and made Harry demonstrate every single one to make sure he could do all of them properly. Luckily, most of them were in Latin which made them much easier to learn. They practiced wandless magic, wordless magic—anything that would take Yaxley off guard.
Harry felt awful that he wasn’t contributing his own time into researching and learning about dueling, but he was so behind in arithmancy and only just maintaining his grades in his other classes that it wasn’t feasible. He barely had time to do additional reading in any subject, past the bare minimum he needed to do for his Muggle Medicine project.
Madame Roseheart and Lord Merriweather had both agreed to be Harry’s mentors, which meant keeping up a steady letter exchange with both of them and reading and taking notes on whatever sources they sent his way. Harry was still looking for a third mentor, but Professor Mundy had given him until the start of the next academic year to find one.
Harry felt like he was boiling: the pressure rising up and up. Constant exhaustion. Late nights studying before rising before dawn to duel until he was physically and magically worn out before endless classes before studying again. He was grateful for the subjects that came easy, and hated the subjects that didn’t.
There were brief slivers of joy: tea with Astrid, organizing monthly pick-up Quidditch games and late nights studying with Greta, learning Seeker tricks with Charlus, gobstone matches with Eileen, abraxan riding with Abraxas, and visiting Fawkes and Professor Dumbledore. And even though dueling was tiring, Harry loved spending hours with Tom every morning, just experimenting and letting go with their magic. He secretly wished they would keep doing it even after his duel with Yaxley.
Even though the baby snakes no longer needed healing now that Yaxley was leaving them alone, for some reason, they were still coming to Harry for everything: roommate squabbles, fights with their families, cheering up after a bad grade, venting about their professors. It felt a little like Wool’s again—Harry the accidental object that a flock of baby ducklings had imprinted on. Harry didn’t mind, even though he found it sort of baffling.
“You just exude big brother energy,” Adara explained, flipping through Harry’s Arithmancy textbook. It was heavily marked up with his quill, bookmarks haphazardly stuck everywhere so Harry could refer back to earlier chapters, which he needed to do embarrassingly often. “You know what us snakes are like. We all want to be fussed over. And everyone knows you’re too nice to take advantage or make use of anything they tell you. You also don’t have any family connections that might influence your allegiances. So, you’re sort of like neutral territory. Not to mention you got beat up for us.”
Harry rolled his eyes.
“Yaxley asked me to duel,” Harry argued tiredly. He had tried to explain what had happened in dueling club to the younger years a couple of times, but they had come up with their own interpretation of events.
“Yes, but you negotiated for him to leave us alone,” Adara countered.
“Anyone would have done that.”
“Not anyone,” Adara said simply, giving Harry his textbook back.
Harry didn’t know what to say to that.
♡♡♡
“Why can’t I remember you?” Harry asked Death. “In that world?”
Harry was lying on his back. The sky was a vault of endless, streaming light. For a moment, Harry could imagine drifting into it. It would feel warm. Like coming home. A single soul brushed against his cheek like a flickering tongue. Medusa.
She had appeared to him and Tom yesterday for Samhain when they had lit the sacrificial candles. They had gotten to hold the wispy echo of her form while she had nuzzled into their hands, unable to speak, but conveying her love nonetheless.
The moth on Death’s nose flared its wings.
“There’s a veil,” Death explained. His voice was the first shovel of dirt over a coffin lid. “It’s not meant to be crossed by most people, but sometimes, people get pulled back through the other way, from this world to that one. When you pass through the veil the wrong way, you have to sacrifice your memories. The Greeks called it drinking from Lethe. This world is not meant to be known by the living.”
“Why can I pass through?” Harry asked. A nauseous feeling churned in his gut. Harry pushed his fingers against his carotid pulse. “Is it because I’m already dead? Like the fortune teller said? Is that why I can help ghosts move on?”
“You are not dead,” Death said firmly.
“Even when I cross the veil into this realm?”
“Even then,” Death said.
“Can I ever die?” Harry asked curiously, remembering Death had once told him he couldn’t die unless they both wished it.
“That’s a complicated question,” Death said. “Your soul is bound to the earthly realm for as long as we both agree it to be. But its attachment to this particular form is not so permanent.”
