Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry was seven years old when the box appeared.

He was in the garden on a sweltering July morning, the air pressing heavy and humid on his thin shoulders. His fingers burned from pulling weeds from the flowerbeds, but it could have been worse. He loved the smell of the sweet roses in the sun and the joy in the color of the peonies. Gardening was his favorite chore, so much better than scrubbing Dudley’s bathroom or dusting shelves he could hardly reach. Gardening was better even than cooking—though he didn’t mind that so much, either, because it smelled nice, and he enjoyed mixing and cutting, and he sometimes got to eat what he made. But in the garden, he was often alone, and it was often quiet, and when the heat was not too bad, it was pleasant.

Around eleven o’clock Harry heard a door slam and sat back on the grass, looking around. The next-door neighbors had dropped a cardboard box at the curb, with a handwritten sign marked “FREE” in black sharpie.

Glancing around nervously and seeing no sign of his aunt, Harry stood and walked casually toward the box. To Harry’s delight, it was stuffed full of books, something Harry had rarely ever had access to. He could read better than anyone in his grade, but Aunt Petunia seemed to think storybooks would make him lazy and never allowed him any of his own.

Harry’s heart flew into his throat. If he could just get one to his cupboard—none of the Dursleys ever looked in the cupboard—he could read to his heart’s content.

He didn’t dare take more than one. One, he could hide under Dudley’s overlarge shirt. Two might be noticed.

But which one?

There was a book on car maintenance—no, not that one. Not the pulpy mysteries, either; he didn’t like the knives and guns on the covers. Not the book on dog training.

At the bottom of the box, he found it: Herbal Remedies, by one A. Z. Fell. It was a small book with a beautifully illustrated cover, like something out of an anatomical drawing he had seen in school, but for plants. His fingers brushed the bruise Dudley had left on his cheek just days earlier; maybe there would be something inside for bruises and sprains. Harry picked the book up reverently. The leather of the cover felt warm under his palms. This was it: the book.

Harry stuffed it under his shirt and walked slowly to the front door of the house, opening it silently and heading straight to his cupboard. He placed the book under his pillow and returned to the hall—only to find his aunt lying in wait. She stared at his grass-stained triple-cuffed jeans with such fury that Harry felt his heart stutter to a halt.

“What are you doing inside?” She snapped.

“I needed to use the bathroom,” Harry said, unable to think of anything else.

“In your cupboard? Hah! Get back outside, and if I see even one weed under the peonies, no lunch for you, boy,” she warned. “And this afternoon, you’ll be scrubbing the tile in the hall, too.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said, trying to look suitably chastised as he walked back outside into the sweltering heat. Inside, his heart soared, but he didn’t dare be too optimistic yet—if he made it to dinnertime without giving away the presence of the book, he would be in the clear. Until then, he just had to pretend that nothing at all was good in the world. There were no books, and no beautiful ink-drawn flowers, no way to maybe—hopefully—make his body stop aching. None of that; the world was bleak.

Harry Potter knelt under the peonies and very carefully did not smile.

The hours ticked by like days.

His aunt gave him Dudley’s scraps for lunch, which wasn’t the worst, seeing as Dudley hated crusts, fruits, and anything green, all of which were things Harry liked. She then made him shower and scrub down the hallway, in case he had somehow gotten invisible dirt on it when he had entered the first time. By the time he was done, she set him to cooking dinner, a nice roast with rosemary and sage. Harry wondered if those herbs were in his new book. He hoped so; then he might be able to steal some.

His teachers said stealing was wrong. Harry had never done something like that before. But if stealing could help with his pain, maybe it was worth proving that he was a bad person, just like his aunt said.

When dinner was ready and the pots cleaned, Harry ate in the kitchen while the Dursleys sat at the dining table. Aunt Petunia said he was a messy eater and would get crumbs on the carpet. Harry knew full well that was a blatant lie, but he didn’t particularly like looking at the Dursleys, so he’d never complained.

The night ended as usual: he did more dishes. Uncle Vernon screamed at him and wrenched his arm a little. Harry cleaned up after Dudley spilled chocolate pudding, and Dudley kicked him. He carefully did not say anything about Dudley looking like he needed a diaper. Finally, the Dursleys settled in to watch television, and Harry was allowed to slink off to his cupboard, focusing on the pain in his shoulder and ribs to avoid smiling.

He went to the bathroom, filled his little mug with water, and prepared to read.

The book was everything he thought it would be, and more.

There were so many plants, in such brilliant colors, with such different uses: peppermint for pain and sage for a sore throat, echinacea to kill an infection and burdock for toxins. Every page was filled with detailed illustrations, preparations and guides to foraging or growing each plant. Harry drank them down eagerly, working through the context clues and the book’s convenient glossary for words like perennial that he had never seen before.

Harry had always been smart, but his intelligence had never quite had a place to go before—he’d liked school, sure, but he was always a little more concerned with not being punched or avoiding starvation than learning math. Now, however, he could picture himself mixing a potion like some kind of sorcerer, rubbing it on his aching skin and the pain vanishing like smoke. Maybe he could even fix other people, too.

Maybe he could do more than healing.

An illustration of a brilliantly purple flower caught his eye, one that he already knew on sight: lavender. There was a large bush of it in the back left corner of the Dursley’s yard.

Properties: the sweet scent of the flowers is calming and aids in sleep. Can be quite potent in large doses.

Harry grinned as he turned off the light to get some sleep. It was time for an experiment.

The next day was watering day, which Harry always enjoyed—he loved the hose, the way the water caught the sunlight and the smell of wet earth. He took his time and finished with the lavender bush, using his fingers to snap a few sprigs when he was done.

Softly, he thanked the plant for its help. The book had told him that he should always be grateful for all the work the herbs had done in growing so that he could use them, and Harry rather appreciated the sentiment. It wasn’t as if the Dursleys were grateful for all of his work. Harry resented that, and Harry certainty didn’t want the plants to resent him.

Harry didn’t know why the Dursleys treated him the way that they did. He’d never done anything odd, as far as he was aware. He supposed the cause must just be some defect in him, some malevolence that had surfaced young. But that didn’t mean that he liked it; no, even if he deserved their treatment, he still wanted out.

He hid the lavender in his pocket and went about the rest of his chores, stopping only to make himself a lunch of cold cuts and mayo from the fridge that his aunt was unlikely to miss. Dudley was out at a friend’s house, his uncle was at work, and his aunt was gossiping the day away with the same woman who had thrown out the herb book (what a fool, Harry privately thought), so it was one of the more pleasant days of his life, all told.

That was, until dinner arrived.

Harry carried mashed potatoes out to the dinner table at seven o’clock sharp. Dudley stuck out one large foot as Harry walked, and Harry—burdened by the massive bowl—was too slow to dodge. He tipped forward and the bowl smashed on the side of the table, sending potatoes and shards of glass all over Petunia’s rug.

Harry’s ears rang over the sounds of his aunt and uncle shouting as he was lifted out of the potatoes by Vernon’s massive hand. He curled in on himself, waiting for the inevitable pain—

Oh, he thought. The lavender.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the sprigs, gripping it in his fist and opening his eyes. He met Vernon’s furious gaze, his ruddy face twisted into a mask of rage, and thought:

Be calm. Be calm. You will be calm.

He felt the words—his will—flow from his mind, through his heart and into the flower, wrapping around it like invisible thread. The lavender vanished in his hand like smoke, filling the room with a sweet scent.

The massive hand released him, and Vernon Dursley’s eyes rolled back into his head as he fell deeply, soundly asleep. And then he just fell—right over onto his back, his feet covered in potatoes.

A second later, two identical splats told Harry that his aunt and cousin had fallen asleep face-first into their food.

A wave of nausea rose as gilt crashed over him, but it was quickly buried in calm, heart-slowing relief. Harry barked out a startled laugh before he could stop himself, replaying the sounds in his head. Reality seemed fuzzy, blurred, as though he had somehow stepped into a dream—but the pain in his hands from the fall and the emotions warring in his chest were very real indeed.

Harry stood shaking with mirth and terror and wonder for more than a minute before he leapt into action. He cleaned up the bowl and the potatoes with a practiced hand, then pulled his aunt and cousin out of their food and wiped their faces—luckily, they stayed fully, completely asleep. Then, when the family appeared to have been having a perfectly normal—albeit potato-free—dinner, he scurried to the kitchen and started stealing herbs.

Sage.

Rosemary.

Ginger.

Peppermint.

Chamomile, from the tea Aunt Petunia had once gotten from a distant cousin and had never drank.

Finally, he made himself a plate and ate as much as he could handle. Then he did the dishes and walked off to his cupboard, listening to his family’s soft snores and feeling the veil of unreality slip away as the guilt returned to his chest. It gnawed at him by millimeters.

He was a sorcerer.

(He was a freak).

It was real.

(Was this why they had hurt him?)

The next day, Harry organized his herb stash carefully and tucked another sprig of lavender into his pocket, just in case the Dursleys were mad about what had happened the night prior. The jaws of guilt still bit at him—but he still didn’t want the pain.

He needn’t have bothered.

Dudley was asleep in his room when Harry entered the kitchen to make breakfast. Petunia was calmly sipping a cup of coffee; Vernon was at the dining table, reading the paper silently. When he came into the room, Petunia merely glanced at him and said, in a strangely glazed voice:

“Do the dishes from last night, boy.”

“Yes, aunt Petunia,” Harry said. “You all fell asleep quite early.”

“Yes,” his aunt said mechanically. “I had an odd dream—but—”

“Don’t talk about dreams,” Vernon said, sounding half inside of one himself.

So, they don’t even remember the potatoes.

Harry smiled guiltily as he did the dishes, humming tunelessly as he worked. Neither Petunia nor Vernon said a word.

Chapter Text

Harry walked down the street, rolling a lavender bud between his thumb and forefinger in case Dudley was following him home from school. He took circuitous routes, and new ones every day, but still—it always paid to be careful.

He’d learned, these past few months, that just a little bud was enough to send anyone from a violent rage into a calm bliss. Dudley still got the drop on him occasionally, but now it was rare, and the pain was nothing Harry couldn’t fix with a little peppermint.

He was eight years old, and for the first time in his life, he felt like he had control. Like he was safe. And it was knowledge—sweet, wonderful learning—that had brought him there.

It was a pale, early September day, cool but not cold, and Harry kept a keen eye on the plants by the side of the road. He’d tried to walk as much as he could around Little Whinging, looking for any sign of another plant from his book. The lavender was good, yes, but he was absolutely dying for—

St. John’s Wort.

Properties: A salve made from the flowers and leaves can be applied to wounds and bruises to aid in healing. The flowers may also improve mood.

There were only a few yellow flowers clinging to the plant, and it looked like it had seen better days. Still, it sent his heart soaring.

Me too, buddy, Harry thought, as he waded through grass and weeds to reach the bush. He plucked a few of the flowers, whispering words of thanks to the plant as he did. Somehow, beneath his fingers, the leaves seemed to grow a deeper shade of green. Harry grinned down in surprise.

“I’ll be back to say hi, then,” he said to the bush, tucking the flowers into his lavender-free pocket and hurrying home.

He’d imagined the day he found St. John’s Wort a million times. It was a daydream he had never dared to hang too much hope on, lest he be inevitably disappointed, but today was the day that his dream was coming to fruition. With two whole flowers, he knew exactly what to do.

Dinner that evening saw Harry alone in the kitchen as usual, eating the heel of yet another roast. He didn’t have infinite lavender—especially with the winter coming—and he didn’t particularly care to sit with the Dursleys, anyway, so he stuck to the status quo, using his powers only to avoid violence. Some part of him, too, whispered that using the herbs too often might be dangerous. If Vernon never quite broke from his stupor, how could he make the money that did, after all, keep Harry (barely) fed? If Petunia broke her neck falling asleep at the wheel, who would buy groceries?

No, it was best to use the lavender in low doses and for emergencies only. As it was, the Dursleys seemed largely unaware of what he was doing, and he wanted to keep it that way. Harry did his chores and stayed quiet (not that he minded the latter that much) and basked in the sense of safety that came from the flowers in his pocket.

Tonight, however, would be an exception. Tonight, he was betting big.

Harry did the dishes then carried out a small cheesecake to the family—his uncle had been promoted, and they were celebrating—and placed it on the table. Then, he reached a hand into his left pocket and offered a bit of lavender to his magic. He felt the flower bud dissolve and saw his relative’s faces go slightly slack as the magic took hold.

Squaring his shoulders, he put his other hand into his right pocket and felt the soft brush of the yellow flowers there.

“Aunt Petunia?” He asked.

“Yes, boy?” She said, with only a touch of spite.

“You’re giving me Dudley’s spare bedroom,” he said, offering the St. John’s Wort to his power. “And it makes you very happy.”

A beatific smile spread over his Aunt’s face. It looked so wrong—so out of place—that for a moment, Harry almost regretted his use of the flower.

Almost being the operative word.

He knew it was wrong. He knew he was bad.

But he wanted.

“Go ahead and move your things in now,” she said, still smiling.

“Mum, no—” Dudley whined, clearly still feeling the lavender’s effects considering that Harry was still in one piece.

“Hush, Dudley, dear,” Petunia said. “This is the best thing that has ever happened to us. Harry will take the bedroom, and all of the strangeness will be gone, and he’ll just be normal, normal, like freaky Lily should have been—”

Petunia snapped her mouth shut, her smile beginning to fade.

Harry stared at her, torn between asking more—Lily, my mother, was she like me?—and his sudden awareness that St. John’s Wort was neither as strong nor as long lasting as lavender.

In the end, pragmatism won. Harry scurried to his closet, stuffed everything he owned into two pillowcases (taking special care with Herbal Remedies and the stolen pickle jars where he stored his dried herbs), and ran up the stairs to Dudley’s spare bedroom. He opened the door and threw himself inside, then shut it softly and locked it.

The room was full of broken things: an empty birdcage and a broken toy tank, shattered lamps and torn posters.

That was fine with him; he was broken, too.

The best part, though, was the shelves of completely untouched books on the wall. There were adventure stories and almanacs and in the corner one very small, unassuming book entitled A Boy’s Guide to Wilderness First Aid.

Harry beamed at it for a full five minutes, not daring to believe his own success. Then he set to work making the room habitable. He piled everything he could conceivably carry to the thrift store to sell in one corner, which freed up plenty of space for his clothes (Dudley’s castoffs, that was) in the dresser, and a shelf for his jars of herbs. Herbal Remedies went under his new mattress, just in case anyone came looking.

Harry threw himself back onto the sheetless mattress and stared up at the spider-free ceiling. He glanced to the left; there was even a closet, with blankets and sheets in it.

He thought of his mother.

Lily.

If my mother was like me, maybe—maybe just having magic doesn’t make me a bad person.

People can’t be born bad, right? I don’t believe that.

But what I did to them was wrong. Wasn’t it?

Still, his conscience wasn’t going to stop him from using the second flower.

The next morning, Dudley was pouting viciously, Vernon was confused, and Petunia continued to insist that Harry taking the smallest bedroom would solve every problem they had ever had. Harry, for his part, did his best to remain completely unobtrusive, performing his chores to perfection.

By the same time next week, Harry remained in the bedroom. Dudley seemed to have given up on the issue, aside from being extra aggressive with Harry, which Harry supposed he had earned. Ready to test his luck again—and very curious about how his second request would go over—Harry cornered his aunt in the kitchen after school, a yellow flower in his hand.

“Aunt Petunia,” he said, thinking very carefully of what he wanted, “you would love to give me free rein over the backyard garden. It would make you very happy.”

Once more, the sick smile spread over his aunt’s face. Harry found that he didn’t mind it so much the second time.

Bad person, Harry thought viciously to himself. But I need it.

“Of course,” she said. “I hate dealing with it anyway.”

And that was that. That weekend, Harry scuttled out of the house and down to the garden store just a few blocks away, using the money he had gotten from selling Dudley’s old toys to buy sage and lavender plants, as well as some lemon balm, all of which would be hardy enough to survive the winter. With some re-purposed old boards that he had found in the garage and several days’ worth of effort, he built a raised bed full of sage and sweet purple flowers and added a large pot for the very aggressive lemon balm.

When he was done, standing triumphant and covered in dirt, he spotted his cousin watching him.

“You did something to mom,” Dudley said, teeth bared. “Freak.”

Harry flinched and waited for Dudley to charge him, holding a lavender bud in his hand.

The day that he decided that magic itself definitely couldn’t be evil came two weeks later, as he was walking home from school yet again.

He passed an alley between the pawn shop where he had sold Dudley’s old things and a place promising payday loans, whatever those were. In the shadows of the buildings, he could see two figures.

“Look, I really don’t have much—”

It was a woman’s voice.

“Give me your card—”

A man’s.

“I don’t have one, please, I just have this—”

Harry could almost taste her terror in the air. On instinct he pressed himself against a wall so that he wouldn’t be seen and reached into his pocket, gripping a sprig of lavender.

A moment later, he heard a thud, and a woman’s gasp of relief.

The young lady ran from the alley, her eyes wide, not even noticing that Harry was there.

He’d saved her, with his magic.

That had been the right thing to do.

Magic couldn’t be bad, if it could do the right thing. Magic couldn’t be bad, if it was something you were born with.

No, if Harry was bad—if Harry was a freak—

It was just because of him.

Fall turned to winter, and, despite Harry’s best efforts, he ran out of lavender.

It seemed that both his uncle and cousin were determined to make up for lost time.

“How did you get that black eye, dear?” One of his teachers asked softly after class.

“I fell,” Harry said simply, picking up his bag and walking out the door.

It was punishment, he thought ruefully, yellow flowers in his mind.

The one bright spot was that he had not been made to vacate Dudley’s old room. That was particularly fortunate, as it allowed him more space to spread out and work. He even had a desk on which he could write theories for how plants might be used, and what their effects on people might be.

He preferred to experiment on himself, of course; he knew, deep down, that what he was doing to the Dursleys was wrong. But he didn’t believe that the magic itself was wrong, not when he had used it to help someone, and when he knew he would do so again. He was a freak because something was broken in him, not for the magic he’d inherited.

So, he kept experimenting. There was one plant in particular he wanted to try, though he wasn’t quite sure if he dared.

Rosemary.

Properties: hair growth, antibacterial. Acts as a preservative; the oil can be used to help ward off spoilage, though it also comes with a rather strong flavor of rosemary!

Can be used to aid in memory. Be warned, repeated use may have unpleasant side effects. Effects vary widely by person; for most, rosemary will have no impact.

Harry had been frustrated recently by his inability to remember how certain words were spelled, even though he could read them perfectly well. It made him feel—dumb, frankly, though he knew he wasn’t. And how nice would it be, to have an excellent memory? He knew all of Herbal Remedies almost by heart, but almost wasn’t good enough.

Harry dithered and dragged his feet and thought about unpleasant side effects and spring came. He grew chamomile and peppermint and lavender—so much lavender—and sage and thyme and rosemary.

Finally, he turned nine, and he decided that enough was enough.

What better birthday present than a magically enhanced memory? Besides, it might not work, anyway.

At midnight on July 30^th—or 31^st, now—Harry held a sprig of rosemary in each hand and looked out his small window at the moon above. He closed his eyes softly, feeling the light on his eyelids, and smelling the sharp scent of the herbs. Below it stirred something else: a scent, sweet like lilacs and amber, with a hint of almond underneath.

Is that…my magic? Harry wondered to himself.

He put the odd scent out of his mind and focused on the rosemary in each hand.

Give me the power of memory. Give me the power of memory. Give me the power of memory.

The rosemary sprigs vanished, and the room blazed with their smell.  A sense of finality—of something irrevocable—settled on his shoulders. A pain like lightning shot through Harry’s head, and the world went black.

He woke up with the rising sun, his head spinning. His cheek was on his desk, a bit of drool connecting his face to his unfortunately slightly ruined notes on his memory ritual.

Shaking slightly, he sat up and took out the book he had planned for this test: one of Dudley’s once-untouched mysteries, now familiar to Harry, but the introduction of which he had never read. He opened the book, skimmed the first page, and closed it, then started to write.

Five minutes later, he had produced a word for word copy of the introduction.

Harry sat stunned.

It’s not conclusive. I’ll write it again tonight. But first—to redo my experiment notes, he thought, tossing the drool-stained paper into his wastebasket with a laugh.

That night, he produced another word-for-word replica of the introduction. He stared at the paper for nearly ten minutes after that, then swallowed tightly.

Alright, now for the real test: can I forget?

Harry very purposely did not think of the introduction to the mystery novel for the next four weeks. He did, however, think occasionally about the chemical formula for lavender, which he had read in a school library book, and an entire page of description from the Boy’s Guide to Wilderness First Aid on valerian root, though he didn’t practice either of those either. The intent was to see if his magically enhanced memory worked on his will—or if he was stuck remembering everything, forever. He certainly seemed to be remembering all of his lessons in school, though it wasn’t as though he was trying to forget those either.