“So if I were to die…?”
“Your soul would come here and then be born again in a new world if you still wished for it,” Death explained. “Though I hope that is a long way off, as I quite like this version of you. Now, would you like to remember our conversations?”
A black moth emerged from the place where Death’s heart was supposed to be and sat on the inner part of Harry’s wrist. Harry stared at it with trepidation.
“What is it?” Harry asked.
“A piece of Death.”
“Of you?” Harry asked, confused.
“Not quite. It’s a piece of what makes me Death. Will you let it in?”
Harry’s fingers brushed the moth and all the air inside his lungs was punched out at once. Something cold dug inside his chest like a blade but it was so heavy it felt like it was trying to drag his heart out of him. Images flickered in his mind, blooming darker like the echoes of terror: motorcar crash and tumble from great height and factory accident and hospital sickbed and knife wound and bullet and bomb and blast and blood and—
Harry flung the moth away, weeping.
“No!” Harry shouted. “I don’t want it!”
Death went very pale. He quickly crushed the moth in his hand and it sank back into his flesh.
“I’m so sorry,” Death said, sounding very sincere and very sad. “I shouldn’t have done that, little one. You weren’t ready.”
Harry covered his face with his hands, still crying.
He was awkwardly pulled into an embrace. Death, not as Harry had come to know him, half-skeleton and shadow, but a man wholly of flesh. He had black wings of moths stretched out from behind him, but his face looked blurry but human and his arms were warm.
“Will you forgive me?” Death asked.
“You didn’t mean to hurt me?” Harry asked, wiping his face.
“Never,” Death vowed.
Harry slowly nodded. Tiny souls cozied against Harry’s hands like they were trying to comfort him, bracelets of stars.
“Do you experience that all of the time?” Harry asked.
Death nodded.
“It’s my burden to bear.”
“Alone?” Harry asked.
Death nodded.
Harry frowned. It must be unimaginably awful to be Death.
“Don’t worry, child. I’ve gotten used to it. Why don’t you tell me how living is going?” Death asked.
Harry smiled wanly at the odd phrasing.
“To be honest, I’m a little knackered,” Harry admitted, feeling weird complaining about his minor problems after knowing what Death was going through.
“The same burdens?” Death asked curiously.
“The weight is increasing,” Harry confessed. “I’m failing a class, I’ve made an enemy, and I’ve slept an average of four hours every day this week.”
“That is weight indeed,” Death agreed. “Enemies are like shadows. One cannot walk without making a few. Sometimes you can see them, but most times they linger where you won’t notice.”
“Is that supposed to comfort me?” Harry asked incredulously.
“I am honest, not comforting,” Death said, mouth twitching with amusement.
“You know it’s possible to be both, right?” Harry argued. “Honest doesn’t mean bleak and disturbing.”
Death laughed.
“I knew someone once, who made enemies as easily as blinking,” Death said, voice growing thoughtful. “He was an arrogant man. He never thought anything could touch him. He let his enemies fester like pus.”
“What happened to him?” Harry asked curiously.
“He was murdered in his sleep for the source of his power.”
Harry gave Death a dirty, betrayed look.
“That was again, both bleak and disturbing,” Harry complained.
Death chuckled.
“It’s advice, little one. I suggest you take it.”
“You’re not much for forgiveness, are you?” Harry observed.
“I believe forgiveness is a dish best served cold,” Death said.
“Let me guess, cold as corpses,” Harry said wryly.
“Yes,” Death agreed, amusement coloring his voice.
“You remind me a little of my best friend,” Harry said fondly. “He’s not much for forgiveness either. Or letting enemies go. He’s very petty and fussy and much too overprotective, but I love him dearly.”
“And he guards you fiercely,” Death said solemnly. “As I knew he would.”
Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. Death knew of Tom? But how?
Before Harry could press for answers, their time ran out, a wave of white washing over Harry’s vision like a bright light flooding a dark room when the eyes hadn’t adjusted yet.
♡♡♡
“Harry, are you and Tom dating?” Abraxas asked quietly.
Harry startled, nearly dropping the sugar cube. The abraxan mare in front of him let out an impatient whinny, so Harry shoved the cube near her muzzle for her to take.
Harry turned to Abraxas and stopped.
“Well, er…” Harry stuttered. “That’s… erm…”
Harry hesitated.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Abraxas said moodily.
“It’s just a hard question,” Harry said with a sigh. “Did you ask Tom?”
“I can’t really ask Tom this kind of thing,” Abraxas confessed. “We don’t have that kind of friendship.”
“Oh,” Harry said awkwardly. What kind of friendship did they have then? “Well… So… Er… Tom and I are not dating, but we’re not not dating?”
Abraxas stared at Harry like Harry was an idiot.
“Don’t look at me like that. I said it was a hard question!” Harry protested.
Abraxas sighed.
“Your relationship confuses me sometimes,” Abraxas confessed.
“It confuses me too,” Harry admitted.
They mounted the abraxans when it was their turn, starting with a slow clip around the field.
Compared to all his friends, Harry probably had the least in common with Abraxas. It was always a bit challenging to come up with things to talk about, but the silences weren’t uncomfortable. Harry sometimes got the feeling that Abraxas preferred them.
“Do you know what you want to do one day?” Harry asked.
Tom wanted to be a politician of course, and probably an inventor researcher. Astrid wanted to be a Spell-Crafter but also manage her family seat on Wizengamot. Eileen wanted to be a Potions Master and have her own shop. Charlus wanted to be a cursebreaker who played Quidditch semi-professionally on the side before taking over for his father. Greta was still deciding. But Harry had never asked Abraxas.
“There are traditions to consider,” Abraxas said stiffly. “My father expects I will pursue a charms or transfiguration mastery before taking on the Malfoy lordship and taking his seat on Wizengamot. The High Lords usually do not work traditional jobs.”
“Oh,” Harry said. “And if there were no expectations?”
Abraxas looked a little startled.
He didn’t say anything for a long time and Harry worried he’d said something wrong.
They circled the field three times before Abraxas finally spoke.
“I suppose I would want my own stables,” Abraxas confessed. “I would like to teach abraxan riding and coach students for competitions.”
“You would make a great teacher,” Harry said supportively. “You practically taught me everything I know.”
“You have very good balance already from broomstick riding,” Abraxas pointed out. “You would have picked it up fast regardless.”
“But your tips helped a lot,” Harry countered. “I can’t imagine what it would have been like if I just had Professor Kettleburn’s instructions to follow. I might have ended up like Cavill.”
Quincy Cavill had ended up being bucked off his abraxan during their second lesson. He’d landed in the hospital wing for a week. He had made a full recovery, but not before missing the second Quidditch game of the season.
“Cavill was being rude to his abraxan,” Abraxas dismissed with a shrug. “I can’t imagine you doing the same to… Miss Pumpkin Peach Ring Ickle Treacle Honey.” Abraxas cleared his throat, looking pained at having to say it. Harry couldn’t hide his smile.
“That was just a tentative name,” Harry said, deciding to give Abraxas some mercy. “I only said it to see Tom’s reaction.”
Which had been 100% worth it.
“Oh-thank-god,” Abraxas said all at once, with a deep sigh of relief. “So what did you actually name her?”
“Madeline,” Harry answered, stroking her mane. She neighed.
“A fine name,” Abraxas said with an approving nod.
“Better than Hypatia,” Harry ribbed. “You won’t even let me nickname her Pattie.”
“It’s undignified,” Abraxas argued with a sniff, patting his abraxan. “Her name is Hypatia. It means supreme.”
“Supremely stuffy,” Harry said under his breath.
“What was that?” Abraxas asked.
“Nothing,” Harry said innocently. “Race you to the tree?”
“Which one?” Abraxas asked.
“That one,” Harry yelled playfully without pointing, already cantering off.
Abraxas groaned, but followed dutifully.
♡♡♡
Harry nearly threw his textbook out the library window into the Quidditch field with frustration. He was done.
Arithmancy was the stupidest subject in the world. It was confusing, irrational, and nothing like proper math.