At the end of August, he sat down for the last stage of his experiment. He easily wrote down the chemical formula for lavender, as well as a word-for-word copy of the description of Valerian root. When it came to the mystery novel’s introduction, however, he found himself paraphrasing.

Thank goodness, he thought, smiling as he checked his final product and saw that he had failed to recall several small turns of phrase. I definitely don’t want to remember the next time someone punches me in that much detail.

Rosemary for memory is definitely a one-time thing.

Preservation, though…

Now that’s interesting.

Chapter Text

Harry was nearly eleven, and he was beginning to grow tired of doing precisely what his dear book said. He’d gotten proficient with lavender, and with healing calendula, and with numbing peppermint. He had a stash of St. John’s Wort he hadn’t used since he had won his garden and his bedroom, his guilt weighing far too heavily on him.

Now, he’d settled on something new to make an experiment of.

Chamomile.

Properties: calming. Reduces swelling and inflammation.

One of those words stood out to Harry: reduces. There was a lot that one could do with reduction: shrinking, maybe, or pruning, or trimming hair. Losing weight, though goodness knew he didn’t need that. He’d gotten some mildly aggressive weeds in his mint, and he’d been having a hard time removing them without tearing up any roots of the plant he actually wanted to keep, so he had decided that would be his first use of his new flower.

He sat on the Dursley’s back lawn on a relatively cool mid-July day, a notebook and pen in one hand. So long as he wrote down his experiments, he had found, he would remember them perfectly—though it still felt nice to keep the notebook. He held a single chamomile flower in his other hand, his eyes focused on the sharp leaves of a weed poking up among his dear peppermint.

He was very fond of the plant; pain reduction was nothing to sneeze at, not when his lavender defenses were still imperfect and the Dursleys seemed to know it. When his uncle and cousin did catch him without his flowers—not often, but occasionally—they always seemed to be even more vicious than Harry remembered from his earlier years. He was fairly sure Vernon had broken his arm tossing him about recently, though his calendula had helped put it to rights. He’d even had to flee a very interesting snake exhibit before getting a good look just a few months ago. Dudley and his friend Piers had been hanging around menacingly, and Harry had run out of lavender that morning and hadn’t been in the mood to get a black eye.

Harry raised the chamomile to his nose, breathing in the soft and tingling scent.

Remove the weeds, he thought, concentrating on the weeds in the peppermint pot.

He felt his magic accept the offering, the chamomile flower dissolving in his hand. A strange awareness flooded him, a knowledge of the weeds in the pot of peppermint, a feeling like he was the weeds—

And then the feeling shrank down to nothing, and so did the little plant parasites.

Grinning, Harry noted down the time and weather conditions of his experiment—as well as the phase of the moon, the temperature, and his own mood—then began to poke through the peppermint leaves. As far as he could tell, not a single weed remained in the pot, though there were a few in his raised bed.

Single full flower plus two inches stem used. Visible evidence suggests complete weed removal of targeted pot, but not of surrounding beds.

Questions: Are the weed’s root systems removed? Does the spell act as a preventative? Can I achieve a broader area of effect?

Harry hummed contentedly and closed his notebook, breathing in the mingling scents of herbs and watching a few fluffy clouds drift overhead. On the sidewalk in front of the house, two girls about his age were walking a dog together, deep in a conversation he couldn’t hear.

His heart wilted a little at the sight.

He wished he had someone he could talk to about his experiments. He wished he had a friend. He was fine being alone most of the time, sure, but eventually being alone became…Lonely. No one at school wanted to be Harry’s friend. That was a sure way to get beaten up by Dudley’s gang, and Harry couldn’t exactly protect himself all the time, let alone others.

Ever since he had discovered his power, he’d stopped dreaming of secret relatives to come and sweep him away. He knew he was not a good child; he’d hurt the Dursleys, so why would a parent want him? Besides, even if his mother had been like him, she or his father might still have tried to stop him from using his abilities—the one spot of joy in his life.

What he really wanted was a confidante, someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to commiserate with over failures and celebrate successes, and also to make stupid jokes with and to make fun of Dudley behind his back. Someone he could patch up when they were bruised. He might be a bad child, but he thought he could be a good friend.

Wasn’t it lonely, to be a healer with only yourself as a patient?

Harry sighed and stretched, then got up to harvest a bit more chamomile. It might be an excellent weapon; if he reduced someone’s pants, they would surely stop whatever they were doing. He wondered if the flower worked by shrinking the object or by vanishing it altogether and made a mental note to try an experiment to discern which it was the next day.

“That was a very interesting bit of magic,” a small voice said from among the white flowers. Harry blinked in surprise, looking down at a garter snake in his flowerbed.

“Uh, hello,” Harry replied, somewhat nonplussed. He certainly hadn’t made an offering to his magic to talk to snakes, and he’d never talked to animals before. “Why can I talk to you?”

The snake looked at him.

“You can understand me? You are a speaker,” it said, sounding awed. “I have heard stories, but I thought they were myth.”

“Myth? There must be other sorcerers like me,” Harry said, his heart sinking. If he really was all alone—

“There are other wix,” the snake said quickly. “Though I haven’t seen any quite like you. The myths are of speakers, who can speak with serpents and are rare even among your kind. Less so in the land you call…Asia, but rare here.”

“I see,” Harry said. “So, I can talk to all snakes? That’s cool,” he said, meaning it. He appreciated snakes; they kept the mice out of his plants. “You said you hadn’t seen anyone do magic like mine before. What do you mean?”

“I don’t know much of wix,” the snake said. “But the ones I have seen wave sticks about and shout. It’s all rather dramatic. I like your magic better.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, glowing. “I like my magic, too. Do you have a name? I’m Harry.”

“My name is a scent,” the snake said. “I’m not sure if it translates.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Harry said slowly, “but can I smell it?”

“If you let me crawl up your arm, I will try,” the snake said. Harry nodded and offered his hand, and the snake wound its way to his shoulder. It was, perhaps, the first time anyone had touched him gently since he was a child. He enjoyed the feeling of the scales; they made the sensation different enough from human touch that Harry didn’t have to think of the last time Vernon had hit him.

“Can you smell it?” The snake asked. Harry took a deep breath.

There was something like a scent—but not quite—like his nose was trying to speak a different language it only half remembered. Whatever it was, it reminded him of apples.

“I think so,” Harry said. “Do you hunt here often? Can I call you Apple? That’s what you smell like to me.”

“That is fine with me, speaker,” the snake said, its voice radiating amusement.

“By the way, how are you speaking English? I didn’t know snakes could do that.”

“We are not speaking English. We are speaking parseltongue,” the snake said, and Harry got the distinct impression it was laughing at him. “Listen deeper, speaker. These are not your human words.”

“Oh, I hear it now,” Harry said—and it was true, he could hear the hissing under what his brain still insisted was English. “Thank you, Apple.”

“You are welcome, speaker,” the snake said, crawling off his arm. “I am tired, but we will meet again, yes?”

“I’d like that,” Harry replied, grinning to himself. It made sense, he supposed, that this part of his magic wouldn’t require an offering. After all, he didn’t need to make continuous offerings of rosemary to keep his memory. Maybe somewhere in his family line, someone had done a major offering to gain the ability to talk to snakes.

There was no time to dwell on it too much, however. For now, he had roses to weed if he wanted dinner, and he didn’t want to risk accidentally vanishing them just yet. It would have to be done the old-fashioned way.

The next morning, the house smelled horrific.

Harry—who had developed something of a sensitive nose—offered a little peppermint to ease the pain in his sinuses before creeping down to the kitchen.

He stared at his aunt, who was stirring something in the massive pot she sometimes used to boil corn. She glanced around at him, her eyes going tight as she took in his perpetually messy hair (which Harry was privately sure would look a lot nicer if he could grow it out, but his uncle demanded a haircut every time it touched his ears).

“What are you looking at, boy?”

“What are you doing?”

She pursed her lips at him.

“Dyeing your new school uniform,” she replied.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“You’d rather give us all migraines than spend a few pounds?” He asked, unable to stop himself.

Petunia’s arm flashed like a viper, slapping his arm with her spoon and making Harry wince.

“Keep a civil tongue, boy,” she hissed. Harry shrugged and went to start preparing breakfast—hopefully the Dursleys wouldn’t complain too much about yogurt and granola, because he wasn’t about to get anywhere near that pot.

“Dudley, get the mail,” Vernon said from the dining room.

“Make Harry get it.”

“Harry, get the mail.”

“Make Dudley get it,” Harry said, pulling bowls from a shelf. His aunt swatted the back of his head with her spoon, and Harry grimaced.

“Get the mail,” she said.

Harry rolled his eyes and went to get it.

There were three things on the doormat, and one was for him. The thick letter smelled fascinating, even from several feet away; like burnt sugar and woodsmoke and oddly something like artificial lemon, which wasn’t entirely pleasant. The only thing he’d ever smelled that came close in complexity was his own magic—

The letter was magic. Harry knew in his heart it was magic. Holding his breath, he tucked it into his pocket, folding it over a few times, and walked back to the kitchen with his heart racing. He handed Vernon the other mail and kept a straight face.

Oh, how he’d gotten good at keeping a straight face.

He kept a blank expression through Dudley demanding bacon, through cooking said bacon in the proximity of the pot fumes, through Vernon leaving for work and Dudley leaving to rove the streets as a menace. He kept quiet and emotionless through Petunia’s tirade about his rude, ungrateful behavior and through her refusal to allow him to have any of the bacon he had cooked. He kept a straight face through stale cereal, through scrubbing a bathroom, through more cold cuts and mayo—

And then he was free.

He walked slowly up to his bedroom, shut and locked the door, and pulled out the envelope.

It was inked in an emerald green that reminded him of his eyes. Harry opened it reverently, a million thoughts running through his head. Was there some society of wix? How had they not been discovered by the world? Why were they contacting him now, and not earlier, when he’d been using magic for years? Why hadn’t they sent something directly to him, instead of to the Dursleys?

God, I hope they have books, he wished, pulling out the letter from its casing.

-----

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31. Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress

-----

“What is a bloody owl?” Harry asked, frustrated, after he had read through the letter two more times. And what were all of those titles behind the headmaster’s name? Did they carry real political weight?

Why didn’t the wix add a little more information?

He opened the second piece of paper in the envelope. It was a list of supplies: robes and gloves and a pointy hat, the last of which made him raise an eyebrow—that was a little too conspicuous for his taste. He needed a wand, apparently, and a cauldron, the latter of which was much more exciting to him than the wand. A telescope—that made sense; the moon phases did impact his magic quite a bit—and brass scales and glass files. There was a whole list of books that made him salivate. Especially One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. Who knew what he could do with that?

At the bottom of the list were permitted pets, which included an owl.

A literal owl. Like the bird.

Harry swallowed his nervous giggles.

The first problem was that, according to the snake in the garden, his magic was somewhat unusual even among wix. He definitely didn’t want to end up as someone else’s experiment, like one of those mermaids in a Barnum circus. That meant he would have to find a way to blend in—hopefully the wand waving kind of magic would work for him, too. The second problem was that, given that he very much did want to leave the Dursleys and learn more magic, he had no idea how to acquire any of the things on this list, let alone the owl he apparently needed to send. The third problem was that, of course, he had no money to buy the things, even if he knew how to get them.

Perhaps his mother was magic, like Petunia had hinted, and would have gone to the same school that he had now been admitted to. His aunt knew that his mother was like him; maybe she knew more than that. Maybe Petunia could be convinced to take him where he needed to go.

Because he did need to go there.

This—the wixen world—was where he was meant to be. He could feel it in the magic humming from the letter.

Smiling viciously, Harry pulled down his jars of dried lavender and St. John’s Wort, the latter of which he had quite a bit of, seeing as he had not used it since those first two flowers. They were a little less potent dry than fresh, but he had plenty for what he needed to do, and he had improved greatly since his early months of using magic. It was all a matter of control, of not wasting any of the power you received in return for the offering.

It was time to be very, very bad, indeed.

Harry pushed down his conscience and left his room, picturing the books he would read.

Besides, wouldn’t the Dursleys be grateful to see him gone for most of the year?

Yes, rationalize it, Harry, his brain supplied unhelpfully. Freak.

He found Petunia Dursley in the kitchen, looking out a window at a conversation between two of their neighbors, the window slightly cracked for improved eavesdropping.

“Aunt Petunia, you want to answer my questions,” Harry said softly, feeling two of the yellow flowers vanish in his pocket. He felt a rush of guilt and shoved it down brutally, into the depths of his soul.

His aunt turned to him and nodded, a now-familiar smile on her face.

“Was my mother really magical?”

“Yes,” Petunia said. “She and that awful boy ran off to that school, and then she went and got herself killed—”

Harry’s breath caught.

“How did my parents die?” He hissed at her.

“They were murdered,” Petunia whispered.

Harry shook with rage and nausea. He had thought—she had told them they died in a car crash—

It was strange, tantalizing, to imagine that their deaths might have had a reason. That there might be some why to his life, beyond random chance.

But there was no time to ask now. The flower wouldn’t last forever.

“How did my parents get their school things?”

“Diagon Alley,” Petunia said, sounding a little awed in spite of herself. “It’s in London.”

“Do you know the way?”

“Yes,” Petunia said. “I went with Lily every year.”

Harry sucked in a breath, gripping two more flowers. He wasn’t sure if he could get to Diagon Alley (honestly, wizards apparently had very odd naming sensibilities) but he was fairly sure he could get home. Maybe he could even find a place to stay for a few days in this Diagon Alley.

“You’re going to take me there, now. You’ll help me get a room for two nights nearby and then leave me with enough money to buy what I need.”

“Yes,” Petunia said, still grinning. “I’ll meet you at the door in five minutes.”

Harry bolted upstairs and grabbed his schoolbag, shoving his notebook, pens, and jars of lavender, St. John’s Wort, calendula, chamomile, and even his prized tin of ginseng into the bag. Ginseng, he had learned—on one very memorable afternoon, when he had found some in a neighbor’s garden—could make rather a lot of fire.

Harry liked fire. It was warm and alive in a way that always made him smile, so long as it wasn’t near his plants.

He bounded down the stairs and set off at the heels of a very ill-looking Petunia. She stayed completely silent on the drive to London and continued to be silent as they walked to their destination. At last, his aunt stopped on an unassuming street and looked at him.

“I can’t see it,” she said. “Only freaks can. You’ll need to find it. It’s called the “Leaky Cauldron.” Godawful name, if you ask me.”

Harry spotted it at once and led her into a very run-down looking little pub. It was rather dark and grimy inside, with some very strange looking people drinking in the corners—but, Harry supposed, it was midafternoon on a weekday. Who else would be in a pub at this time?

“Can I help you?” A bald old man asked from behind the counter, staring skeptically at Petunia. His aunt smiled back—using two flowers was very potent magic.

“I need a room for two nights,” she said. “Do you know where I could find one?”

“You can rent rooms here. Two nights is ten galleons.”

“I only have pounds,” Petunia said. The man glanced at Harry, and something seemed to click in his mind. Harry noticed that he had a very mild smell of oddly artificial whiskey to him, which he supposed made sense, seeing as he was apparently a bartender.

“Oh, I see—no worries, dear lady. We’ll take that. Two nights is…Fifty pounds, then.”

Petunia handed over the money.

“Give the key to my nephew,” she said, and promptly handed Harry the rest of the money in her wallet, then turned tail and left without another word. Harry wanted to laugh, or to be sick. He couldn’t quite tell which.

“Just you, then?” The man asked.

“My aunt doesn’t like magic much,” Harry said.

The bartender nodded wisely. “Well, so long as you had a guardian book it, I suppose I can’t say no. Here, follow me. I’m Tom, by the way.”

“Harry,” Harry said in return, taking the key Tom offered him.

Tom’s eyes went wide, and he glanced at the place where Harry’s bangs hid his forehead.

“What’s your last name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Are my parents famous murder victims? Wouldn’t that be just my luck, Harry thought.

“Evans,” he replied. It was his mother’s maiden name.

“Oh,” Tom said, deflating slightly, and Harry knew he had made the right choice. “Of course. Here’s your room, Harry.”

Tom led him to a small room on the pub’s second floor. To Harry’s relief, it was much cleaner than the bar had been.

“Do you know where I can change my money to your kind?” Harry asked.

“Gringotts bank,” Tom said. “Walk right down the alley—you can’t miss it. Oh, here, follow me—I’ll show you how to open the door.”

Harry smiled at him, and Tom locked the room again and led him back down to the pub, where he showed him how to tap the bricks to get into the main alley. Harry was grateful for the amount of trust people apparently put in eleven-year-olds. Or, rather, nearly-eleven-year-olds.

Tom pushed him through the portal, and Harry gasped.

It was so much. Cauldrons and owls and people in robes—so many people in robes, goodness, those looked comfortable—and plants of all sorts, which was a delight. His eyes were full to the brim, and his nose was even fuller. Most of the people around him seemed to be wearing some sort of very mild perfume. It was all a little overwhelming, and not entirely pleasant—they all smelled a little artificial, like one of his aunt’s “linen” candles. He stepped away from the door and stood at the side of the street, watching the people pass.

I’m smelling their magic, Harry realized with a start. Why does it all smell so weird? Maybe because they’re older.

…Am I actually smelling them? Or is this just how my brain is processing magic? That would make more sense, given that I don’t currently have the world’s worst sinus headache.

Harry resigned himself to a very strongly smelling wixen world and looked around for anything that could conceivably be a bank. The large white marble building at the end of the road seemed to fit the bill, and Harry headed there at once.

The door was flanked by two creatures even shorter than Harry. He grinned at them; their magic was surprisingly refreshing after all of the wix’s cloying scents, like fresh dirt and iron. They blinked back at him, apparently unused to grinning children.

He went inside after reading very morbid poem instructing him to not steal from the bank, which Harry noted carefully. After all, he had sort of just robbed his aunt. Not that he was going to rob anyone else, of course. He hoped. Could being a bad person metastasize, like cancer?

Harry shook his head to scare away the thought and pressed on.

About a hundred more of the creatures sat at a counter inside of an immensely tall hall, bustling with wizards and even more of the short creatures. One of the ones at the counter waved Harry forward.

“Name?” It asked brusquely. This did not seem like the place to lie, so Harry said quietly:

“Harry Potter.”

The creature blinked.

“You’ll be here to get access to your vault, then. My name is Griphook; I can help you with that.”

“My vault?” Harry asked, shocked. “I just wanted to change some pounds into whatever your money is.”

“Yes, your vault,” Griphook said, smiling wickedly. “Follow me, mister Potter.”

Harry did, a million questions in his mind.

“Do you mind if I ask you some things?”

“Go ahead,” Griphook replied, leading Harry through a side door and down a long hallway.

“I’m sorry if this is rude, but what are you?” Harry asked.

Griphook laughed.

“I am a Goblin, mister Potter,” he said. Harry nodded, now curious about the veracity of mermaids and fairies and elves—

But first, money.

Focus, Harry, he told himself for the millionth time.

“I heard that you could change five pounds for a galleon,” Harry said. “Are there smaller denominations of wizard money?”

“Yes. Galleons are the large gold coins. There are seventeen sickles to a galleon—those are the coins silver—and twenty-nine bronze knuts to a sickle.”

“Who decided that? Honestly,” Harry said. The goblin threw back his head and laughed.

“Wizards, mister Potter, are generally quite foolish,” Griphook said, watching Harry’s face for offense. When he got a laugh instead, the goblin smiled again. “At some point, look up currency pegs, mister Potter. With a little brains you can be a very rich man. Or, richer, I suppose, than you already are.”

“I’m rich?” Harry asked, disbelieving.

“You’ll see,” Griphook said, leading Harry into a very different kind of passageway, made of stone and roughly hewn. A minecart waited, the tracks leading down into darkness. Harry followed Griphook and got inside. The cart shot off at once, leaving Harry’s startled shout behind. Five minutes and a very wild ride later, they came to a halt in front of a door.

“If you could give me your hand, mister Potter,” the goblin said as they stepped out of the cart. Harry did so and winced as Griphook pricked his finger and dipped his key in the blood. He felt a familiar rush of offering as the goblin did so—

Could you offer blood?

“I’ve reset the vault wards to respond to your blood, and thereby deactivated all other keys,” Griphook said.

“Who else would have a key to my vault?” Harry asked, suspiciously.

“Albus Dumbledore,” Griphook replied.

“The headmaster of Hogwarts? That’s odd,” Harry said. “Did he make any withdrawals?”

“One, for your parents’ funeral. He was and is the executor of their will. You will be limited to a certain annual withdrawal maximum until you turn fifteen, as per said will, when you can also file your own documents which will then supersede your parents’. At that point, you will also have full command of your vault. Upon turning fifteen you can also take a blood test to determine your family history and potential additional inheritances.”

Harry’s head was spinning with all of the new knowledge, but one piece of it stood out.

“So, a man I’ve never met is in charge of my money and used it to organize a funeral I didn’t get to go to,” Harry said bitterly. “Good to know.”

“Knowledge is power, mister Potter,” Griphook replied. “Unlock the vault, if you will.”

Harry put the key in the lock and turned it.

“What’s my withdrawal limit, and how much does the vault hold?”

“You are limited to withdrawing ten thousand galleons a year. The vault contains four hundred and twenty-six thousand, two hundred and five galleons, seven sickles and one knut, as well as some family jewelry.”

Harry turned to look as the door opened. His heart stuttered in his chest.

It was a massive pile of gold.

“So…I have about two million pounds?”

“Correct.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry said. “How much do things cost? A trunk, a cauldron, a wand?”

“Most Hogwarts students expect to spend between two hundred and a thousand galleons on their first-year supplies,” Griphook said.

“I should have brought a bigger bag,” Harry said. Griphook laughed as Harry counted out five hundred galleons and put them in his backpack. They barely fit, settling around his jars of plants like an absurd hoard. With that, Harry tucked the key into his bag as well and left with the goblin.

Once he was back in the sunlight, he walked around in a half-daze until he found a shop that sold trunks. There, he bought a handsome brown leather and bronze trunk enchanted to weigh very little that shrank to the size of a messenger bag at the tap of his finger (presumably, the offering for the magic had been made by someone else) and a small money bag enchanted to be larger on the inside. It cost almost half of his gold, but he figured both were worth it. In a corner of the shop, he discretely dumped his galleons into the money pouch. He then transferred all of his other possessions to the trunk and looked at his empty schoolbag.

“Do you think I could sell this for anything?” Harry asked the shopkeeper who had assisted him.

“Hm. Head down to Bottom Drawer, it’s a block towards the Cauldron. They take all sorts.”

Harry nodded, slinging his shrunken trunk over his shoulder. Now that he had a real bag—a nice, clean, new, thing that was entirely his—he couldn’t help feeling like his old backpack was something unpleasant and dead. Even if his new trunk did have a hint of the same artificial feeling that everything else did around here, it was still his.

Harry set off for Bottom Drawer, smiling at all of the wonder around him. Owls kept flying overhead in broad daylight, which was a piece of magic in itself. He’d still need to send an owl to the school, and he’d like to have one of his own if possible.

He was just wishing the school allowed snakes as pets when an extremely bushy-haired, dark-skinned girl spilled across his path.

“Out of the way, mudblood,” an older boy jeered at her, vanishing into the crowd.

Harry glared after him and rushed to help the girl up. She had skinned her knees on the stones of the road and her face looked torn halfway between fury and tears.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, once she was on her feet. “I can help with that, if you want,” he said, pointing at the cuts on her knees. “I know a healing spell.”

“Really?” She asked, pain fading from her face in place of curiosity. “Well, let’s see, then.”

Harry barked a laugh and led her to a bench on the side of the road, discretely pulling his jar of calendula from his bag as he did. He had an odd suspicion that maybe he should keep his method of magic hidden, as it didn’t seem to quite fit in with everyone else’s. He picked out a single flower and dropped the jar before the girl could see, then held his free hand out toward her knees. The flower vanished, and her skin healed like new. Harry couldn’t keep the smile from his face at the smell of his lilac-almond magic blending with calendula and driving away the artificial aura of the alley. It was so wonderful to be able to use his magic to help someone else again.

It made him feel—like maybe he could be a better person, someday.

“Woah,” she said. “I tried a couple of spells this morning, and they worked, but nothing like that. I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.”

“Harry Potter,” Harry said, sighing with relief when the girl didn’t seem to recognize the name. “Are you starting at Hogwarts, too?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I was so surprised when I got the letter—my parents are muggles, you see.”

“Muggles? Does that mean non-magic people?”

“Yeah—are you muggleborn, too?”

“Um, my parents were wizards, I think,” Harry said. “But I was raised by my muggle aunt and uncle.”

“Oh,” Hermione said softly, clearly catching the implication. “Maybe I can help you with something, since you helped me?”

“Sure,” Harry said, smiling at her.

“Here,” she said, pulling a wand from her bag. Harry immediately hated it; it smelled awful. Hermione pointed it at his glasses, broken and mended with sellotape. “Reparo.”

Harry heard a small click and took off his glasses. Blurrily, he tested them with his fingers—they held! Grinning, he unwrapped the tape.

“Thanks, Hermione!” He said, genuinely excited. He wanted to ask her what she had offered, but he wasn’t entirely sure she had offered anything. Something was weird about the wands everyone seemed to use. Maybe he could use calendula to achieve the same effect.

“You’re welcome,” Hermione said, grinning back. “And thank you for helping me up earlier.”

“No problem. That guy was a jerk. Why did he push you, anyway?”

“I think some people don’t like muggleborns,” Hermione said, a shadow passing over her face.

“That’s dumb,” Harry said. “You’re clearly an excellent witch.”

Hermione brightened at once.

“Thank you, Harry! Do you have any shopping left to do? My parents are getting my robes, and they let me walk to the bookstore by myself. That’s where I’m headed now.”

Harry laughed ruefully.

“I still have to get everything but my trunk,” he said. “I should probably go to the bookstore last, though, or else I’ll spend all of my money. I’ll see you at Hogwarts, though?”

“Oh, I get that—I love books, too,” Hermione said brightly. “How are you getting to the train?”

Harry bit his lip—there had been a train ticket in his envelope.

“I suppose I’ll convince my aunt to drive me,” he said cagily. Hermione frowned.

“Do they not like magic, Harry?” She asked. She was remarkably perceptive, and Harry nodded glumly.

“Well—Mum! Dad!” Hermione shouted, waving over her parents. They were a tall, good-looking couple; her father was very dark, and her mother quite pale.

“Who’s this?” Her mother asked, smiling at Harry.

“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry said. “Good to meet you, mister and missus Granger.”

“Oh, so polite! It’s nice to meet you as well, dear. Look at that, Hermione, you’re already making friends.”

“Mom, can we give Harry a ride to the train? He’s starting with me this year,” Hermione said.

“Don’t you have anyone to drive you, dear?” Mr. Granger said, frowning.

“Uh, not really,” Harry admitted. “I mean—I can figure it out, it’s no problem, really—”

“Nonsense! Where do you live?” Ms. Granger asked.

“Little Whinging,” Harry said.

“Oh, that’s not too far from us at all! Here, we’ll write down your address and give you our phone number. We can pick you up on the first,” Ms. Granger said.

“Thank you,” Harry said, more than a little overwhelmed. He’d never had a friend before, and he thought Hermione might already be one. And he’d healed someone. His chest glowed with a warmth brighter than any fire he’d conjured.

It was, perhaps, the best feeling he’d ever had.

Chapter Text

Harry parted ways with the Grangers cheerfully, then went to collect the rest of the items on his list. He sold his old bag at Bottom Drawer and found several pairs of second-hand school robes that fit him quite well. In addition, for weekend wear, he bought a dark blue robe set with bronze buttons, a set in emerald green that matched his eyes, and—just to be indulgent—a set in pale lilac that reminded him of the scent of his magic. The robes were meant to be worn over the loose linen pants and shirts that wizards favored, so he bought a few of those too and wore them out of the store. He would look a little odd on the train in London, but only a little—and not much stranger than wearing Dudley’s hand-me-downs had made him look.

He never wanted to wear muggle clothes again. The robes had so many pockets, and he had found pairs that suited him quite well. As he walked down the street in clothes that fit him for the first time, he felt like singing. He wasn’t a vain person by nature, but there was something about not feeling ugly that made his heart soar.

After that, he bought his potions equipment and telescope new, then got himself a set of schoolbooks, and half a dozen additional books on plants and potions, which seemed promising. He was half-tempted to ask if the store had anything on offerings—or whatever they were supposed to be called—but he decided against it. There was simply too much he didn’t know about the magical world right now. He also picked up a book called Modern Magical History, which he thought might include his parents if their murder was really that famous. He privately hoped, however, that it would not.

Harry didn’t really fancy being famous for being an orphan.

Finally, he found himself in front of the wand shop, called Ollivanders.

He hesitated outside, his stomach turning. The smell of bleach and artificial linen seeped from every crack in the walls.

Finally, he steeled himself and opened the door. A tinkling bell rang, making him jump.

The scent was overpowering. He tried plugging his nose, but it didn’t help at all, so Harry let his hand fall and tried to ignore it.

At least I have confirmation it’s not really a smell. I wonder if everyone can sense magic like this?

“Good evening,” a spindly old man said, appearing at the back of the shop. He had eyes like silver sickles and skin as pale as paper. Harry thought he didn’t blink nearly enough. “I am Ollivander.”

“Good evening,” Harry said in return. “I’m looking for a wand, I guess.”

Ollivander laughed. “You don’t sound very excited about it. But I suppose you wouldn’t be, would you?”

“What do you mean by that?” Harry asked warily.

“You are much better suited to ritual magic, mister Potter,” Ollivander said. “You give something, and in return you receive something.”

Ritual magic. That’s what it’s called. I suppose it’s different than the wand thing.

“Oh,” Harry said, nodding slowly and trying not to be too disturbed that the man knew his name without asking. “So that’s normal, then? Some wizards are just like that?”

“Normal, no—no, not at all. But yes, some wizards are just like that. Or, rather…A bare handful, I suppose. The Flamels are the most famous in Britain—they are renowned French alchemists, though few know of mister Flamel’s true abilities. Zawgyi is another, though less well known here, and Jabir ibn Hayyan. There is only one other wizard I know of to have been born in the last three centuries who could even begin to be compared to you, and that one I met myself—though he was quite well suited to both ritual and Core magic, actually.”

“Who was that?”

“No matter—I cannot in good conscience sell you an active wand, mister Potter. It would only torture you. I also cannot send you off to Hogwarts without one. Quite the dilemma.”

“Why can’t you send me there without one?” Harry asked, teeth gritted. He was feeling increasingly frustrated with Ollivander’s half-explanations, and increasingly certain his choice to hide his magic abilities had been the right one.

“Well, mister Potter,” Ollivander said, “ritual magic is widely considered to be Dark magic. Only Core magic is taught at Hogwarts—aside from potions, of course. Many wixen have some very minor facility with rituals, but very few of the Light actually practice them.”

Harry blinked at him.

“Seriously? I use flowers to heal people. That’s…Dark?”

“Indeed, mister Potter,” Ollivander said, grinning. The expression made Harry’s skin itch even more than the wandmaker’s previous dead stare.  “Of course, Dark and evil are not the same, but that’s neither here nor there. A wand will not work for you, but you must make it appear to do so, if you intend to remain unquestioned at your school.”

My magic helps people, Harry reminded himself, the words in his head like a prayer. My “Dark” magic helps people.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Harry asked, his eyes narrowing at the odd man. “Why not just…Turn me in, or whatever?”

“Call it curiosity,” Ollivander said, still grinning. Harry swallowed his temper. He still had things he needed to learn from the odd man; it wouldn’t do to shout at him.

“What is Core magic?” Harry asked.

“Magic demands a price,” Ollivander said. “For you, that can be anything—anything except your Core, which will only accept additions, not subtraction. For most wixen, that is energy from their bodies, channeled with intent by using a small piece of their Core, intent which is typically shaped by wand motions and words.

“You can use as much magic as you like, mister Potter, so long as you have something to sacrifice, while Core wixen will succumb to exhaustion sooner or later. It is quite fascinating—in some ways, you are freer than a wand-bound wizard such as myself; but in others—socially perhaps most of all—you are more constrained. But to the point: you must have a wand to attend Hogwarts.”

“Can you sell me a deactivated wand?” Harry asked. “Is that a thing?”

Ollivander winked, which made Harry want to tear out his eyes.

“I would hate to see one of my wands reduced to a mere trinket, but yes, I can. I will look around and find something interesting, and you can cannibalize the magic as a sacrifice.”

“An offering?”

“Is that what you call it?” Ollivander said, puttering around the shop and piling boxes into his arms. “Yes, then, an offering. I admit, I am quite curious to see it in action.”

He handed Harry the first box.

“Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. How does it look?”

“Look?” Harry asked, holding the stinking thing as far away from his body as he could. “Like a stick?”

“Hm—can you not see the magic?”

“See it? Can you see it?” Harry asked, incredulous.

“I can,” Ollivander said, frowning.

“Can all wix see magic?” Harry asked, suddenly concerned that his ritual affinity would be obvious to the professors at Hogwarts.

“No,” Ollivander said. “I know of no other besides myself, and I personally sold the wands of every professor and student at Hogwarts. But I got the distinct impression…No matter. No, I can tell you don’t like this one. I’ll find another.”

Ollivander handed him box after box of unpleasantly artificial wood, and Harry pondered what he had said about seeing magic, and his surety that Harry could as well. He was fairly sure he could see magic—or, rather, that he could smell it. Perhaps the ability chose whichever sense was strongest. Harry had always had poor eyesight and an excellent sense of smell.

Like a snake, he thought, returning yet another wand to the decidedly creepy wandmaker.

“I have one more idea,” Ollivander said, grinning again and holding out a final box. Harry took the offered box reluctantly.

“An unusual combination. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry lifted the wand from the box.

It smelled like firepit ashes, and that was the best smell he’d had in the half an hour he’d been trapped in the store. He resisted the urge to lift the wand to his nose and inhale.

“I think this is it,” he said.

“Excellent! Well, go on then—do what you do!”

“Usually the offering vanishes,” Harry said. “So how do I—”

“How should I know?” Ollivander interrupted. “You’ve entirely exhausted my knowledge of ritual practice.”

Harry frowned and checked the door, then, seeing that no one was coming into the shop, looked at the wand in his hand. He could smell the ashes, could feel the hints of fire that birthed the ash on his skin, warm but painless. He imagined drawing the fire into him, the flames pouring over his skin as harmless as bathwater.

He took a deep breath.

Give me your gift, he told the wand.

Something clicked in his soul, and all the air left the room. Harry’s vision went black, his skin was on fire, his eyeballs were melting—

He blinked.

Somehow, he had fallen onto the floor. A sense of finality settled on him, familiar from his ritual with the rosemary. He had been given a permanent gift.

The wand was still gripped in his hand. It smelled like him, now; like lilac and almond and amber. It was also, he was quite sure, just a stick.

“So? I take it the ritual worked? The wand is inert. Did you consume the feather inside?” Ollivander asked, not bothering to help Harry up.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “But I think so. I think it’s just wood, now.”

“Fascinating,” Ollivander said, grinning again. “And what did you gain?”

“Um,” Harry said. “I have no idea.”

Ollivander cackled. “Well, you might want to figure that out, mister Potter. You might also be interested to know…It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is—was—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 blinked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said flatly, getting to his feet.

For the first time, Ollivander actually looked taken aback.

“He who must not be named,” Ollivander said, with half-reverential fear. “The man who could perform both types of magic—though perhaps you may best him in ritual practice, that remains to be seen—he used your brother wand. He used it to kill your parents. He could not kill you, however. How…Curious, that you should take to its twin so readily.”

Harry swallowed.

He’d learned that morning that his parents were murdered, and now their murderer was apparently the only other person born after the invention of the steam engine who could do magic like his.

But it didn’t mean anything about him, right? Harry refused to believe that people were born bad, and he was born with his magic. If this mysterious evil wizard had chosen to use his gift badly, it didn’t mean anything about rituals. Ollivander didn’t indicate that the Flamels were evil, after all.

If Harry was to be a bad person, it would be entirely his own fault.

Harry shivered. Was he going down the same dark path as his parent’s killer?

“How much do I owe you?”

“Take it, mister Potter,” Ollivander said. “When you figure out what gift you have been given, tell me. That will be my payment. And I promise—your secret is safe with me.”

Harry left the shop quickly after that, tucking the stick—the wand, he supposed—into the pocket of his pants.

Hogwarts taught many subjects, but it seemed three in particular would be dangerous for him: charms, transfiguration and defense. He would need to find a way to mimic the Core spells with rituals, without getting caught.

Oh, joy, he thought.

To cheer himself up, he decided to buy an owl. The shop, Eeylop’s Owl Emporium, was filled with softly hooting birds. They were all beautiful, with soft feathers and shining eyes. After a minute of looking, however, one caught his gaze in particular: a nearly black barn owl, even its adorable round face dark as soot.

I might as well lean into the Dark wizard thing, Harry thought, grinning. He reached his finger out to the owl, which nipped it gently and hopped onto his wrist.

“Will you be taking her home?” The shop attendant asked.

“Yes, please,” Harry said, handing over ten galleons. He still had a solid fifty galleons left, which he hoped would be enough for expenses, plus all of the muggle money he had relived from Aunt Petunia that very morning.

As he walked back to the Leaky Cauldron through lengthening shadows with an owl on his shoulder and clothes that fit him on his back, he almost felt like he was floating. Nothing seemed solid, like it would all melt away in the sunlight if it grew too strong. He was going to wake up the next morning to his bedroom on Privet Drive, surrounded by jars of herbs and insistent cobwebs.

“It’s real,” he whispered to himself as he ate dinner in the pub, his nose in his herbology textbook.

“It’s real,” he promised himself as he memorized potion ingredients while brushing his teeth with a kit purchased from Tom, more grateful than ever for his altered memory.

“It’s real,” he vowed as he curled in the tavern’s bed, the overwhelming scent of magic all around him.

It was real.

It had to be.

The next day was spent alternating between euphoria—at finding more magic users, at having a potential friend, at how pretty his owl and his robes were, at all of the wonderful experiments he was going to do—and blinding terror. The latter was brought on every time he smelled too strongly the scent of the Core magic all around him, every time he remembered he was an outsider even among those who were supposed to be his people. He was going to have to read ahead in all of his textbooks and develop rituals to mimic enough of the Core magic that no one would be suspicious.

But first, he wanted to figure out why he was famous.

He settled outside a lovely ice cream parlor and read the day away. First, he drove through Modern Magical History. It did indeed have a small section on him and his parents—they had died on Halloween, he learned, and only ten years older than he was now. The thought made him ache.

There was a little photograph of them in the book, smiling and waving in the wonderful way of wixen pictures. It was even in color.

It was the first time he had ever seen them.

Lily looked very little like her sister, except that they had the same large, round eyes. Where Petunia’s were pale, however, Lily’s were a bright, brilliant green, just like Harry’s. She had a soft, round face and a kind smile, and dark red hair that fell to her shoulders in neat sheets. James was in every way her opposite, dark where she was light, sharp where she was round, and somewhat untidy to boot, with his thick, wavy hair a mess and glasses slightly askew. They made for a beautiful couple. Harry himself looked like a skinnier version of James—with Lily’s large, green eyes instead of James’ brown.

Harry stared at the picture for a long, long time. He wondered what it would have been like, to grow up with adults who might have loved him. He wondered why—why—he hadn’t.

The section on his parents was part of a much longer section of the book on the war against the wizard known as Voldemort (who apparently was the one everyone was too afraid to name). There was not one word, however, on what Voldemort had actually been trying to do, besides kill people for sport. As far as Harry could tell, the man had the emotional heft of the evil queen in Snow White. His fingers trembled from the effort of not ripping the pages.

He murdered my parents when they were barely more than teenagers. Maybe he was just that bad.

Then again, Harry thought, skimming through the book, if they think my magic is inherently evil…Maybe there’s some propaganda involved.

It’s just so frustrating to know that he killed my parents, but not to know why.

He wondered, too, just how Voldemort had met his end. It seemed insane that he, as a baby, had somehow killed a man, even with his apparently unusual magic. He wondered if that was something he might be able to ask a professor about, at least.

Eventually, when staring at his parents’ photo began to hurt more than it warmed, Harry went back to the bookstore Flourish and Blott’s, where he bought several books on wizarding law, and one called Hogwarts: A History. He hoped the former would tell him what of his magic was illegal and what was just frowned upon, and that the latter would tell him what to expect at his mysterious school.

As it turned out, almost all of his magic was illegal. Including the healing. All Dark magic in general was at least frowned upon if not banned. “Rituals for mind manipulation” were extra illegal, not that he was surprised by that part.

Too depressed to continue with the law books—his eyes had glazed over somewhat at the mention of the Wizengamot; politics wasn’t really his thing—he turned to Hogwarts: A History, which was a very well written book. He perked up at the mention of a house specifically for curious people. That definitely seemed like the one for him. Although, given that he could talk to snakes, he might have to at least consider the snake house, too.

Aw, bloody hell, he thought as he read a passage that informed him that Parseltongue—something he had been born with, he seethed—was widely considered a Dark ability. Is there anything I can do that’s legal in this country?

He returned to the Dursleys the next day, trunk and owl in tow and still dressed in his well-fitting clothes. Vernon looked like he wanted to murder Harry, but before Harry could so much as touch the lavender in his pocket, Petunia held him back, shaking her head at Harry and looking absolutely terrified.

He knew he had gone too far with his aunt in his last use of St. John’s Wort, and it looked like the cat was out of the bag in terms of his magic. But honestly, despite the guilt burning worse than ever in his lungs, he had no idea how else he was supposed to have gotten to Diagon, and he was sure they would be grateful when he left for school. Besides, the magic had the excellent side effect of the Dursleys leaving him completely alone. In fact, they generally pretended he didn’t exist, to the point that he stopped doing any chores that didn’t involve plants or his own living space, and no one mentioned it at all.