Every single evening, the same routine. Harry got all of his other homework done, easy-peasy, no problem, lovely. Then he would sit for hours with his arithmancy assignment, breaking his head. He was sick of it.
He needed to come clean to Tom. He’d been hiding his grades for weeks and weeks now, trying not to let on how lost he was in class and how close he was to failing.
Tom was going to think he was stupid.
Harry took a deep breath, feeling almost feverishly upset.
He just needed to clear his head. Step away for a minute.
Maybe he should eat something?
Harry cast a quick tempus charm, realizing supper hours were long past. He had eaten a quick meal with Greta, but he hadn’t been in the mood for anything elaborate. Luckily, the elves were likely still awake, prepping for tomorrow. They always had something to eat.
Harry stood up, cheered at the prospect of visiting his friends.
Alphard Black glanced at him and Harry got an idea.
He approached nervously.
“Er… how do you do,” Harry said.
“How do you do,” Alphard replied, lips quirking.
“I was going down to the kitchens to grab a bite to eat and I was wondering if you would like anything,” Harry offered.
Alphard raised his eyebrows.
“You know where the kitchens are?”
Harry bobbed his head yes.
“You don’t have to get me anything,” Alphard said.
“Are you sure?” Harry asked. “Not even a cup of tea? Or a scone? Or a biscuit?”
Alphard looked interested despite himself. He tilted his head.
“What would you want in return?” he asked.
These bloody snakes, Harry thought, intensely irritated.
“My god, can’t someone just do something nice for another person without all these weird ties of obligation and ulterior motives?” Harry snapped. “I don’t want a single bloody thing. I just offered because you’re my library mate and I thought you might be peckish.”
Alphard looked very amused, like a jaguar with a ball of yarn.
“Library mate?” he asked.
“I didn’t mean— Just, you’re always around when I’m studying late,” Harry clarified, embarrassed.
Alphard laughed for a solid minute. When he was done, he held out his hand, smiling. His grey eyes were soft and friendly.
“Library mates,” Alphard said.
Harry hesitated for a moment before shaking it firmly.
“I could do for some tea,” Alphard confessed. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Harry said.
♡♡♡
Harry missed the company of the elves. His third year had been so busy so far, he’d barely had time to visit except for a handful of times. Most of the elves knew how to read and write in English now, and the ones who didn’t know were taught by the ones who did.
Harry threw the portrait open, calling out a mangled greeting in elvish that Whimsy had tried to teach him.
Posy and Cozy flung themselves at him and Harry caught them, hugging them tight.
“Oy, wee Harry, you better be coming to visit us more often or we be holding the treacle hostage,” Jazzy threatened, waving a frying pan.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said contritely, hugging her too. Jazzy hugged him tightly back.
“We be missing you around here sometimes,” she scolded, with a suspiciously watery sniff.
Harry spent half an hour catching up with all of the elves, letting his mind relax in their easy company, before they shoved him out the door with a basket full of snacks and two thermos bottles of tea, telling him to study hard.
He returned to the library, ignoring Madame Willowbrook’s judgemental sniff when she saw the basket, returning to his table. Food was technically allowed in the main section of the library, much to Madame Willowbrook’s displeasure. Any accidents with the regular books could be easily taken care of with magic.
When he got to the table it took him a moment to realize what he was seeing. Alphard Black had all of Harry’s arithmancy assignments arranged out in front of him like a sea of red ink. Harry flushed with shame.
“Er… Black?” Harry asked.
“You can call me Alphard,” Alphard said. “I have a proposition for you.”
Harry took a seat, setting the basket out on the table. Alphard opened it, making an appreciative sound at all the treats. He bit into a scone.
“What’s the proposition?” Harry asked.
“I help you remedy your atrocious arithmancy grade if you cater our study sessions,” Alphard said.
Harry paused, staring at Alphard intensely. This was undeniably suspicious.
“That doesn’t sound fair to you,” Harry pointed out. “I’m really bad at arithmancy.”
“I figured,” Alphard said, gesturing at all of Harry’s test papers.
Embarrassed, Harry collected all of the papers into a pile with a clap of his hands, shoving the stack into his backpack.
“What do you really want from this?” Harry snapped.
Alphard messed with his long black hair.
“Can’t I just want to help a fellow snake out?” Alphard asked. “Weren’t you the one just talking about—”
“No,” Harry interrupted uncompromisingly. “Tell me the real reason or no deal.”
“Fine,” Alphard huffed. “I want a good recommendation letter from Professor Pascal to pursue my Arithmancy Masters in two years. He thinks I’m brilliant but unfriendly, and most professional arithmancy work is done in teams. I want to prove to him I can get along with other people and you are the most tolerable person in Slytherin.”
“Er… thanks?” Harry said hesitantly.
“You just have to mention me a couple of times to Professor Pascal. When you start getting straight O’s, just drop my name and tell him how nice I am and what a good tutor, etc etc.”
Harry laughed.
“O’s? Are you serious? I’m getting Acceptables and Poors,” Harry pointed out.
“Do you doubt me?” Alphard asked, raising his eyebrows.
“A little bit,” Harry admitted.
“You get O’s in your other classes. Why is arithmancy so different?” Alphard asked.
“Because I’m bad at it,” Harry huffed, irritation blooming again like a toothache.
“No, wrong,” Alphard disagreed. “It’s because Professor Pascal’s lecturing style barely works for anyone and the textbook is antiquated junk. Here.” Alphard pulled out a much slimmer tome from his rucksack down on the table. “This is my favorite introductory book. It was mine when I was eight. You should read this first. You need a proper foundation.”
Oh wow. Harry knew he was bad but not eight-year-old level.
“I haven’t agreed yet,” Harry argued, not knowing why he was doing so. Being tutored in arithmancy and not having to confess to Tom that he was failing a class would be a dream.
“Well get to it so we can get started,” Alphard said dismissively.
“You’ll really help me get O’s?” Harry asked hopefully.
“I guarantee it.”
“Then, deal,” Harry said, holding out his hand.
Alphard shook it.
“Don’t forget the catering,” he said, taking another bite of his scone.
♡♡♡
“Professor Creed, could I ask you something after class?” Harry asked nervously.
The History of Magic Professor looked up, giving Harry a neutral look.
“Sure, Mr. Faye,” Professor Creed said.
Harry took his seat next to Tom. Tom gave him a questioning look.
‘For my project,’ Harry mouthed.
Tom nodded.
Class began. They were learning about the factors that led to the creation of the Statute of Secrecy in 1689. Next lesson, they’d be discussing the limitations of how the Statute has been enforced.
Professor Creed lectured for the first half of class. The second half of class was a debate about whether or not the statute should be dissolved.
“I think the statute flipped the proper order of things. Wixen should be the ones ruling over the world and Muggles should be the ones in hiding,” Cedrella Black said.
“You really think the Muggles would be happy with that? The Statute was made to protect us,” Lacey Bell, a Gryffindor, argued back.
“So what? We have magic.”
“I think our goal should be merging our communities. Muggles will never accept us until they get used to us,” another student said.
“If they get used to us, they’re just going to ask us to do everything for them.”
“So what? Why shouldn’t we help?”
“Helping is one thing. The Muggles far outnumber us. They would make us their servants. They’d find ways to control our magic and trade us like Chocolate Frog Cards.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That would never happen.”
“Yeah, because they’d probably kill us all off,” a new voice chimed.
Harry bit his lip. He had no clue what to think. Was it really alright for the Muggle and Wixen worlds to remain completely isolated from each other? What about Muggleborns?
Tom was also conspicuously silent. Harry was curious about Tom’s opinion, but he knew it was a matter to pick up in private. Tom was always very careful about where and when he shared his true thoughts.
Class ended.
“Do you want me to wait?” Tom asked.
Harry shook his head.
“I’ll see you in the Great Hall for lunch,” Harry said, pecking Tom’s cheek goodbye. Tom pecked his cheek back, not hiding his frown. He’d get over it.
Harry approached the desk.
“You didn’t participate in the debate,” Professor Creed observed when the room emptied. “It might have been valuable for your classmates to hear a Muggleborn perspective.”
“I’m not sure valuable is how they would describe it,” Harry confessed wryly. “Biased is more likely.”