He spent the rest of the summer holidays practicing with quills (what an odd thing for wizards to use), memorizing his textbooks, and trying to invent rituals to mimic the spells in them. Some turned out to be remarkably easy. A bit of his owl Helena’s feathers let him levitate most anything; a whole feather let Harry float around his room for an hour, which was extremely fun. Fortunately, that ritual was also easy to end with a thought, unlike his lavender sleeping charms—or else he would have been stuck to the ceiling more than he cared to admit. Calendula served as his own version of reparo. Ginseng could be used for light as well as for fire, though he had a very hard time getting the light to stick on the end of his wand to mimic lumos, rather than floating free around the room.

Some spells eluded him entirely, like the locking and unlocking charms, much to his frustration. He suspected that a bit of metal might work for both, but he didn’t have anything to test it with. Transfiguration he had entirely given up on; he’d just fail the class, or at least the practical portion. It grated, but he wasn’t here for grades. He was here to learn. Potions, herbology and astronomy were the classes he really needed.

And then there was the fire spell.

He’d read a little footnote about phoenixes in his potions book. Apparently, they had an affinity for fire; they couldn’t be burned and could ignite their own bodies at will. It was as good of a guess as any as to what his gift from the phoenix feather in the wand might have been. So, a few nights before September first, Harry snuck outside into the back garden and sat down as far away from any of his herbs as he could.

Then, he held out a hand, and pictured fire.

Nothing happened.

For two whole hours, nothing continued to happen.

Then, just as Harry was about to give up, a brilliantly green fire burst to life in his palm.

He jumped, yelped, fell over, and lay with his face pressed into the dirt, heart racing.

When no sounds stirred from any of the houses around him, he sat back up and held out his hand, trying to feel the same rushing warmth he had when he had first conjured the fire. It took him only a few minutes, and this time he was ready for it: an emerald flame danced over his palm, sustained by his own energy. He held the fire to his skin; it was warm, but didn’t burn him, though it ate through a blade of grass easily enough.  It smelled like almonds and amber and just a hint of campfire.

“Who needs a dumb stick?” Harry whispered to the night, lighting a tiny fire on each of his fingers. “This is way better.”

That night, after he crept back to his room, he penned a short letter to Ollivander:

I can conjure fire. And I guess I’m fireproof.

With an act of massive will, he did not sign it you-know-who. Instead, he left it blank, trusting Ollivander would know—or at least recognize the magic that lingered in the paper.

September the first arrived, and with it, the Grangers in a neat little sedan.

“Don’t come home for Chirstmas,” were the only words Petunia said to him as he left.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry replied, his feet light as air as he carried his trunk and Helena’s empty cage out to the car. He’d sent the owl on ahead to Hogwarts, which he knew she knew how to reach, seeing as she’d already delivered his attendance letter.

“Harry! Good to see you,” Hermione said, beaming. He noticed that her magic smelled like fresh-cut grass, strong and bright, with just a tinge of the artificial tang he associated with wand-bound wix.

“Good to see you too, Hermione,” Harry said, fitting his things into the trunk of the car. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Granger. Thank you again for driving me.”

“It’s no trouble,” Mrs. Granger said. “Your house is basically on our way! Let’s go, you two don’t want to be late!”

They passed the drive in a haze of lovely conversation. He learned that the Grangers were dentists, and that Hermione had also read all of her textbooks, which led to several excellent discussions about the importance of wand movements.

“Well, I mean,” Hermione said. “The Standard Book of Spells is so explicit—look at Wingaurdium Leviosa! They even give the inches you’re supposed to swish and flick.”

“I think it’s just a way to help us focus, though,” Harry countered. “Do you remember that passage in the transfiguration book? Eventually we should be able to do any transfiguration with just a tap of our wands and no words at all, and the same principle applies to other fields as well. So they’re really more of…Aids to intention,” Harry finished.

Hermione’s face went through several complicated emotions, settling in a frown. Then, after a moment, she nodded.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “And in the defense book, it mentions that we should eventually be able to do most defensive spells non-verbally too—so it must just be like…Training wheels,” she said, a little sourly. “I spent so much time memorizing those!”

“I’m sure you’ll be great,” Harry said, feeling every word in his bones. “Just because you’ll be able to do them silently one day doesn’t mean it won’t be useful now.”

“Hm, I suppose you’re right,” Hermione said, looking cheered.

Harry and Hermione said goodbye to the Grangers on the platform and went through the barrier to platform nine and three-quarters together—they both knew how to use it quite well from the detailed description in Hogwarts: A History.

They stepped out into a seething crowd, wix and children and animals running in every direction. Harry felt the crushing weight of all of the people around him like a bag over his head, the scent of their magic making him woozy. Hermione didn’t look like she felt much better. Rather than stay to mingle, they found an empty compartment on the massive red steam engine. Just as they got settled, there was a knock on the door.

A round-faced boy with dark blonde hair opened the door, looking nervous and carrying a trunk the size of a small handbag and a toad larger than the trunk.

“Uh, hi,” he said. “D’you mind if I sit here?”

Harry glanced at Hermione, who smiled at him.

“Sure,” Harry said, scooting over to make room. “I’m Harry, nice to meet you.”

“I’m Hermione.”

“Neville,” the newcomer said, putting his trunk up next to Harry’s. He cradled the toad gently, and his magic was a light smell of leather. “This is Trevor. Do you two have any pets?”

“I have an owl, Helena, but she’s gone on ahead,” Harry said.

“Oh, I want an owl,” Neville said. “But gran just got me this toad. Well, at least he’s kind of funny looking. In a good way.”

“I suppose that’s one way of thinking of it,” Hermione said, giggling.

The train began to move, and Harry looked out the window, unable to suppress a massive grin. It felt like the rest of his life was beginning, and he couldn’t be happier.

“Have you two thought about your houses?” Neville asked.

“I’ll probably be in Ravenclaw,” Harry said. “I like books, and learning. Gryffindor sounds like it might be too full of extraverts for me, and I’m not sure about Hufflepuff. Slytherin seems okay too, but I definitely think I’ll go for Ravenclaw.”

Neville stared at him.

“Slytherin seems okay? Isn’t it full of Dark wizards?”

Harry swallowed, blushing, and did some very quick calculations.

Neville thinks Dark magic is evil. I’d better not tell him about mine, then.

“Uh, I didn’t know that,” he said. “I was raised by muggles. I just think snakes are cool, and I want to be a healer, so I think I’m pretty ambitious.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Neville said, relaxing. “A healer! That’s neat.”

“You’ll be a great healer, Harry,” Hermione said. “He did a healing charm on me when we met! It was really impressive.”

Neville raised his eyebrows at Harry. “Wow!”

Harry rubbed the back of his head, blushing slightly. “What about you, Hermione? What house do you want to be in?”

“Hm…I was thinking of Gryffindor, but now that you say it, I do think it’d probably be a little loud for me. I definitely want Ravenclaw, then!”

“I think I might be in Hufflepuff,” Neville said sadly.

“If that’s where you end up, I’m sure it’ll be great,” Hermione said. “Besides, who says you can’t have friends in other houses? So it really doesn’t matter too much where you end up, I think, because we can still hang out either way.”

Neville smiled at her. Then his eyes abruptly went wide and he looked at Harry, his eyes flicking up to Harry’s forehead, where a turn of his neck had shifted his hair and exposed his scar.

“Hang on,” he said. “Are you Harry Potter?”

Harry grimaced.

“Yeah,” he said. He really did not like attention, as it turned out. He’d never had much of it before, and now that he had some, he rather wished that he didn’t.

“Oh,” was all Neville said. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. If you don’t want to be recognized, you might want to keep your forehead covered. Were you raised by muggles too, Hermione?”

Harry decided then and there that Neville was great.

They spent the rest of the train ride getting to know each other, discussing the subjects they were looking forward to—Neville also liked herbology—and what the professors might be like. The first dramatic moment came when Harry caught Trevor just as he tried to flee out the door that had been opened by the lunch trolley lady.

“Nice reflexes, Harry,” Neville said, sounding impressed. Harry grinned, and together they bought an excellent assortment of odd sweets.

The second dramatic moment came in the form of a pale, blonde boy flanked by two very large eleven-year-olds who opened the compartment door without knocking.

“I’ve checked every other compartment, and I think it is you,” the boy said, sneering at Hermione and Neville. “Harry Potter.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Harry said, not about to outright deny it to his future classmate.

“My name is Malfoy—Draco Malfoy. This is Crabbe and that’s Goyle. You don’t need to be sitting with this trash, Potter. You’re welcome to come sit with me, if you’d like.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

He wasn’t about to let anyone bully his new friends.

“Honestly, the only unpleasant part of this train ride has been your interruption,” Harry said calmly.

Malfoy snorted. “Surely you can’t enjoy sharing air with a mudblood,” he said, looking at Hermione, who blushed. “I can’t believe they let that sort in.”

“Hm,” Harry said, standing up. He slipped his glasses off his nose and snapped the bridge between his fingers. “Whoops, how clumsy of me. Malfoy, can you repair it?”

“Why would I know how to do that?” The blonde boy snapped.

“Hm,” Harry said again. “Hermione?”

“Reparo,” Hermione said, a note of smugness in her voice as she said the spell. Harry felt the glasses in his hand fix themselves and placed them on his face.

“If anyone should be going to Hogwarts, it’s Hermione,” Harry said. “Now, if you’d kindly leave.”

Malfoy’s eyes were wide as he snorted and stalked out, his lackeys at his back.

“Wow, Harry,” Neville said as the compartment door slid shut. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be in Gryffindor?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Harry said. “I wasn’t being brave. I knew full well he couldn’t hurt me—not with two witnesses. Besides, I know a sleeping charm.”

“Oh,” Neville said. “Wait, you know a sleeping charm?”

Harry grinned and made a shushing motion.

The rest of the trip was a blur. They pulled on their black school robes and left their luggage on the train, drifting out into the cool fall evening with the rest of the first years. A man twice Harry’s height and easily four times his width led them onto some boats, and he, Neville and Hermione shared one. They sailed over a glassy black lake toward a castle straight out of a storybook, perched on a high cliff, its windows sparkling like diamonds. The scent of its magic carried on the breeze: rain on hot stones and woodsmoke and burnt sugar.

It felt like coming home.

They were led by the massive man up a passageway through the rock and to the front lawn of the castle, then through a pair of immense wooden doors and into a vast, warm entrance hall. A stern looking woman named McGonagall led them into an empty hall to the side of the chamber.

Beside Harry and his friends, a group of three boys were discussing the sorting.

“How do you think they sort us?” A short boy with an Irish accent asked the other two.

“I don’t know, but Fred said it hurts a lot,” a tall red-haired boy replied.

Harry rolled his eyes, and Hermione put her hands on her hips.

“Honestly, does no one read Hogwarts: A History?” She asked. Harry opened his mouth, and Hermione grinned at him. “Yes, I know you did, Harry.”

“That’s Ron Weasley,” Neville said. “He’s a pureblood, he should know about the sorting hat.”

“Huh,” Harry said. “Maybe he’s just messing with them?”

“That’s not very nice,” Neville said. Harry nodded his agreement, then gasped as a dozen pearly white human figures floated overhead.

“The ghosts!” Hermione squealed. “Wow, I read all about them, but I still can’t believe they’re real.”

“Me neither,” Harry replied, his mouth still slightly open as he watched them. After the ghosts passed, the three of them turned to see McGonagall’s return.

“Follow me,” McGonagall said, leading them into the great hall.

“It really does look like the sky,” Hermione said beside him, looking up at the enchanted ceiling with her eyes wide in wonder. He grinned up at the stars above, feeling exactly the same. With no lights of London in the distance, the milky way was on full display.

The hat sang—a standard song, one of the ones listed in the appendix of Hogwarts: A History, but it was still neat to hear—and the sorting began. Hermione left the trio first, giving them a nervous little wave. After a minute, the hat bellowed:

“Ravenclaw!”

Harry and Neville cheered for her, and now Harry really did hope he was in Ravenclaw. He liked Hermione, and he liked the idea of having someone else who liked to read and debate just as much as he did, even if he couldn’t talk about all of his magic with her.

Neville went next. The hat took nearly five whole minutes with him. Eventually, however, it shouted:

“Gryffindor!”

Harry cheered as Neville went to the lions. It felt like the correct sorting to him, though he couldn’t put a finger on why.

Finally, it was Harry’s turn.

The hall went uncomfortably silent as McGonagall called his name, then broke out in a rushing fire of whispers. Harry sighed and walked up to the hat, sitting on the stool and plopping it on his head. Fortunately, it was so large that it covered his eyes and spared him having to look at the staring faces in the hall.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” the hat said in his head, a sensation Harry very much did not like. Were there other objects that could read his mind? Could wizards read his mind? Would they find out about—

Best not to think about that.

“Hello,” Harry thought at the hat. “I think I’d like to be in Ravenclaw, if that’s alright.”

“Goodness,” the hat replied, laughing. “Yes, that does seem like it fits. Though, of course, you’d be excellent in Slytherin. The way you’ve manipulated your relatives is quite impressive—no, boy, I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong at all, don’t worry. I’m not here to judge; just to sort.”

“You don’t think I’ve done anything wrong?” Harry thought, his heart skipping a beat. “Anyway, I’ve already made an enemy in Slytherin, so maybe not there, please.”

“I’m not sure if you have,” the hat replied. “Besides, that memory is very much a Slytherin one. Turning his own words against him—a very snaky thing to do, my boy. And then there’s your Parseltongue…Well, if I’m being honest, you could go to any house. You use Gryffindor and Slytherin means to serve Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw ends. Loyalty and learning are your values, but courage and cleverness are your tools…”

“Can I go to Ravenclaw now, please?”

“Hold on a minute. I’m having fun,” the hat replied. “You want to be a healer, you say? That’s quite ambitious. How do you feel about immortality?”

“What?” Harry thought, nonplussed.

“You heard me. How do you feel about immortality?”

“I think it’d be fun, if I could learn a whole lot, and if I could die eventually,” Harry thought. “Have you heard of Nicholas Flamel? I think his life sounds pretty fun. I wouldn’t want to really live forever, though. That sounds tiring. And I’d like to share it with someone.”

“Flamel—yes, that’s a good model for you in particular, isn’t it? Another ritual maker. Hm. Not Gryffindor, I think. Not Slytherin, either, in the end; you’re too focused on helping others, I think. Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, then?”

“Ravenclaw, please,” Harry said, getting slightly exasperated.

“Yes, yes. How Hufflepuff of you, to chase your friend.”

“It’s been the house I wanted since I found out about the houses!” Harry thought fiercely.

“I’m only teasing,” the hat replied. “Very well.”

“Ravenclaw!”

Harry took the hat off his head. For a moment, the hall was silent. Then the Ravenclaw table erupted in applause. Hermione even stood up to clap for him. Grateful that it was over, he ran down to sit beside her.

“How long was I under there?” He moaned.

“At least fifteen minutes,” Hermione said.

“It wouldn’t let me go,” Harry said, face in his hands. “It insisted I fit in every house, and then I said it should just put me in Ravenclaw, but it still made me go through all of them.”

Hermione smiled at him as the rest of the students were sorted. Harry watched in interest as the very tall, very prodigiously bearded headmaster stood at last, and the hall fell silent. Harry got an overwhelming taste of artificial lemon, so sour that he thought he might be sick. Dumbledore’s magic tasted like a thousand pounds of dollar store candy injected straight into his veins. It was so distracting that Harry barely noticed the absolute nonsense the man spouted before the food appeared.

“He’s a little mad, huh? I can’t believe that’s the head of the magical legislature,” Harry said to Hermione, only half paying attention to his own words as he stared in delight at all the food.

“What?” Hermione said, stunned. “Tell me everything. How is the headmaster of a school allowed to also be the head of the legislature?”

Harry grinned, piling his plate high. “Well—look, I’m not that into politics, but this is pretty interesting…”

It was the best dinner he’d ever had, and it would have been even if the food had been moldy bread heels. Harry had a friend. A real, honest-to-goodness friend. Two, if he counted Neville, and he certainly did.

Harry was too engrossed in his discussion with Hermione to notice the way a certain black-haired professor was glaring at him.

Chapter Text

Harry settled into Hogwarts like a warm blanket.

The other boys in his year were quiet and fairly nice, which Harry liked, and they left him alone when he read before bed and smiled at him in the halls and chatted with him at breakfast, which was more than Harry would have asked for. Michael Corner made a little scene about him being the Harry Potter on their first night, but Harry ignored it, and Michael quickly lost interest.

The Ravenclaw common room, meanwhile, was the best place Harry had ever been. It was light and airy, but full of comfortable armchairs and shelves and shelves of odd little books. He and Hermione had claimed two armchairs near a window overlooking the lake and could often be found reading companionably together or discussing wizarding law, something Hermione had latched on to with all the ferocity he had come to expect from her. Harry privately thought she would be a better head of the Wizengamot at eleven than Dumbledore probably was at whatever age he was.

The school library was the second-best place he had ever been, and Harry, Hermione and Neville often found a table for themselves in the afternoons after classes to do work. Both Harry and Hermione liked teaching, and Neville appreciated the help. It turned out Neville was invaluable to have around, too, as he was quite good with herbology and charms theory and had far more knowledge than either of them about how wixen society worked. This came in handy when the two Ravenclaws had bemoaned not being able to buy anything during the year, and Neville had informed them of the existence of owl-order catalogs.

The only problem with the library was Harry’s persistent temptation to wander into the restricted section, which smelled like baking bread and pine and old paper (and not just because of the books—he was certain it was in the magic, too). If he was going to find out anything about ritual magic, or the Dark and Light divide, or about Voldemort’s real plans (could he really just be that evil, like a cartoon villain?) and why his parents had died, it was probably going to be in there. Unfortunately, only second years and above were allowed in there (and even then, only with a signed note), and the librarian watched the entrance like a hawk.

The worst part of Hogwarts was the people that stared at him in the halls, whispering his name and talking about him like he wasn’t there. Fortunately, the common room provided an excellent respite from the murmuring Gryffindors and Slytherins. Ravenclaw house was great for many reasons, but one of the best, in Harry’s opinion, was that no one in his house cared who you were or what you were doing unless it fell into their own special interest. That meant that, after the initial excitement, precisely no one in his house gave a flying snitch that he was Harry Potter, and that suited him just fine.

That being said, he was still almost late to class half the time because, in addition to navigating a magical castle, he also had to dodge crowds of gawkers. Hermione was invaluable in this, because she seemed to have absolutely no problem telling off anyone who stared a little too aggressively. She took particular delight in doing this to Ron Weasley. Several times.

Classes themselves were both wonderful and terrible.

Herbology was his favorite at once, and he suspected he was also Professor Sprout’s favorite new student, after he spent half an hour after their first class debating succulent propagation techniques with her. He couldn’t wait to see what kinds of magic he could do with all of the glorious new plants at his disposal, and he snuck some samples into his pockets whenever he could.

He also adored astronomy; it was so wonderful to have some more concrete theory behind his observations of the fluctuation in the power of his rituals. Apparently Core wix only used astronomy for gardening and potions—but for Harry, knowing the moon’s current phase meant the difference between calming someone for an hour or putting them into a catatonic state for days.

History of magic was alright, and Harry had to admit that it wasn’t his cup of tea—not enough practical applications—but the Ravenclaws quickly realized that they could just read the textbook in class instead. Hermione had been a little scandalized at first, but by the second week of classes she had learned to transfigure little cushions for their chairs, and all of Ravenclaw house was acing the class without listening to a word the droning ghost professor said. Harry even managed to enjoy the bits of the book on magical secrecy; it was fascinating to see the origins of the current system and to wonder at how necessary (witch hunts were very real, alas) and yet how oppressive the separation of magic from mundane really was.

Charms was hit or miss. Harry did his best to understand the theory—having a front-row seat to the intricacies of Core magic was very helpful to him in faking it—but the practical elements required a lot of preparation on his part. He also certainly could have done without his head of house’s theatrics over his name. Hermione had given up her obsession with perfect wand motions after a few discussions with Harry, and achieved excellent practical demonstrations of every charm regardless. Harry was more than happy to leave her to it; he got points from their teachers for creativity and power when he could cast a spell, while Hermione got them for attention to detail and control. They made a good pair.

Transfiguration absolutely sucked, of course, because Harry couldn’t do it at all. Hermione made it her personal mission to tutor him. The attempt was sweet if rather misguided, and Harry didn’t try too hard to discourage her; she seemed to enjoy it, and given that he was outdoing her in herbology and astronomy he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Professor McGonagall just smiled kindly at him and told him that sometimes it took a while for students to click with the magic needed to transfigure. Harry privately wondered if the subject was harder for wix with any ritual ability.

Defense was largely theory and discussions of creatures, which didn’t bother Harry too much, as he had yet to achieve any facsimiles of defensive or offensive spells (though he had a few ideas that he was looking forward to trying out—if only he could find a safe place to practice). What was interesting was Quirrel. He was a nervous man with a stutter. Everyone—including Hermione—complained that he smelled of garlic, supposedly an attempt to ward off some vampire he had an ongoing feud with. Harry’s nose could tell that they were right, certainly.

At the same time, Harry’s magic sense was giving him something entirely different. Sometimes Quirrel smelled like any other Core wizard: artificial and clean—in his case, an overbright cherry. But at other times, Harry would get a sense of something distinctly different: something woody and dark, like sandalwood—but also rotten, like meat left in the sun. When the rotten smell grew too strong, Harry’s head would start to hurt, which hadn’t happened to him with his magic sense before. All in all, trying to figure out if Quirrel’s magic had somehow been corrupted made for a very interesting class, the pain in his head notwithstanding.

They had potions for the first time on Thursday afternoon: a double session with the Hufflepuffs. Harry and Hermione eagerly took a desk near the front of class. They had both been looking forward to this.

Professor Snape swept into the dungeon right on time, his dark robes swirling about him. He stood at the front of the class and took roll. When he got to Harry’s name, however, he paused.

“Ah, Mister Potter. Our new celebrity.”

Harry frowned. That was rather unnecessary, he thought. It wasn’t as though he’d asked to be famous. In fact, he’d much rather the reason for his fame had never happened. From the matching frown on Hermione’s face, he could tell she agreed.

Snape finished the roll call and looked up at them with eyes like a shark.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," he half-whispered. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses.”

So far, Harry was entirely on board. This sounded like his kind of subject—no wands, yes mind control. Responsible mind control.

I’m a terrible person, he thought bitterly. Freak.

Still, it is exciting.

“I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach," Snape continued.

Harry stiffened, his enthusiasm abruptly dampened. He wasn’t a big fan of bullies, and this man sounded like one. What kind of professor called his pre-teen students idiots?

“Potter,” Snape hissed, looking at Harry. Harry schooled his face to neutrality and looked back at him. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry blinked, mentally flicking through the pages of his magically memorized potions book.

“The draught of living death, sir,” he said.

Snape narrowed his eyes at him, then turned away.

“Hm. Finch-Fletchley, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

The interrogation went on for a few more minutes, with Hermione looking a little put out that she hadn’t been given one of the pop quiz questions. Harry snickered.

“It’s okay, Hermione. We’ll just brew a great potion, yeah? No one thinks you’re dumb.”

She grinned at him, and they got to work brewing a boil cure. Harry privately thought it would be much easier to just offer some aloe to his magic, but most people didn’t exactly have that option, so he kept the opinion to himself. Snape spent the lesson roving around the room snapping at everyone, which was rather stressful.

Finally, as Harry was stewing horned slugs and Hermione was watching their main cauldron, Snape reached their table.

“Potter,” he said, watching Harry move his spoon in precise little circles.

“Yes, professor?” Harry asked, looking up at him. “Oh, these need to go in.”

He handed the slugs to Hermione, who dumped them neatly into the liquid, gave a quick clockwise stir, and took the cauldron off the fire. Harry sprinkled in porcupine quills, and the potion turned a perfect teal.

“Passable,” Snape hissed, and stalked away. Hermione looked on the verge of tears, but Harry smiled at her reassuringly.

“Hey,” he whispered. “I think that was actually good. He’s just a jerk, don’t mind him.”

Hermione blinked at him, smiling wetly. Then, abruptly, her face fell in horror.

“Neville,” she said.

“Oh no,” Harry said. Neville was not going to like potions.

Harry and Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table for lunch that day, warning Neville about the potions master and repeating over and over in soothing voices that no matter how the class went, he would be fine.

On Friday at lunch, Harry and Hermione hurried over to Neville as soon as he entered the great hall, sitting down on either side of him at the Gryffindor table. He looked like he had been through the wringer.

“Hey, Neville,” Hermione said. “Are you alright?”

“My potion exploded,” Neville said, hanging his head. “I got paired with Ron, and he was too busy arguing with Malfoy to notice that he was stirring the wrong direction, and then it just—boom, all over my face. I just got back from the hospital wing.”

“Oh, Neville,” Hermione said, putting an arm around the Gryffindor’s shoulders.

“And the worst part is that Snape took points off me,” Neville said. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“He’s a jerk,” Harry said emphatically. He wondered if a little St. John’s Wort might solve the problem.

A glance up at the staff table—where Snape was, as it turned out, glaring at the trio—told him that he would probably need a whole bush to fix Snape’s attitude, and he wasn’t entirely sure if it wouldn’t just send the potions professor into a fit of mania. As funny as that would be, Harry really didn’t fancy going to prison this young.

Terrible person, came the inevitable voice of Petunia in his head.

“We’ll just tutor you in potions, and then you’ll be the best in your class,” Hermione said brightly. “You’re smart, Neville! You can do this. You just have to keep calm in class, and you’ll be fine. Er, and I guess don’t let Ron near your cauldron.”

Neville smiled at that, and Harry and Neville managed to convince Hermione to take the afternoon off work and explore the castle with them. They found several hidden passageways, and managed to only get hopelessly lost twice. All told, his first week had been pretty brilliant.

The next week went much the same as the first—that was, until all of the first years were informed that on Thursday afternoon, they would be learning to fly on a broom. Harry had learned a bit about quidditch from his dorm mates, and he thought it sounded wonderful, though neither Neville nor Hermione quite agreed with him. That being said, he could fly quite well with just a little owl feather, so the thought of having to sit on a stick to fly wasn’t quite as appealing as the sport itself.

On Thursday, Neville sat at the Ravenclaw table for breakfast, and he and Hermione discussed techniques they had learned from Quidditch through the Ages. Harry, love books though he might, tuned them out and focused on the very excellent selection of omelets they had for breakfast that day. He thought this was one area where it was better to just wing it.

The owl post arrived, and Helena landed by Harry’s plate to say hello. The only packages he had gotten so far were the ones he had ordered, but he didn’t mind. Draco Malfoy was always making a big show of opening his care packages of chocolates from home, which Harry thought made him look rather silly. Care packages were fine, but who needed more sweets? Harry had literally taken an entire pie from dinner once, and another had just popped into being the moment it was gone. Honestly, wizards were confusing.

“Oh, Neville, what’s that?” Hermione asked. Harry looked up from petting Helena to see that Neville had received a very interesting object. It looked like a large glass marble filled with swirling fog.

“It’s a rememberall!” Neville said. “It turns red if I’ve forgotten something.”

“Does it tell you what you forgot?” Harry asked, curiously.

Neville’s smile faded. “Well, actually, that’s not very useful,” he said as the ball turned a bright red. “Dang, what did I forget?”

“Forgot your dignity, maybe? Or—I suppose you never had that, did you, Longbottom?” A drawling voice said. Draco Malfoy was leaning over from his place at the Slytherin table, looking like a cat that just caught a mouse.

“Ignore him, Neville,” Hermione said. “He’s just jealous you have friends you didn’t have to buy.”

Harry laughed, and Neville smiled half-heartedly at Malfoy’s blush.

“Watch your back, Granger,” Malfoy sneered, turning back to his food.

“Oh, I’m so scared, honestly,” Hermione said. “As if that boy knows any real hexes.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Neville warned. “His family was in with you-know-who. Who knows what they teach Dark wizard kids?”

Harry blinked.

“Malfoy’s family is Dark?” Harry asked, eyeing the blonde boy in a new light.

Dark, like me.

“Yeah,” Neville said shakily. “Like I said on the train, half of Slytherin is.”

“Hm,” Harry said.

Maybe I ought to make some Slytherin friends.

Maybe not Malfoy, though.

Maybe someone who’s Dark, but whose family wasn’t in with Voldemort?

Does someone like that even exist?

Soon enough, the first years headed out onto the lawns for their first flying lesson. Malfoy was telling everyone in earshot that he would be Slytherin’s seeker next year, which made Harry, Hermione and Neville roll their eyes.

“Alright, everyone stand by a broom,” Madam Hooch yelled. “Come on, hurry up!”

Harry, Neville and Hermione took a set of brooms near the end. On Hooch’s instruction, they all ordered their brooms into their hands. Harry’s broom hopped up at once, while both Neville’s and Hermione’s stayed on the ground, much to Hermione’s dismay and Neville’s satisfaction.

“I don’t even like riding brooms,” Neville said softly. “I like being on the ground.”

Unfortunately for Neville, Hooch made them all mount anyway, then went around correcting everyone’s grip. To Harry’s surprise, she complimented his, though he’d just been holding it the way that felt right. He found the magic of the brooms rather pleasant, like a fresh fall breeze and the scent of leaves, which made him wonder if there was some ritual element to the enchanting involved in making them.

Suddenly, Hooch shouted:

“On my whistle—”

Beside Harry, Neville jumped at the loud noise and accidentally kicked off, rocketing into the air and quickly ascending some twenty feet. Harry’s breath caught, and he put his hand in his pocket, fingering one of the owl feathers he had kept there in case of flying emergencies. This seemed like it might qualify.

“Boy, get down here!” Hooch yelled at Neville. Harry scowled at her; Neville clearly had no control over his broom whatsoever. How was he supposed to get down on his own?

Suddenly, the broom gave a lurch, and Neville slipped off the handle and into freefall. Harry raised his wand at once—he had to keep up appearances—and offered an entire owl feather to his magic.

In the hands of Harry’s magic, Neville stopped, hovering in midair. Slowly, Harry lowered his wand, and Neville gradually descended to the ground along with it. He sank to his knees as soon as his feet touched ground, white in the face.

“Thanks, Harry,” he choked out.

Harry glanced around at the other first years.

They were all staring at him.

Maybe I could have done that a bit more discreetly, Harry thought ruefully. If I hadn’t even pulled out my wand, maybe no one would have noticed…

Madame Hooch had her mouth open in shock. Harry glared at her; surely she, an adult witch, should have been in charge of the safety around here? She certainly could have done something other than shout at the obviously distressed Neville.

Harry slowly put his wand away.

“Harry, how did you do that? You can’t levitate people,” Hemione hissed at him.

“I, er, levitated his clothes,” Harry said quickly. He’d forgotten about that bit of the charm.

“Oh,” Hermione said approvingly. “Very clever.”

“Boy—Longbottom,” Hooch said, regaining her voice. “You can stay on the ground for now. Everyone else, mount up.”

The rest of the lesson passed in relative peace, though people kept staring at Harry throughout. Harry found that riding a broom was almost as nice as flying on owl-feather-power, and possibly better, as he could do it in broad daylight. He wanted to do a loop just to try it, but Hooch kept them on a tight leash. Still, at the end of the lesson, he asked Hooch if he could go fly on the school brooms for fun on the weekends.

“I have to do maintenance on Saturday mornings,” Hooch said. “If you come by then, I’d be happy to supervise.”

Harry grinned at her, thanked her profusely, and bounded away back to his friends.

If he kept this up, he really was going to turn into a phoenix: first the fire, now the flying. He even had the escaping death bit down, he thought with a bitter smile.

September and October flew by in a lovely blur, especially after people stopped whispering about his rescue of Neville. Harry was proving himself to be a perfectly ordinary Ravenclaw (with a talent for hover charms), and much to his joy, perfectly ordinary Ravenclaws—regardless of their facility with floating objects—were just not very interesting.

Hermione and Neville occasionally came to fly with him on Saturdays, but mostly, he ended up doing loops and racing around the empty pitch by himself. His classes went well: he was top of the year in herbology, astronomy and potions, while Hermione dominated charms and transfiguration. Neville excelled in herbology, too—and defense, as it turned out. It felt good to have friends, especially friends who didn’t mind him ranting about the properties of cobra lily venom for half an hour straight.

On Halloween, Harry and Hermione were walking toward the evening feast after potions, deep in conversation about the pros and cons of various forms of wizarding travel (Harry maintained flight was the best of all) when they heard crying outside one of the girl’s bathrooms.

“Honestly, Daphne, grow up,” a girl’s voice said. “I just said your skirt made you look like a whore. It wasn’t that bad.”

A door slammed, and Harry and Hermione rounded a corner to see Pansy Parkinson—a Slytherin girl in their year—standing outside a door with her arms folded. She spotted Harry and Hermione coming, sneered, and swept away.

Harry glanced at the door.

“Should we try to help?” He whispered to Hermione. Daphne Greengrass, who Pansy had presumably insulted, had always seemed like a nice enough girl to Harry.

Hermione bit her lip, shaking her head.

“If it was me, I’d want a little alone time,” she said. “And I’m not just saying that because she’s in Slytherin. I mean it.”

“I believe you. Okay, let’s go—maybe we can talk to her tomorrow.”

Hermione nodded, and they continued on to the feast.

As soon as they sat down, Neville joined them at the Ravenclaw table and—when Harry asked why he looked a little put out—told them about how much he enjoyed traditional Samhain celebrations.

“It’s a time of connecting with the dead,” Neville said. “It’s not usually this—gaudy, I guess,” he said, gesturing at the clouds of bats.

Suddenly Harry felt like he had been punched in the gut.

His parents had died today, and here he was—eating candy instead of celebrating the holiday to remember them.

“I would have liked that,” Harry said. Neville nodded slowly, looking like he knew what had just passed through his mind.

Hermione blinked at them both.

“How come we celebrate Halloween, then? If Samhain is the wizarding holiday?”

“I think it’s to accommodate the muggleborns,” Neville said apologetically.

“Well, that makes no sense,” Hermione said primly. “First of all, we could always celebrate both. Second of all, I’m a witch, so wixen holidays ought to be mine, too.”

“I agree,” Harry said. “I feel like I deserve to know wixen holidays. After all, I should have been celebrating my parents tonight.”

Hermione smiled warmly at him, but Neville chewed his lip.

“That’s a bit of a Dark sentiment,” he said softly. Hermione gasped, looking horrified.

“You’re kidding,” Harry said, at this point entirely over this apparently silly distinction. “How is that Dark?”

“Well, I mean, you-know-who started out as a traditionalist, wanting to bring in muggleborns and teach them our ways and increase the muggle and wix separation safely. But then you end up with a whole bunch of…Bad things.”

“So Voldemort started out good?” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

It was hard to reconcile that with the cold-blooded murder of his young parents, but it was also hard to picture his own healing magic as Dark. The wixen world was confusing. For all he knew, Voldemort had gotten himself possessed somewhere along the line, lost the plot and started murdering people. Honestly, Harry wasn’t sure which he wanted more: for his parents’ deaths to have been something beyond senseless violence, or for there to be a convenient explanation—insanity—for why the man who shared his magic had turned out so bad, something that might give him hope that he could avoid turning out the same way.

Neville flinched.

“Good no, but—he was just pretending, anyway, so he could build power.”

“Oh,” Harry said, chewing his lip.

He really needed a Slytherin friend. He had a feeling he was missing something. Madness, he could except. A true evil plan that his parents had fought valiantly against—that he could also accept, though it might be hard to find future employment if the only other true ritual caster in recent history was evil. But he just couldn’t rest with the fact that Voldemort had murdered his parents just to be evil. If he was sane, rational, and had just killed them for fun or on impulse or something, and thereby thrown Harry to the wolves—

Well, he supposed, that did happen to muggles all the time.

Sometimes people were murdered, and there was no why, no madness to blame, and that was awful.

Before he could think on it any further, however, Quirrel sprinted into the hall, holding his robes above his knees.

“Troll! In the dungeons! I thought you ought to know,” he said, and collapsed against the wall.

“What on earth,” Harry muttered. “Are trolls dangerous, then?” He asked Neville.

Neville looked like he was about to be sick. Harry took that as an emphatic yes.

“Students, please return to your dormitories—follow the Prefects,” Dumbledore shouted over the chaos.

“Hang on, the Slytherin common room is in the dungeon,” Harry said, horrified.

Honestly, a dangerous forest, a death corridor, Hooch’s total incompetence, and now this—it was a wonder any of the students survived to seventeen. He glanced over at the Slytherin table to see quite a few grim faces, as they all seemed to have noticed this as well.

As he looked, he realized that Greengrass was still missing.

“Greengrass doesn’t know about the troll,” Harry whispered. Hermione’s eyes went wide. “She’s still in the girl’s bathroom.”

“Should we warn her?” Neville asked, his voice shaking slightly.

“I’m going to,” Harry said. He wasn’t about to let someone get hurt when he could help them.

“I’m coming too,” Hermione said. “In case you need a spell that isn’t a hover charm.”

Harry smiled.

“Me too,” Neville said, his hands shaking but voice firm. “Let’s go.”

Harry led the way out of the hall, following the reluctant Slytherins until they could split off to the right corridor.

As Harry rounded the corner and saw the bathroom door, an earsplitting scream pierced the air.

“Out of my way,” a boy’s voice said, as a taller figure pushed past Harry.

Harry recognized the boy as Theodore Nott—another one of the Slytherin first years.

“Are you here to help Greengrass?” Harry asked, running to catch up with him. Nott glanced at him, nodded, and threw open the bathroom door. The four first years tumbled inside.

Harry was instantly hit with a stench so powerful he thought he would pass out. It smelled even more rancid, somehow, than Quirrel’s magic. The troll was twelve feet tall—its head brushed the bathroom ceiling—and it looked like it was made of stone and sick. It was swinging a heavy club against one of the stalls, from which the screams were emanating. The stall looked like it was about to crack like an egg.

“Daphne!” Nott yelled, sounding stricken.

“Hover charm,” Harry said, seizing one of the feathers in his pocket. He raised his wand once more and pointed it at the troll’s club, then used his will to slam the club into the troll’s face.

Repeatedly.

It groaned and turned towards the four newcomers, stumbling angrily away from Greengrass. Its face was partially collapsed, but that didn’t seem to have stopped it or even slowed it down.

“Locomotor wibbly!” Nott yelled. The spell bounced off the troll’s thick skin and only seemed to enrage it.

Harry stuck his hand in his pocket.

He was out of feathers.

“Run!” He yelled.

His heart pounded in his ears as he turned and led the other two away, checking to make sure that the troll was following them and not attacking the stall again. They burst through the door and began to run back the way they’d came. Behind them, the troll’s footsteps shook the hallway like something out of a nightmare.

Harry made to round a corner and ran directly into Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape. Their eyes fell on the troll and a few moments and several spells later, the monster collapsed on the ground.

Nott broke from the group and ran back to the bathroom, emerging moments later with a shaking—but very much alive—Daphne Greengrass.

“What on earth is going on?” McGonagall demanded of the five students. “You could have been killed! Why aren’t you in your dormitories?”

“They saved my life,” Greengrass squeaked. “I wasn’t feeling well before the feast, so I was in here, and the troll just…came in…and if they hadn’t found me just when they did, I would be dead.”

“We didn’t mean to go after it, professor,” Hermione squeaked. “I promise, we just wanted to help Greengrass.”

“Ten points from Gryffindor, and twenty from Ravenclaw,” Snape drawled, glaring at them. “You fools should have gotten a teacher. You could have been killed.”

Harry bit back a retort about how Snape should have been watching his students, and then they wouldn’t have had to meddle in any of this to begin with.

“Please, professor,” Greengrass said. “It really would have killed me.”

“How did you even manage to stop it?” McGonagall asked.

“It was Potter,” Nott said. “He did a hover charm on its club and got it to stop attacking her, then we all ran to lead it away.”

Harry did not miss the way Snape and McGonagall’s eyebrows rose at that.

“I was just worried about her,” Harry said, not sure what else he could say. He really hadn’t thought of getting a teacher.

McGonagall’s scowl softened slightly.

“Very well, then—I suppose no further punishment is in order. Return to your dormitories now, please.”

Harry, Neville and Hermione nodded at Nott and Greengrass and headed off towards the towers.

“You are really good with hover charms,” Neville said as they made their way up the stairs. “Snape shouldn’t have taken points. You saved that girl’s life.”

“Thanks, Nev,” Harry said, smiling.

“I’m glad you said we should go help her,” Hermione said, looking sad. “I should have thought of it. If you hadn’t gone after her she’d be dead.”

“I only thought of it because it was ridiculous to send all of the Slytherins to the dungeons,” Harry said heatedly, waving his hands in the air. “I mean, that’s literally where the troll was supposed to be. This school has no safety standards!”

That made Hermione laugh, which was just what he had hoped for.

The next day, Harry spotted Nott and Greengrass sitting in the library together. Hermione had gone to find some books, and Neville was in herbology at the moment, so he was alone.

“Can I study with you?” He asked softly.

They stared at him in surprise, then nodded.

“I thought you didn’t like Slytherins,” Nott said suspiciously. His magic was surprisingly pleasant, minty and only a little artificial—like someone had poured a few tablespoons of mouthwash onto a peppermint plant.

“Why would you think that?” Harry asked, genuinely confused. “Malfoy is mean to my friends, but other than that I’ve got no problem with Slytherins.”

“Oh,” Daphne said, her eyes wide. “Well—thank you, Potter, for yesterday.”