“I wish I could disagree,” Professor Creed said, his mouth a straight line. “So what did you need to talk to me about?”
“If I’m way out of line, please let me know immediately and I promise I won’t bring it up ever again,” Harry said nervously. “I was wondering, would you allow me to interview you for my independent project? It could be anonymous if you would prefer.”
“What’s your project about?” Professor Creed asked.
“I am examining problems with wixen healthcare and attempting to figure out if there are any Muggle solutions we could use.”
“Why would you want to interview me?” Professor Creed asked.
“One of the biggest gaps in wixen healthcare is care for people born without magic,” Harry said hesitantly. “The library is sparse on information about the topic.”
“That’s because there is no health care for squibs,” Professor Creed said.
“And I think that’s something that should be fixed,” Harry said firmly.
Professor Creed gave Harry an evaluating look.
“I don’t mind helping, but I would prefer it to be anonymous,” Professor Creed said. “I can answer a few questions right now, and then we can schedule something later.”
Harry thanked him and nodded, getting out his quill and a fresh sheet of parchment to take notes.
“How would you define squib?” Harry asked. Then, hesitating: “Is squib the correct term?”
“Yes. Squibs are children born of magical parents that lack sufficient magic for traditional spell casting,” Professor Creed said. “Many people think squibs have no magical core, but that is false. The classification of squib involves a range of conditions, from people with no magical core to people with partial cores, to people with fully intact magical cores who cannot access or use their magic for another reason. The latter two categories are actually the majority with the former being rare.”
How fascinating.
“Did you grow up in the magical world?” Harry asked.
Professor Creed nodded.
“My parents decided they couldn’t give me up to the Muggle world. I was raised in this one and learned everything I could about magic.”
“Did you ever have any encounters with wixen healers or hospitals growing up?”
Professor Creed nodded.
“I got deathly ill one time as a child. Wixen healers weren’t able to do anything about it since most healing magic doesn’t work on people without complete magical cores. They tried to prescribe me a potion, but they couldn’t get the dosage right because I have a partial magical core, which affects the metabolism rate. I fell even sicker. My parents had to take me to a Muggle doctor.”
“Does Muggle medicine work on all or most squibs?” Harry asked.
“Yes, but it’s not a perfect fit,” Professor Creed said. “There can be some strange side-effects. For example, I needed a much higher dose of the medication than a Muggle child of the same age would usually require. The Muggle doctor was extremely reluctant to prescribe it to me, until my parents convinced him through… more than Muggle means.”
It was still promising for his project. If some aspects of Muggle medicine were incorporated into the Wixen world medical practice or at least made available, it might really benefit squibs.
“What is something that you believe most people misunderstand about squibs?” Harry asked.
“That we’re better off in the Muggle world,” Professor Creed said gravely. “That squibs don’t remember what we lost—the families we once had. Our return to the magic world is inevitable, so giving up squib children simply doesn’t make sense.”
“When you say return is inevitable, what do you mean?” Harry asked curiously.
“Over a third of the squibs abandoned to the muggle world have magical children. Over four-fifths have magical grandchildren. Almost 100% of all squibs will eventually have a descendant with magic.”
“Do you think that’s where Muggleborns come from?” Harry asked curiously.
“I think it’s a definite possibility but the research hasn’t been done to prove it yet. Was that all for now?” Professor Creed asked. “We can talk again later.”
“Just one more. Do you have any books or articles you would recommend me to read to learn more?”
“I need to think on it and look through my library,” Professor Creed said with a pensive hum. “I’ll give you a list next class.”
Harry understood he was gently being dismissed and stood up.
“Thank you so much, sir. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”
They shook hands.
“Professor Dumbledore talks a lot about you,” Professor Creed said curiously. “I’m keen to see if he’s right.”
“Right about what?” Harry asked apprehensively.
“Right about you,” Professor Creed said, smiling. What an annoying non-answer.
“Are you a Slytherin?” Harry asked, wrinkling his nose.
“I was given the chance to be sorted when I was hired but I decided against it,” Professor Creed said, looking amused.
“Which means definitely a Slytherin,” Harry decided.
Professor Creed laughed.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Faye.”