“Please, call me Harry,” he said.

“Then you can call me Daphne,” she responded with a smile. Her magic was bright and airy, like clary sage (mixed with bleach—she was still a Core witch, after all).

“And I go by Theo,” Nott added.

“Do you play chess, Harry?” Daphne asked.

“I’ve never tried,” Harry replied. “But I’d be happy to learn.”

“We should play this weekend,” Daphne said, and Harry nodded in agreement.

“Oh, there you are, Harry,” Hermione said, coming up to their table. “Is this seat taken?”

Theo and Daphne glanced at each other—a glance that seemed to say rather a lot—then Daphne shook her head, indicating that Hermione could sit. Hermione beamed at her and sat down, plopping down her stack of several books and immediately getting to work. Neville joined them after class, and it turned out that he and Daphne already got along quite well.

Harry smiled as he worked on his charms essay. It looked like he’d made some Slytherin friends after all. All it took was a fighting a mountain troll.

With that complete, Harry settled on his next task: to find a way into the restricted section.

Chapter Text

The following weekend, Harry, Hermione, and Neville met Theo and Daphne in the entrance hall. For a moment, it looked like they were going to duel.

Then Daphne giggled, which set off Hermione giggling, which made Theo smile, while led to all of them looking foolish in front of some sixth-year Gryffindors. Daphne stuck her tongue out at them, which made everyone laugh harder.

“Shall we play, Harry?” Daphne asked, sounding a little too eager.

“Sure,” Harry said. “Where at?”

“Well, I think the common rooms are out,” Theo said. “No offense, but we can’t have Neville in ours, and we can’t go in his. I suppose we could go to Ravenclaw, but it’s meant to be quiet there, right?”

“Yeah, the seventh years might hex us for laughing,” Harry said, meaning it. He liked his house mates a lot—they were always fun on Quidditch days and easy to talk to at mealtimes—but they were also very serious about studying.

“There are a bunch of abandoned rooms on the upper floors,” Hermione supplied, much to everyone’s shock. “What? I use the furniture to practice transfiguration.”

“Lead the way,” Harry said, and they all followed behind her.

“Daphne?” Neville asked nervously as they walked. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she said warmly.

“Did you tell your parents about the troll?”

Harry turned and stared at them.

It was not a question he would have thought to ask. Not in a million years—a million lifetimes—would his reaction to danger be to tell an adult. In his experience, everyone older than him either wished he didn’t exist, was trying to manipulate him, or held him in the same vaguely fond regard as one might a favored pet. He had never met an adult to whom he felt human.

Maybe that was why his anger at losing his parents sometimes felt like it was really just anger at being left with the Dursleys.

(Even if he’d deserved their treatment, he didn’t have to like it.)

“No, I didn’t,” Daphne said slowly. She wound a finger through her long hair, looking at Neville appraisingly. Then she nodded slowly. “There are certain expectations of the Greengrass heir. Hiding in a bathroom is…Not one of them.”

“Yeah,” Neville said. “I didn’t tell Gran, either. She would either be proud or snap my wand, and I’m not going to take the risk.”

“I didn’t tell my father,” Nott said simply. “I didn’t, and I won’t.”

“Why not?” Harry asked softly.

“He’d use it against Daphne,” Theo said, meeting Harry’s gaze. “And I won’t let him do that.”

“I suppose that means no one is going to do anything about the safety standards in this school,” Hermione said softly. “Because I didn’t tell my parents, of course—I can’t let them pull me out of school. And they might have, over that.”

It was a little horrifying to realize that he’d managed to collect four friends, not one of whom completely trusted their parental figures. And, judging from Nott’s words—some of whom did not trust them at all.

“Do you think anyone else said anything about it?” Harry asked Daphne and Theo.

“Maybe Malfoy,” Theo said. “Though as much as he threatens to tell his father about everything, he doesn’t actually do it often. Lucius is very busy and doesn’t like…Interruptions.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He remembered vaguely something he had heard in muggle school: bullied people bully people. It wasn’t an excuse, but—

“I see,” Harry said. “Thanks for telling us that, Theo.”

Theo smiled at him, and Harry smiled back.

“How about this one?” Hermione said, opening a door on the fifth floor to a small, slightly dusty room full of heavily graffitied chairs. At first, Harry didn’t think it had much to recommend it. But with a swish and flick of Hermione’s wand and a few quiet words, the window curtains opened to reveal an absolutely spectacular view of the lake.

“I like it,” Neville said, and the rest of them quickly agreed.

The classroom soon became such a fixture in their lives that Harry started referring to it in his head as their classroom. Hermione learned to transfigure cushions, which made the place very cozy. Theo had a penchant for cleaning spells and soon had the whole room sparkling. They spent part of every weekend and many afternoons there as the fall turned to winter, in a rather pleasant and growing camaraderie.

As it turned out, Harry was not very good at chess. Learning and creativity and experiments he was great with, but long-term planning was not his strong suit. Hermione was great at it, however, and took to playing with Daphne with great fervor. While Hermione and Daphne played, Theo, Harry and Neville discussed quidditch and classes, with Harry extatically soaking up the various teams and international comparisons. Occasionally, Harry also convinced the purebloods to explain more wixen customs to him and Hermione, which always seemed to make Theo and Daphne immensely pleased, even if Neville initially reacted with some discomfort. Over time, though, he started adding his own stories about Longbottom traditions, which even Daphne and Theo found fascinating.

Harry found something else to discuss with Daphne, however, and that was clothes. Ever since he had discovered the concept of clothes that fit, he’d been enthusiastic over the entire idea. Daphne—whose robes were always immaculately tailored and whose weekend wear was nothing short of spectacular—started giving him her used copies of Clothspell, a high-end fashion magazine.

Hermione thought his new hobby was hilarious. She teased him about it until the day that Daphne convinced him to order a set of brand-new robes in green and bronze. He’d thought he’d done well with the secondhand store, but his new robes fit like a glove. Combined with the hair that now hung to his chin in soft waves, he looked like a totally different person.

“Wow, Harry, you look great,” Hermione said, impressed, as he modeled his new purchase for the group on one of their chess weekends.

“Yeah, agreed,” Neville said. “You look like you’re ready for a debut ball.”

“They aren’t even dress robes,” Harry moaned, grinning broadly.

“You do look very dashing,” Theo said smartly.

“Dashing?” Daphne snorted. “Sure, sir Theo.”

With four whole friends, the fall semester flew by. Things calmed down after the troll, and the most excitement they had was Theo, Harry, Hermione and Neville simultaneously shouting at Pansy Parkinson the one time she tried to insult Daphne following the bathroom incident.

“Honestly, she should know better,” Theo said. “It’s a bad look for her family to be on bad terms with a Greengrass.”

“Why is that?” Hermione asked. She had become an absolute sponge for wixen politics.

“The Greengrasses are one of the most prominent members of the sacred twenty-eight—pure blood families,” Daphne said. “Like wixen nobility. We were also neutral in the war with you-know-who, so it’s a pretty bad idea to offend a Greengrass. Especially me, since I’m the house heir.”

“Why does she do it, then?” Hermione asked.

“I think she can’t help herself,” Theo said. “Plus, the Parkinsons are just below the Greengrasses in terms of power, and Pansy is an heir, too. She probably thinks she can just bully Daphne into submission and increase her family standing.”

“Not on our watch,” Harry said, grinning at Daphne, who smiled back.

All in all, it made Harry almost sad for the winter holidays to arrive, because all of his friends were heading home. Hermione had told him he was welcome to stay with her family, but—after Harry had realized he would finally have time to test out some new materials for rituals—he declined.

Winter break turned out to be wonderful. He was the only Ravenclaw in their year who had stayed behind, which meant he had the dorm to himself, and he could finally run some experiments.

Glass rose petals could make things invisible, which was wonderful. Unfortunately, he hadn’t yet figured out how to stop that spell while it was in progress, and it took several days to wear off. Fortunately, all he’d done was make the dust in the dorm very hard to spot.

Aconite produced a shield against physical attack that also seemed to desiccate anything thrown at it. That was probably very dangerous, but it also meant that Harry could use it to make very delicious dried apple slices.

Mistletoe Harry suspected would serve as a potent love-inducer, though he really couldn’t think of a time he’d ever need that. Frankly, the concept disturbed him a little.

The most important discovery he made, however, was that a bit of butterfly chrysalis could achieve transfiguration. It still required a great deal of concentration on his part—but now, at least, he would stop being completely useless in the practical portion of the class.

Harry was also looking forward to Christmas. He’d gotten his friends presents, and while he wasn’t necessarily expecting anything in return, he did hope they would like what he had gotten them.

For Hermione, he’d gotten a set of books on wixen law, of course. For Neville he’d ordered some gillyweed, which was a wonderfully odd little plant he knew his Gryffindor friend would love. For Theo, he’d gotten a scarf for his favorite quidditch team, the Dundee Darts. And for Daphne—he was proud of this—he’d gotten a set of exquisitely made silver buttons that looked like chess pieces.

Even though he knew his friends would probably get him presents, he still woke up to the pile at the end of his bed with a gasp and an unstoppable smile. Hermione had given him a book on healing plants, and Neville had gotten him a guide called So You Want to be A Mediwix. He skimmed through it, noting with some pain the very high required grades for internships. He was going to have to get very good at faking Core magic. From Theo, he got a scarf embroidered with snitches—great minds think alike—and from Daphne, a beautifully tailored black silk vest with bronze buttons that fit like a glove.

To his surprise, however, he had received five packages. And the fifth certainly wasn’t from the Dursleys.

He unwrapped the brown paper slowly and watched as a silvery cloth poured out into his hands. It smelled like seawater, pure and powerful, with a weight of finality upon it that Harry now associated with a permanent ritual.

“What are you?” He asked the cloth, which of course gave no reply. Harry climbed out of his bed and went to stand in front of the mirror, slipping the cloak over his shoulders.

His body vanished.

“Woah,” he gasped, swinging the cloak around. He was totally, completely invisible—even the smell of his magic seemed to be dulled.

A piece of paper fell to the floor as he swished the fabric around, which Harry picked up and read.

-----

Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well.

A Very Merry Christmas to you.

-----

Harry stared at it.

The paper had a distinct scent of lemon magic to it, and he knew at once that it had come from Dumbledore. But why had Dumbledore had his father’s invisibility cloak? Why had Dumbledore had something in his possession that could have conceivably saved his parent’s lives?

All of his frustration at the lack of safety procedures in Hogwarts—the lack of a proper introduction to the wixen world for muggleborns—hell, at Dumbledore having final control of his Gringotts vault for some reason until he could turn fifteen and file a proper will—boiled over. Harry screamed with rage, and his hair caught up in brilliantly green flames.

He stared at himself in the mirror, ablaze like a candlestick, and laughed until he cried.

Harry spent the rest of the day reading his new books in the Ravenclaw common room and watching the snow fall outside the window. The day was so overwhelmingly pleasant, and it ended with a spectacle beyond anything Harry had yet seen: Christmas dinner at Hogwarts, a feast to end all feasts.

Harry ended up sitting with Rodger Davies, a very good looking third year boy who was a chaser on the Ravenclaw quidditch team. He was all too happy to regale Harry with tales of their matches from that year, and Harry was just as happy to listen—for all that he had been in the stands for every game, he still loved hearing about what it was like to play.

“I think I’d like to try out for the team next year,” Harry said at one point. Davies raised an eyebrow at him appraisingly.

“You look like a seeker,” he said. “How are your reflexes?”

“Pretty good,” Harry said. “I fly on the weekends sometimes, and my friend Hermione will charm golf balls for me to catch.”

“What’s golf?” Davies asked.

“Never mind,” Harry said, trying not to laugh. They pulled a few crackers with some older Ravenclaws, and Harry had an excellent time feeling like an entirely normal kid for a whole three hours.

Until he returned to his empty dorm, and his eyes fell on the invisibility cloak.

That’s my way into the restricted section, he realized. The cloak made him invisible and disguised his magic—if there were any detection wards, it would probably get him through them. And if it didn’t, he could just run and hide.

He waited until after midnight, when the rest of the school was probably asleep. Checking to make sure he still had small vials of ginseng and lavender in his robe’s inner pockets, he donned the cloak and crept out of the common room. He followed the now very familiar path to the library, took a deep breath, and stepped over the rope that divided it from the rest of the library, just barely brushing it with his foot as he went.

His breath caught.

He waited for the inevitable alarm.

Nothing happened.

Grinning, Harry made a light with a bit of ginseng and walked into the shelves. The smell of paper and power filled him, almost unbearably heady after so long spent among the wand-bound wizards. He ran his fingers over the shelves like a caress. The books called to him softly, a warm little wordless welcome.

Dark wizard, he thought to himself.

I suppose my parents must have been as Light as they come, though, he thought sadly. If Voldemort killed them so publicly.

I suppose they would have hated me.

But I know Dark doesn’t always mean evil.

Harry found himself wondering if that applied in his case, after what he’d done to his relatives.

He read titles: Potions Most Foul. Cursing and Binding. Dead Tongues.

As far as he could tell, relative to his imagination, the books were actually pretty tame. There was nothing about serious necromancy, or mass murder, or real torture. Just some slightly more dangerous magic than the normal books in the library.

He picked up a book called Sacrificial Healing, which seemed just up his alley. The book smelled like blood and roses, which was…Surprisingly intoxicating. He let it fall open in his hand.

…There is little that can be done outside of ritual to heal the mind. Indeed, it is often said that ailments such as shellshock must be healed through ritual, and through ritual performed by the ailing one themselves—woe unto those who fail to learn the ways of the circle…

Shellshock? Circle?

He had so much to learn.

Harry was tempted to slip the book into his pocket and leave, but before he could think too hard about it, he heard footsteps.

His breath caught, and he nearly dropped the tome in horror.

The caretaker Filch was shuffling toward him. Harry quickly doused his light and slipped the book back onto the shelf.

“Someone moved the rope,” Filch was muttering. “I know you’re there! Come out, thief!”

Harry tiptoed around the caretaker and slipped over the rope once more, trotting out of the library and breaking into a run as soon as he reached the corridor, his heart racing. What had he been thinking, waltzing into the restricted section like that? He couldn’t afford to be investigated. He had to stay under the radar. At best, he’d probably be thrown out of Hogwarts. At worst, they’d arrest him.

“I will not be a mermaid,” he muttered to himself, thinking once again of Barnum. He ran at random, turning left and right with no end in mind other than to escape. Then, hearing footsteps behind him and the murmur of voices, Harry slipped into an open door beside him. It was an empty classroom, lit with moonlight and the glow of the snow outside. There was only one thing in the room: a massive mirror leaning against the far wall. It smelled like ash and iron, almost as strongly as Dumbledore smelled of—

Lemon.

Harry forced himself to keep walking toward the mirror calmly as the smell of the headmaster’s magic filled his head. The man was standing—somehow hidden—in the corner of the room, watching him. Dumbledore had given him this cloak. Did Dumbledore know about his magic? Or had he wanted Harry to come here?

Had Harry come here of his own free will?

Harry held back a shiver.

New top priority: find a way to protect my mind from intrusion, Harry thought bitterly.

Well, if Dumbledore wanted him to look in the mirror, he supposed he should find out why. Slipping the hood off of his cloak, he peered into the glass.

He gasped.

He saw himself, an adult, holding a bouquet of calendula and echinacea and peppermint, healing a small cut on a smiling Hermione’s finger. Neville and Theo and Daphne were there, and others he didn’t recognize, all smiling at him and accepting his magic. And there, on his left hand, a beautiful bronze ring, shaped like a snake, with emeralds for eyes—

Oh, he blushed.

He stared at the wonderful image a moment longer. Then, suddenly, he wondered what exactly he was seeing. Could Dumbledore see it? Would he understand what the flowers meant?

There were words carved in the mirror’s setting: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

That’s cute, Harry thought. I show not your face but your heart’s desire.

I want to be accepted for my magic. I want to have friends and be loved and to help people.

How can I make that happen? Friends: achieved. Love: that can wait. But healing people with my magic…

Suddenly, Harry’s stomach fell.

How was yet another magical object inside his head?

He paced around the room a few times, every so often glancing at the mirror, but never looking in the corner where he knew Dumbledore was waiting. He wondered if the headmaster was just going to stand there all night, staring at him. Surely, he had better things to do than messing with an eleven-year-old, no matter how famous that eleven-year-old might be.

The head of the magical legislature, ladies and gentlemen, Harry thought. Hang on, what if my deepest desire was…Nope, don’t think about that.

Dumbledore sneezed lightly, and Harry froze. He wasn’t sure if he had the world’s best luck, or the worst.

“Is someone there?” Harry asked.

He felt Dumbledore’s magic drift toward the door.

Either he’s leaving, or he’s going to pretend he just came in. Prick.

“Hello, mister Potter,” Dumbledore said, some sort of glamor fading as he came into view. Harry pretended to jump in surprise.

“Hello, headmaster,” Harry said, not having to fake his nervousness. “I didn’t see you, sir.”

"Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you," Dumbledore smiled at him. Harry seethed and smiled back. “So, you have discovered the mirror of Erised.”

“How does it know my greatest desire, sir?”

“You figured out the name? Yes, I suppose you are a little Ravenclaw,” Dumbledore smiled at him, though Harry could sense a little disappointment in his blue eyes. “Though I heard about your adventure with the troll—you have Gryffindor in you too, don’t you? But yes, the mirror—it is charmed to reflect your heart.”

Yes, but HOW? Harry carefully did not demand.

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry blinked at the incredibly personal question. He tried to keep his mind blank, in case the old man could somehow read it.

“I see myself surrounded by friends and family,” he said softly. It was true enough, after all. “What do you see, sir?”

Dumbledore smiled at him, seemingly satisfied.

“I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks. One can never have too many socks.”

So, we both lie, then. Alright.

Dumbledore took a deep breath, and his expression became sterner.

“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?”

Harry nodded and gave Dumbledore a soft smile, then headed back to Ravenclaw tower.

Dumbledore had wanted him to see the mirror. He had given him the cloak, and possibly manipulated the trajectory of his flight through the castle, to get him there. He had asked Harry the most personal of questions, and then lied about his own answer in turn. And he’d seemed oddly disappointed with Harry’s house.

Harry was so far out of his depth. What on earth did the headmaster want with him?

Did Dumbledore know what he had been looking for in the restricted section of the library?

Could Dumbledore read minds?

As he crawled into bed in the empty dormitory, Harry wondered briefly if he had made the right choice in coming to Hogwarts. Then—with Vernon’s thick hands flashing in his mind—he decided that he had. Even if Dumbledore did arrest him.

Harry had cloth over his face.

The thick fabric made it difficult to breathe, though he did not actually need to breathe. But still, the habit was hard to shake.

He swayed back and forth, as though on a ship; his body was walking.

The cloth lifted.

He was standing in front of a mirror. A little red stone was in his reflection’s pale hand. He looked up, into his own red eyes—

Harry sat up, gasping.

It was the first day of spring term, and it was also four A.M, judging from the hands of the grandfather clock in the dormitory, illuminated by the moonlight coming through the windows.

His nightmare didn’t fade. Harry wrapped his hands around his shins and buried his face in his knees, breathing hard.

Somehow, the worst part of the nightmare—more than the cloth or the horror of being whatever that thing was—was the lack of smell. In the dream, he had no magic sense. It was like being suddenly struck deaf, or blind. No; it was like he had lost his sense of balance, teetering around the world at random.

Harry took deep breaths, inhaling his lilac magic. Thank goodness lilac is calming, he thought ruefully. Eventually, he stood, showered, brushed his teeth, and packed his bag for the day. It was still too early for breakfast, so he sat in the common room, reading more of the book on healing herbs that Hermione had given him. There was so much he wanted to try out; he supposed that would have to wait for summer. He wondered what would happen if he tried to give a brewed potion as an offering, for example, or an entire living plant.

Sometime later, Hermione arrived, bushy hair bouncing in its massive clouds. Harry bounded out of the chair toward her, grinning.

“Hey, Hermione,” he said. “How was your break? Did you get in last night?”

“Yeah, and my break was great,” Hermione said. “My parents gave me a three-hundred-pound book allowance, can you believe it? And they let me help plan our trip to France this summer. How was the castle?”

“It was really nice,” Harry said genuinely as they made their way slowly out of the room. “Thank you for the book—it’s brilliant. I’m going to ask Sprout if she has any Unicorn Iris. I really want to try it out—apparently, its guaranteed no acne for six months, but you have to get it to let you pick it, and it’s really hard.”

“That’s brilliant,” Hermione said, grinning at him. “I wouldn’t mind some of that myself.”

“I’ll let you know if I can get it to like me. Oh! And—you’ll never believe it. I finally did a successful transfiguration!”

Harry did not miss the way Hermione’s face fell.

“Oh,” she said simply. “That’s nice.”

“I—did I say something wrong?” Harry asked, confused. “I was just so excited—”

“Yes, you’re always very good at things, aren’t you, Harry?” Hermione snapped, her voice getting a little high-pitched. “I suppose you’ll be top of transfiguration now, too. I guess you don’t need my help anymore.”

And with that, she promptly turned and bolted back the way they had come. Harry felt his heart sink into the floor.

I have no idea what to do now, he realized. I’ve never had a friend before, so I’ve never…Fought with a friend before.

What have I done?

Harry sat at the Slytherin table with Daphne and Theo for breakfast, who noticed his anxiety but didn’t comment. It was something he appreciated about the snakes: they weren’t demanding.

Draco Malfoy arrived fifteen minutes after he did. He took one look at Harry, blinked, and said:

“Good morning, Potter.”

Harry gaped at him, then shut his mouth and grinned.

“Morning, Malfoy,” he said pleasantly, and returned to his eggs. After a few minutes, he glanced at Daphne.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said with a wink.

Still, making up with an enemy didn’t exactly compensate for fighting with a friend.

Harry hadn’t realized how much of a fixture Hermione was in his life until she was suddenly not there. Harry ended up paired with Terry Boot in potions, who was nice enough and smart, but he wasn’t Hermione smart. Harry asked him if he thought dicing or julienning their fly amanitas would be better, and Terry just stared at him.

Without Hermione next to him in charms, chaining together pieces of theory was much less fun. Even his clever use of aloe to make a passable facsimile of glacio didn’t cheer him up.

He partnered with Theo and Daphne in herbology, which was as lovely as always, except for the way his Slytherins kept glancing between him and Hermione—who was working with a very put-upon looking Sue Li—with morbid curiosity.

But lacking his favorite debate partner wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was that he had gotten so, so used to having someone who simply wanted to listen to what he had to say, and who wanted to tell him things in turn. Without someone who enjoyed his company, every class he had with the Hufflepuffs or just with Ravenclaw was torture. Even the common room was lonely, now that Hermione seemed to refuse to sit in her former favorite chair. An idea for a law reform or a tweak to a potion would spring into his mind, but when he turned to the left, he only found silence where his friend once was.

Things came to a head in transfiguration, where they were turning matchboxes into playing cards. Harry took out his wand—one finger in a jar of chrysalis powder in his pocket—and promptly turned the matchbox into a perfect deck of cards.

Well, almost perfect. All of the face cards were depicted as being on fire. But still.

“Ten points to Ravenclaw, mister Potter,” Mcgonagall said, smiling at him. “Congratulations. I knew you’d get it. James was always talented with transfiguration.”

Harry ignored the odd, mildly unpleasant feeling in hist chest at being compared to his father and glanced over at Hermione, the only other person in the class who had managed the transformation. He saw at once that she had tears in her eyes.

What’s going on?

Think, Potter. Be a good friend.

She always tries to tutor me in transfiguration. I humor her and try to do what she tells me. This is how we spend a lot of our time together…

Does she think I won’t want to be her friend if she can’t help me?

Oh, no. That’s it.

After class, Harry followed Hermione quietly as she returned to the common room instead of going to lunch.

“Hermione?”

“Yes, Harry?” She snapped, whipping around.

“Can we talk?”

“Fine,” she said.

“I know I put it kind of bluntly, and it was probably a surprise, because you have been tutoring me so much and I hadn’t improved at all,” Harry said quickly. “But I think I just needed some time alone and some quiet practice for all of it to sink in. And I’m really grateful for all of your help! All of the stuff you taught me about analogies and everything—it’s been really useful, I swear. But more importantly I really, really want you to know that my being friends with you has absolutely nothing to do with your ability to tutor me in transfiguration or help me with my homework. I like you as a person, Hermione, and I’m glad we’re friends.”

Abruptly, Harry had a face full of very bushy hair.

Harry went very still.

He’d never been hugged before.

He wasn’t entirely sure if he liked it—the last time someone had been this close, he’d gotten a black eye—

He could still feel Dudley’s friends holding him down, his lavender out of reach—

Harry pulled away gently, smiling so that his friend knew it wasn’t because of her, and taking deep breaths to steady himself.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she said wetly. “It’s just…When I was in muggle school, I had this friend who I tutored in math. And then he got a tutor over the summer and got really good and just…Stopped talking to me. And I was scared you would do that, and I couldn’t bear it. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, but then it was too embarrassing…Sorry, Harry.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you. He sounds like a jerk. And it’s really fine, ‘Mione,” he said, grinning. “Want to get lunch?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling back at him. “Harry, do you—do you not like being touched?”

“Um, no, not really,” Harry said, hoping she wasn’t about to ask why. It was a very Hermione-like thing, to ask why.

But she didn’t.

“Alright, Harry,” she said, smiling.

They went to the great hall and sat at the Ravenclaw table together, where they were soon joined by Neville, Theo and Daphne.

“You two made up, then?” Theo asked, grinning. “I’m glad.”

And that was that.

Harry loved his friends.

In February, alone with Theo and Daphne in their classroom, Harry finally asked the question he had been dying to ask someone.

“Can I ask you something about…You-know-who?” Harry asked. He still called the man Voldemort in his head, but he’d use the ridiculous monikers if they made others more comfortable. Still, despite the softer phrasing, Theo blanched.

“Why?” He hissed.

“He killed my parents,” Harry said evenly. “But Neville mentioned that before he went all murderous, he had some good plans. Like actually teaching muggleborns how to be wix. I didn’t even know about owl order catalogues until Neville told me. I just want to know why. Was he always crazy, and just waiting to show the world? Why did he kill my parents?”

Was the man who shared my magic always evil?

Theo was gaping at him, and Daphne kept licking her lips.

“You’re the boy who lived,” Theo said. “But you just said…”

“Yes, good plans,” Harry said. “But he went off the rails, right?”

“My parents supported him at first,” Daphne said. “Like you said, he had good ideas. He wanted to support traditions and integrate muggleborn wix and improve wixen-goblin relations. But he went mad. Fortunately, my parents were too influential and rich to kill. The Greengrasses were one of the only families able to…Get off the train, as it were.”

“Mine wasn’t,” Theo said bitterly.

“So, no one knows,” Daphne said. “We all ask the same question. Was he always mad? If so, why wait so long to begin the real horror show?”

Harry sighed.

“I just wish there was a real biography of the man,” Harry said.

“Don’t we all,” Theo replied.

Spring sprang. Harry’s quintet did excellently in classes, and even Draco was polite to him. He spent the weekends flying with Theo, chatting with Hermione, Daphne and Neville in their classroom, and helping professor Sprout with some of the nastier plants in the third-year greenhouses. Everything was nearly perfect.

Except, of course, for the fact that he kept waking up barefoot, in his pajamas, standing in the middle of the forbidden third-floor corridor.

Chapter Text

“Harry, why is your fire always green?”

Hermione’s voice came to his ears as though from a great distance.

I don’t know, Hermione. Maybe because I feel the color represents my soul—my eyes, my plants—and given that my fire is a manifestation of my phoenix gifts, it would naturally be green, right?

“Harry?”

By the way, do you know anything about sleepwalking?

“It’s just my favorite color,” Harry said.

“I think Snape will have us brew a sleep aid for the exam, but which one?” Theo said, flipping through pages of notes. “What do you think, Harry?”

I’ve started sleeping with my invisibility cloak stuffed in my shirt, so when I wake up, I can sneak back to the dorm without anyone seeing.

On the bright side, I’m getting quite good at solving riddles.

“Harry, are you alright? You’ve seemed kind of out of it lately.”

His eyes—my eyes. Red, red eyes. Why are they red? What did that to him?

Is it Voldemort? Who else could it be? I thought he was dead.

“I think he’ll have us do the sweet dream draught,” Harry said. “You either get that one right or you absolutely bomb it, and Snape hates grading, so he can either fail or pass everyone easily. And yeah, I’m alright, just stressed for exams.”

“You’ll be fine,” Neville said, smiling at him.

Will I be?

If Harry hadn’t been so tired, he certainly wouldn’t have said it.

The five of them were sitting in their classroom, practicing for their transfiguration final by taking turns changing pieces of paper into pillowcases.

“Neville, your wand doesn’t feel like you,” Harry said, watching Neville fail to complete the transfiguration for the third time in a row.

His friends blinked at him.

What he meant, of course, was that most wix had magic that smelled like their wands, or at least mixed well with it. Neville’s magic was a light leathery smell, like a polished boot. His wand, on the other hand, smelled like pineapple. It was not a good combination.

“I mean, uh, it doesn’t seem like it works well for you,” Harry said, trying desperately to course correct, his heart racing in his chest.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“It was my dad’s,” Neville said softly.

“Oh,” Harry said, not sure what to say to that.

“Neville,” Daphne said carefully. “I didn’t know that. I would have told you sooner. Inherited wands rarely work well, unless you’re a perfect clone of your parent.”

Neville’s face fell, and he sat back in his chair.

“Hey, Neville,” Hermione said. “Your dad was in Gryffindor, right?”

Neville nodded, looking confused.

“Well, so are you. Just because you aren’t exactly like your dad doesn’t mean you don’t have his strengths. You might just have different interests, or a different sense of humor, or be more easy going, or like toads and plants more. It doesn’t mean you’re bad,” she added. “But maybe you should get a new wand?”

“Huh,” Neville said, smiling slightly. “Yeah. I’ll order one. Thanks, Harry—thanks, everyone.”

Daphne smiled at him.

Harry’s heartbeat gradually returned to a normal rate.

Bloody hell. I need sleep.

Harry started awake with his back against a wooden door. He’d been dreaming about the mirror again. Dreaming, as always, of walking toward it. It was lucky that Terry, Michael and Anthony were all such heavy sleepers, or they would have noticed his bi-weekly midnight excursions.

It doesn’t do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, he thought. Well. I wish I had dwelled on that mirror a little more, honestly, considering that it might be the root of all of this.

Harry had determined three things in his nearly four months of unwanted nighttime wanderings.

First, the mirror of Erised was behind this locked door—he could smell the telltale ash and iron of its magic, drifting through the cracks in the frame as though from a great distance. The door which, of course, he could not open, because he couldn’t for the life of him figure out a ritual for unlocking anything, and he definitely couldn’t do an Alohomora.

Second, either the mirror itself, Dumbledore, or—and he hoped it wasn’t the third option—Voldemort wanted him to find the mirror again.

And third, he definitely couldn’t go to a teacher about it. He’d slipped back into the restricted section—careful not to touch the rope this time—and found a few things about sleepwalking and weird dreams. According to his research, there was a solid five percent chance he was part banshee. He really, really didn’t want to give the professors an excuse to try and exorcise him.

There was only one solution: once his exams were through, he was going to go through this door armed to the teeth with flowers and put an end to this madness once and for all.

Before he dropped dead of sleep deprivation, hopefully.

Somehow, whatever entity was driving Harry to sleepwalk to the third-floor corridor seemed very respectful of his exams. Harry thought this was probably a point against it being Dumbledore, actually, as the man didn’t seem very interested in running a functional school.

Astronomy was their final exam, and Harry went to the test with the first good week of sleep he’d had in months under his belt. His friends had been rather cheered by his wakefulness, actually. Harry had said it was just nice to have some of the tests over with, especially charms. Some charms he still just couldn’t perform at all, because there was no ritual equivalent he had managed to come up with, so the subject was by far his worst now that he’d figured out how to use butterfly chrysalis to mimic transfiguration.

Indeed, the transfiguration exam had actually been fun, and Harry had become quite good at the subject since winter break. He loved the little puzzle in every transformation, imagining ways one object was like another to encourage it along in the change, like a game of analogies. It was a technique he had learned from the Core wizard theory, and it helped focus his will quite nicely. Herbology and potions had both gone wonderfully, though Professor Snape was still an unpleasant jerk. He would have said the man had a personal grudge against Harry, but he seemed to treat Neville just as poorly, if the boy’s reactions to Snape were anything to go by.

All in all, he was very grateful to the possession-sleepwalking-entity-thing for giving him a week off. It really helped to seal his excuse for his friends. Still, he hated lying to them, and he was lying to them about so many things. But if he told them, they would only get hurt.

They had their astronomy exam at midnight on top of the tallest tower in Hogwarts, giving them an excellent view of both the stars and the surrounding grounds. The night was clear as crystal and Harry filled out his star chart quickly, then set about checking his work and musing about the effects of planetary positioning on his rituals. The moon had a massive impact, of course, but would Jupiter?

Something to test, he supposed.

All at once, several students next to him screamed. Harry jerked out of his thoughts in time to see the groundskeeper’s hut—which, why did he live in a hut? It was rather Victorian of them. Surely Dumbledore could have given him rooms to his satisfaction in the castle—go up in flames. A man of massive size ran from the fire, carrying something that wiggled and barked in his arms. Moments later, something even more massive burst through the roof of the hut, flapping leathery wings that only served to fan the fire into a blaze.

Harry gasped.

That was a dragon.

The dragon roared and turned to soar off above the forbidden forest, silhouetted for a moment against the moonlight. Harry caught a whiff of ash and cooking meat that was the dragon’s magic, which must be incredibly powerful for him to be sensing it at this distance.

“Five minutes left in the exam,” Professor Sinestra said.

Everyone continued to watch the dragon.

The escape of the beast was the talk of the school the next day. Apparently, there was to be an inquiry into how the gamekeeper had acquired the egg that he had been raising in his hut, but the man had not been fired. Raising a dragon in a wooden house was a rather insane thing to do in Harry’s opinion, and Harry’s friends all agreed with him. They all slept in the following morning, and when Harry woke up (blessedly, in Ravenclaw tower), he smiled. They had a full week of Hogwarts left before he had to return to his relations: a full week with nothing formal to do and beautiful weather outside.

Harry met Hermione in the common room and went down to the great hall for brunch, where they were soon joined at the Ravenclaw table by Theo, Daphne and Neville. At this point, no one so much as raised an eyebrow at their motley crew. Flitwick had all but given them permission, saying that he loved to see snakes and lions coming to the eagles for once, whatever that meant. As far as Harry was concerned, Ravenclaw was the best table to sit at, because no one ever seemed to listen to anyone they weren’t directly talking to. Or, if they did, they didn’t tell anyone else about what they overheard.

After eating, they went to sit by the lake, watching the tentacles of the giant squid lazily break the surface and trying to convince Hermione to not talk about the exams. Daphne eventually succeeded by pulling a travel chessboard out of her pocket and challenging Hermione to a game. Theo watched them play intently while Harry and Neville skipped stones on the water and talked about aquatic plants.

Of all the days he had lived, it ranked among the best, probably second only to the day that he had found Herbal Remedies.

He went to bed early that night, hoping against hope that the pull to the third-floor corridor really had just gone away on its own.

He woke up at midnight with red eyes in his mind and knew he would have no peace until he saw what was beyond the door for himself.

Harry dressed quietly, draped his invisibility cloak over his shoulders, and filled his pockets with offerings. Owl feather for flight, of course. Calendula in case he got hurt. Lavender as a defensive weapon. Ginseng for light, and chamomile in case he needed something to go away, which would probably include at least a few door locks. Experimentation had shown that chamomile did indeed shrink things—but if he shrank them enough, they effectively stopped existing, which was quite useful. Harry left his wand-stick behind and followed the now-familiar route from his dreams to the third-floor corridor, meeting nothing and no one along the way.

The locked door was open.

That’s new, Harry thought. Slowly, he pushed the door open, revealing a massive three-headed dog. Three sets of yellow eyes looked up at the space where he stood, sniffing wildly. At its feat lay a small harp, which Harry found rather inexplicable. He shuddered at the beast’s oppressive wet-dog magic and pulled an entire sprig of lavender from his pocket.

“Sleep,” he said.

The dog dropped like a stone.

Harry resisted the urge to giggle like a maniac. He was definitely going to die, but he couldn’t stop now, or he’d go mad. Who knew, he might even try to sleepwalk to Hogwarts from the Dursleys and be hit by a car along the way. No, this had to end now.

There was a trapdoor under the dog’s foot, which seemed like the next place to go. He pulled the massive paw away, pried the door open and, selecting an owl feather from his pocket with silent thanks to Helena, dropped into the dark in a slow fall. He lit a fire in his palm, the green flames reflecting off the damp walls of a straight shaft.

He touched down on something squishy.

As soon as he touched it, it started to climb over him.

Devil’s snare, Harry thought. It hates light and warmth. Easy enough.

Shame I have to destroy it, it’s kind of cute.

He flared green fire in both palms and—just to try it out—mimed tossing a ball of fire at the plant.

It flew from his hands and hit the plant in a burst of sparks. The vines quickly retreated.

“Oh, nice,” Harry said, grinning manically, fire blazing warm as the sun in his hands. He pressed his flaming palms to the plant and felt it shrink back until—

“Oof,” he gasped as he hit the stone floor below the mass of devil’s snare, landing rather painfully on his tailbone. He raised his palm, a fire blazing back to life and revealing a long, dank corridor.

“Okay,” he said aloud, wrapping the invisibility cloak more securely around everything but his burning palm. “There’s something hidden here. It’s defended, but either the defenses are bad, or they aren’t meant to keep out a ritual user.”

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked on. He’d come too far to turn back now.

A soft rustling filled his ears as he walked, and soon enough, he came to a chamber full of what looked like glittering birds. Harry took a cautious step into the room, ready to run if the birds attacked, but they continued to fly in their wild circles without paying him any attention. Shrugging, Harry walked across the room to the door at the far end.

Naturally, it was locked.

He banged his head against it. His one true enemy: the locked door.

Of course, it was also made of wood.

Harry pressed his blazing palm against the wood and fed a little more energy into the flame. Unfortunately, the door charred but didn’t catch, and he wasn’t used to using his fire so intensively. Breathing hard, he was forced to admit defeat.

“Okay, that’s not going to work,” he said, taking a step back. He glanced back at the birds, glittering like metal in the chamber’s dim light.

Keys, he realized. Winged keys. I need to catch the right one.

Or…

Harry pulled a bit of chamomile from his pocket and pressed it to the door’s handle and lock mechanism.

Vanish.

The lock shrank so violently that the wood around it cracked, sending splinters flying at Harry’s cloak. He flinched away as the door swung open.

Okay, my money’s on the defenses not being suited for ritual users, Harry thought as he walked into the next room. The keys were cool, though.

Hang on, what is any of this for? If you want to see whatever’s hidden here, this is a lot of rigamarole. And it’s really not that hard to get past any of this.

Increasingly nervous, Harry observed the contents of the next room.

It was a giant chess set.

“Yeah, no,” Harry said, pulling another owl feather from his pocket and soaring over the chess pieces. When he reached the other side, he pulled a chamomile flower from his pocket and destroyed the lock, darting through the door and slamming it shut just in time to avoid a strike from the ceremonial sword of an irate white queen.

“Sorry, guys, I’m just not good at chess,” he said.

Then he noticed the smell.

He turned to see a troll—even larger than the one that had almost killed Daphne—lying unconscious on the floor. Someone else had knocked it out, someone who would definitely be waiting for him in the following rooms—but who? Or had the troll just starved? He couldn’t imagine anyone was coming here to feed it regularly.

Harry picked his way around the troll carefully. Fortunately, the next door was already unlocked—but he still peeked through this time, instead of rushing in headfirst.

He could be cautious. Sometimes. A little.

A table waited inside, covered in potion bottles. This looked like a proper puzzle if Harry had ever seen one. He grinned and walked through the door. At once, fire blazed in the doorway he had entered through and in the opening to the next room. Cautiously, he stuck a finger in the flames that led on; they didn’t burn his skin, presumably thanks to his phoenix magic, but Harry didn’t want to risk the invisibility cloak catching fire. Instead, he walked to the table and read the note left there.

-----

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two of us will help you, which ever you would find,
One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will transport the drinker back instead,
Two among our number hold only nettle wine,
Three of us are killers, waiting bidden in line.
Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide
You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;

Second, different are those who stand at either end,
But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

-----

Well, I’ve had a lot of practice with riddles, he thought, picturing the eagle knocker on the Ravenclaw tower door.

“Okay, I want to move on. That means that I can rule out the two on either end. The second right is large, which means the second right and second left are wine. That means the far left and third right are poison.”

He smiled, thanking his past self for experimenting with rosemary, or else he really would have been wishing for a piece of paper right about now.

“Either end is different, so the right end isn’t poison, so it’ll move me back. The smallest is safe to drink, so…That’s it.”

He picked up the small bottle, checked his logic once more, and tipped it back. It tasted like swallowing ice and cough syrup. Then, steeling himself, he stepped into the fire. There was rather a lot of it, stretching for almost five paces, but Harry sprinted through and burst out into yet another chamber.

This one held a mirror, and a familiar man staring into it.

“Huh,” Harry said. “Have you been calling me here, Professor Quirrel?”

“Hello, mister Potter,” Quirrel said, all trace of his usual stutter gone. He turned to face Harry, smiling. “Whatever do you mean?”

Harry cocked his head. Maybe he shouldn’t tell his strange, confident-looking Quirrel about his dreams.

The smell of rotten magic was overpowering.

“I just had a feeling I should be here. Now.”

Quirrel laughed. The sound made Harry’s skin crawl, high and wrong, each peal reaching out from an uncanny valley.

“Well, it’s useful to me that you are. Come here, Potter. I know you have some experience with the mirror. Do you know what’s hidden in it?”

Harry approached him cautiously, tucking two sprigs of lavender into his hand.

“Hidden in it, professor?”

“I see you didn’t play Dumbledore’s little game of clues,” Quirrel said. “And yet, you are here. How curious. Regardless, the mirror holds a stone which belongs to me. I would like to get it out. Perhaps you can help me.”

Harry stopped a few feet from Quirrel and glanced into the mirror. Inside, he saw himself, an adult, dressed in beautiful green silk and…Healing Quirrel. His hands were pressed to the man’s head, a green aura glittering around them both, and something very strange was happening under Quirrel’s turban.

“What’s under your turban, sir?” Harry asked.

Quirrel laughed.

“Are you sure you want to know? If you help me get my stone and don’t ask any more questions, I promise you can leave here unharmed.”

“Is that a threat?” Harry asked, meeting Quirrel’s eyes.

His scar burned.

“Yes, it is,” Quirrel said smoothly. “What do you see in the mirror, boy?”

“I’m a healer, helping people,” Harry said. Helping you.

There is little that can be done outside of ritual to heal the mind…

“If you ever want that to come true, you will get my stone,” Quirrel said. “Look in the mirror and see it—red like a ruby. Want to possess it.”

Harry looked in the mirror. The older version of him winked, taking his hands from Quirrel’s head and raising his palm to the air. Something red flashed in his fingers—

And fell into his real pocket. The smell of iron and ash grew so intense he thought he might faint.

Oh. This was the philosopher’s stone. He’d read about that in his research on Flamel.

He really didn’t think Quirrel ought to have it. He, on the other hand…

Harry kept his face still.

“Well, boy, do you see it?”

“No,” Harry said, squeezing the lavender in his palm. “And we’re done here. Sleep.”

Quirrel collapsed.

Quirrel twitched.

Quirrel, flat on the ground, his eyes shut and his face slack, ripped the turban from his head.

“Do not presume to command me, boy,” a voice hissed.

There was a face on the back of Quirrel’s head, a face so familiar from his dreams that he barely blinked at seeing it, as horrible as it was.

“Uh, but, it did work,” Harry said, watching as Quirrel’s body twitched on the floor. “You can’t exactly chase me around. Are you Voldemort?”

“Give me the stone!”

“So that’s a yes, then. And no way are you getting this stone,” Harry said viciously. Fury flooded him again. “You killed my parents. Why would I give you anything? In fact—why shouldn’t I burn you? I don’t think it’ll kill Quirrel if I melt your face.”

For emphasis, Harry called more fire to life in his hand.

He was angry. Angry in a way he hadn’t felt before. This man—this thing—was the reason he was at the Dursleys. And this man had, apparently, cast away a promising and useful political career to instead murder young parents, leaving purebloods to lose their culture and muggleborns to face discrimination and—

“Ugh, you’re such an idiot!” Harry screamed at the twitching body. “You’re chasing this thing—it’s the philosopher’s stone, isn’t it? I’ve read all about Flamel, of course—but you failed to do anything actually useful with your life. Why would you want more of it? Do you just like torturing people that much? Was that always the plan, or did you ever mean any of your good ideas?”

“My good ideas?” The face stopped its twitching.

“Like muggleborn integration! Yes, your good—”

“Foolish delusions of my youth,” the face twisted. “I meant them, but I was simpleminded. Only domination offers a way forward.”

Harry relaxed. He had his answer at last.

“Ah,” he said. “I see. So that’s why you killed my parents. You went mad. You know, I kind of agree that we need to improve the protection of wixen secrecy. But murdering muggleborns is obviously a bad way to do that. Sorry about your loss of sanity, then.”

It was comforting, to know that Lily and James Potter had died fighting someone who deserved to be put down. His parents hadn’t been light-blinded. Or even if they had been, they’d been doing the right thing anyway. It was comforting, too, that there was madness in their killer. They hadn’t died for sport. Thin comfort—but still.

The face screamed in frustration.

“I used a lot of lavender on you,” Harry said. “So, I’m just going to sit here and keep you company until someone arrives to—”

“Where is your circle?”

“What?”

“Your circle, boy. For the ritual. This was not an ordinary sleeping spell, and you didn’t use a wand.”

“I have no idea what you’re going on about,” Harry said. “No one teaches me anything, okay? Now hold still while I wait for Dumbledore—”

The face screamed again, and a massive cloud of black smoke exploded from its mouth, fleeing out the door he had come through. Harry yelled and jumped away, his hands clapped over his mouth—he wasn’t entirely sure how Quirrel got Voldemort on the back of his head, but inhalation seemed like a horrifying possibility.

Then the smoke was gone, and there was silence. The stone was a heavy weight in his pocket. He took it out, turning it over in his hands. Then, pulling an owl feather from his pocket and securing his invisibility cloak, he flew out of the maze of obstacles and up through the trapdoor. The dog was still asleep.

Harry kept turning the stone over and over in his pocket as he walked up to Ravenclaw tower. A war was being fought in his head: he could keep the stone and study it. He should give the stone to Dumbledore. But he didn’t think Dumbledore ought to have it, either. It belonged to Nicholas Flamel, after all.

Harry twisted his steps to take him to the Owlery.

Flamel was still alive, after all. He probably wanted his rock back. And maybe he’d tell Harry how he made it—or how to do a ritual, or what a circle was, or—

Wait, what if the mail was intercepted?

Harry paced back and forth in the random corridor he had found himself in, his plans turning to ash in his mind.

“Mister Potter?”

Bloody hell.

He hadn’t noticed that he was standing outside of Dumbledore’s office, naturally, and the man himself was there in all his lemon-bleach grandeur. The invisibility cloak had fallen from Harry’s head while he was pacing.

He had too many questions to think: why had Dumbledore been keeping the philosopher’s stone behind poor defenses in a school? Had the troll at Halloween been the same troll that had guarded the stone? Was it an accident that he had ended up on this path to the owlry? Had Dumbledore contributed to his sleepwalking?

Nothing for it.

Without a word, Harry pulled the stone from his pocket and handed it to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore stared at him.

“I see,” Dumbledore said after a long silence. “Thank you for bringing this to me. I trust you know what it is?”

Harry nodded.

“Voldemort was trying to steal it, sir,” he said. “He was in the mirror room.”

Which I’m sure you already know. I’m sure you also know he couldn’t get it, somehow.

“It shows great moral courage on your part, Harry, to bring this to me,” Dumbledore said, smiling at him.

Harry let his mind go blank. Harry trusted the headmaster as far as he could throw him, and he was an underfed eleven-year-old, so that was not far at all.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said simply.

“I am sorry that you felt the need to take this task upon yourself,” Dumbledore said. “How did you know about the stone?”

“I didn’t, sir,” Harry said. “I felt a pull to go there this evening. I found Voldemort trying to steal the stone, and I was able to stop him.”

“How did you manage that, my boy?”

Harry thought very quickly.

“I used the things my friends have taught me to get through the defenses. Quirrel—Voldemort was living on his head—tricked me into taking the stone, but I convinced him that you had it, sir, and that the mirror was just a trap, and Voldemort ran.” Harry paused. “I suppose that means he’s…Around, then. Still. And he could probably find another way back to his body.”

“Quirrel?” Dumbledore says, sounding actually surprised for once. “That is…Disappointing. And unfortunately, yes—he could find another way to return.”

“And sir—how did I get the stone out of the mirror?”

How did you know Voldemort couldn’t?

“Oh, you would be curious about that, wouldn’t you? It was a tricky bit of magic on my part. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone—find it, but not use it—would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life.”

Well, then, it was lucky Harry hadn’t known what he would be getting until he got it—because he did want to use it, after all, if only to find out how it worked. And maybe to try a little immortality—but just a little. Harry bit his lip, wanting to ask more—how did that sort of abstract charm work, exactly? —but Dumbledore preempted him with another question.

“Is Quirrel still in the mirror room?”

“Yes, sir. He collapsed when Voldemort left.”

Dumbledore surveyed him, then smiled.

“I’m impressed, mister Potter. Fifty points to Ravenclaw, and you had best get off to bed. Don’t worry about the stone; it will be destroyed.”

“Why, sir? Doesn’t it belong to the Flamels?”

“Oh, well,” Dumbledore said. “They’ve lived quite long lives. To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.”

“I see, sir,” Harry said, greatly saddened that he would never get to talk to the Flamels. “So they gave you the stone because they were ready to die.”

Dumbledore blinked at him, then nodded.

“Precisely, Harry.”

Harry suddenly had the distinct sense that Dumbledore was lying.

Quirrel was not at the staff table the next day, and Harry didn’t say a word about it.

He decided that figuring out what Voldemort had meant about circles and what to do about the fact that the man was apparently unkillable and the fact that this school had no safety standards was a summer Harry problem. He could do all of the experimentation and thinking he wanted in his garden at the Dursleys. Instead, he spent his last week at Hogwarts enjoying the castle with his friends, flying with Theo and chatting about clothes with Daphne and reading with Hermione and Neville, and shoving his face full of all of Hogwart’s delicious foods with his best friends at his side. Slytherin won the house cup, and Harry and Hermione cheered for Daphne and Theo.

He'd earned a break after that stupid obstacle course.

On the last day before the train, he stopped by the greenhouses to say goodbye to professor Sprout.

“Hello, professor,” he said, smiling at her. She was trimming some venemous tentacula spines.

“Oh, hello, Harry, dear!” She beamed at him. “Thank you for coming to see me. Are you ready for the summer?”

“Oh, yes,” Harry said. “I have a bunch of potions I want to try out over the summer, and I think I can transfigure—”

“Oh, no,” she said, her face suddenly serious. “Harry, did no one tell you about the trace?”

“The what?”

“You can’t do magic over the summer,” she said. “If you do, the Ministry will be notified via the trace, and you could be expelled.”

Harry stared at her.

“But I did magic before I came to Hogwarts,” he said in a very small voice.

“You have the trace applied when you enter Hogwarts. And now that you’ve had a full year of training, we expect you not to do any accidental magic,” she said, winking at him.

Harry felt like he was falling.

No lavender.

No St. John’s Wort.

No peppermint for pain.

“It was good to see you,” he said, his voice sounding underwater. “I’ll see you in the fall.”

If I make it that long.

They received the formal warning the next day, at the final breakfast before the train ride. Harry was glad that he had been forewarned, or else he might have broken down in tears over his sausages.

Harry tried not to think about what was going to happen to him at the Dursleys. He put on a happy façade, enjoying the train ride home as much as he could, and promising to write to his friends. He released Helena to fly home, to minimize the amount of time she spent around his relatives. He’d have to let her stay in the yard, he supposed.

His aunt, uncle and cousin were waiting for him in King’s Cross Station. Theo and Daphne and Neville had already left, leaving him alone with Hermione. The Grangers walked up to them and smiled at the Dursleys.

“We’ll come and pick Harry up for the last week of August, then?” Mister Granger said.

Vernon blinked. Harry had not mentioned this plan, but he assumed the Dursleys would be in favor of anything that reduced the amount of Harry they had to see.

“Very well,” he said. “Come along, boy.”

Harry shot a glance over his shoulder at the very concerned looking Grangers.

Dudley, walking beside him, grinned menacingly.

“We know you’re not allowed to use it,” he said. “So it’s going to be a fun summer. For me, that is.”

Harry just had to survive two months.

That was all.

In the Dursley’s overwarm car, he shivered.

Chapter Text

Harry arrived home from his first year at Hogwarts with fear such as he had never known coursing through his veins. The drive through Little Whinging seemed to take both seconds and eons.

The door of Number Four Privet Drive opened like a gate into hell.

Harry was shoved over the threshold by rough hands, gripping desperately to the strap of his trunk and the handle of Helena’s cage. Because his hands were occupied, however, it meant that there was no way for him to prevent his glasses from falling off his nose.

They crunched beneath a heavy foot.

“Idiot boy,” Vernon said, whacking the back of Harry’s head with his keys. They pealed like bells through Harry’s skull. “If you think we’re buying you new ones, you’re dead wrong.”

Harry couldn’t see.

The world was a mess of blurry shapes, muted colors and motion that made him flinch. He really did have terrible eyesight. Vernon’s hands herded him up the stairs and into his bedroom. He heard a fateful click—and another, and another—as the door was locked behind him.

“You’ll find that we’ve made some modifications to your room,” his uncle’s voice said. “This summer there will be no bewitching us, I promise you that. And if you ever come near my wife again, I will end you, boy. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Harry said softly. Vernon grunted, and his footsteps faded away.

Harry did understand.

Honestly, part of him could even sympathize with the Dursleys. He had messed with their heads, after all. What was this but self-protection on their part?

Slowly, Harry removed his trunk from his shoulder and placed it at the foot of what looked like the shape of a bed, placing Helena’s cage beside it. Then he began to feel his way around the room.

The first thing he noticed were the bars on the window. His heart broke for Helena; he hoped she would just return to Hogwarts. It seemed his promise to write his friends had been a lie. And even if he had an owl—he didn’t exactly have eyesight, now did he?

He peered out the window into the back garden, but he couldn’t tell if his plants were there. Somehow, he doubted it.

The second thing he noticed was that the bed was bare. There were no blankets, sheets, or pillows, just a naked mattress. The closet had been emptied, too. At least it’s summer, so I won’t be cold, he thought ruefully.

The third thing he noticed was that everything he had left in the room was gone: every book and pen and empty canning jar had vanished. Even his desk chair was gone, and the desk drawers emptied. Dudley’s second bedroom might have become a prison cell for all the furniture that was in it.

The fourth thing he noticed was the cat-flap on the door.

It was that little piece of plastic, more than anything else, that made Harry finally understand just what kind of summer this was going to be.

Harry lifted his trunk carefully onto his empty desk. He opened it gently and began to feel around for the small stash of snacks he had bought on the train. It took him several minutes to find them in the capaciousness of the trunk and with his eyesight gone. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do, however. When he’d found those, he rummaged around for his wixen shirts and pants and his underwear and put them in one of the desk drawers, as he now lacked a dresser.

He paced around his room for an hour, then lay back on the empty bed.

His stomach felt increasingly hollow, his throat dry, and he really had to use the bathroom. Harry dug around in his trunk again for his jar of lavender—which he determined was lavender by smelling—and left the sprigs on the desk. The smell hit him like a sucker punch—or a shot of espresso, strong and energizing and so intense he thought he might cry.

The flowers were oh-so tempting. But if there was even a chance he could be caught, it would be the end of him—and right now, he needed the jar. If the Dursleys let him go to the bathroom, he could fill it with water.

And if he got really desperate—which he might shortly—he could always use a jar for—

A knock at the door saved him from that vary grim thought.

“Bathroom,” Vernon’s voice came. “Stand back from the door.”

Harry did as he was told, clutching the jar tight to his chest. The door opened, and his uncle stepped aside, blocking the way into the rest of the house as though he thought Harry was going to make a run for it. Harry rolled his shoulders and made his way to the bathroom.

“You have three minutes,” Vernon said.

An egg timer clicked.

Harry was convinced, now: he’d died and gone to hell. He’d died in that room with Quirrel, or falling to his death, or something. His last week at Hogwarts had been a delirious fever dream and now he was in hell. And he knew his sin; it was a little yellow flower.

He’d gotten so complacent. He’d had his flowers for years, and then he’d had Hogwarts, where occasionally bad things happened (see: troll break-ins and sleepwalking to forbidden corridors) but mostly things were wonderful and no one hit him and he had enough to eat and people had stopped paying attention to him as anything other than a semi-talented student by mid-spring. He’d had friends and professor Sprout and Ravenclaw tower and flying, and books—so many books, more than he could have dreamed existed. When he was at Hogwarts, he’d forgotten what it was like to be here, unprotected.

But don’t I deserve it?

He didn’t believe magic made you a bad person. He didn’t believe people could be born bad. He didn’t believe that.

No. He, Harry, was bad all on his own.

The egg timer dinged, and Harry scurried out of the bathroom, clutching a jar of water.

Summer began.

Harry drifted.

He had summer homework. He’d gotten so bored eventually that he’d done it, though he wasn’t sure if the scrawl on the parchment was readable, as he couldn’t actually read it. He hoped it was, though, as the Grangers were coming to get him just a week before term and he doubted he’d have time to do it then.

The Dursleys—or Vernon, more accurately, as Petunia refused to go near him—let him out to use the bathroom morning and evening, with a ten-minute shower every three days. He filled jars with water as well as he could with his broken vision. They fed him through the cat-flap, mostly cold cans of soup and whatever they hadn’t wanted from dinner. Once, he got a whole roll of stale crackers, and he’d been ashamed of the vast joy he had felt.

When his homework was done, he would lay back on his bed and sleep.

He slept a lot.

He had a feeling it was a side effect of not having enough food. He got cold, too, despite the heat of the summer and the sun that sometimes came through the window in his room.

When he slept, he dreamt of red eyes and green fire.

When he was awake, he dreamt of them, too. Daydreams, lying back on his bed and staring at the empty ceiling for hours and hours and hours. He could only recite his textbooks to himself so often; eventually his thoughts turned to Voldemort.

He couldn’t have known what his murder of Harry’s parents would do to Harry. In fact, he’d certainly intended to murder Harry, too. And yet, he was responsible for Harry being here, in hell.

Though responsible wasn’t quite right, seeing as the man was clearly out of his head (and on someone else’s).

What had driven him mad? Was it whatever thing he had done to make himself apparently impervious to death? Or had it always been lurking in his blood, a silent poison waiting to strike?

Why had Harry dreamed of him? Ridden along in his mind on Quirrel’s head? Why was he here, in hell, alone?

Sometimes—sometimes—Harry let himself imagine he wasn’t in hell. He was a prince in a tower, trapped by an evil stepfamily, and guarded by the dragon that had burst from the flames of the gamekeeper’s hut. And because he was a lovely prince, who ought to be in the sunlight, some knight would come searching for him. His knight would fight the dragon and let Harry out, and they would ride off together to his magical kingdom, full of flowers and friends and a pretty bronze ring shaped like a snake.

He was scared that if he imagined it too much, he’d stop wanting the real thing.

The one nice thing about not having enough to eat, Harry found, was that it put him out of his body. When he got hungry enough, he would float away—out of this room, out of his mind, to somewhere else. His stomach hurt, sure, but he could ignore it. Thoughts moved like molasses in his head and he didn’t have to think about why he was here, or what he’d done to deserve it. He just floated. Sometimes the Dursleys would give him food, and he would just tuck it away; it was nicer to drift and then have a real meal later than to be strung along on drops of soup like a rat in a one-room maze.

His greatest fear was that someone would notice what was happening to him.

He wasn’t sure why that scared him so much.

But the idea of one of the neighbors looking too closely at his window, seeing the bars inside, sent him into a fit of hysteria.

And then there were the Grangers.

He wasn’t sure if they’d called. He hoped they hadn’t. He wasn’t sure if Hermione had written.

He hoped she hadn’t.

He knew as the days wore on that he looked like a bedraggled alley cat wearing clothes that hadn’t been washed, because that was precisely what he was. He tried to avoid looking at himself in the mirror of the bathroom. His hair had grown nearly to his shoulders, and he kept it tied in a rough bun with some ribbon he’d found in his trunk.

It was so obvious that something was wrong, and the outside world couldn’t be allowed to know.

Why couldn’t they know?

It would be bad. There would be an investigation into why the Dursleys were so scared of him. They would find his flowers and then they would know and he would be in this room, drifting, forever.

(And maybe he would deserve it).

Harry mentally combed through his textbooks and medical references in his lucid moments, settling on shade fever as his excuse. A mild case of possession. He’d been quarantined, and it was hard to keep food down. Yes, it was unfortunate, but not contagious. Nothing to be worried about. He’d see madame Pomfrey at school (he wouldn’t).

Egg timers dinged in his mind.

Harry drifted.

Sometimes Harry listened to the Dursleys.

Vernon had people over for dinner. Petunia gossiped. Dudley and Piers ran around the house, though Dudley never came too close to his cell—like he really was sick, and it was catching. It helped the boredom—the loneliness—a little, to listen to them.

He’d heard something about solitary confinement causing memory problems. So, he held onto every conversation the Dursleys had, even the inane ones, imagining exactly how he would respond to each piece of dialogue like lines in a play, spelling out the words they’d used in his head. His greatest fear, perhaps even more than being discovered, was that being in this room would somehow break his mind. He’d always been a smart child. He was a Ravenclaw, for goodness’ sake. If he lost that, who was he?

When he ran out of word games, he would try to lay out the parameters of experiments he would run, someday, when he had his own house and he was free.

He had tried to limit his truly indulgent fancies to just a few hours a day.

By the end of July, however—he thought it was the end of July, at least—Harry had broken his own rules about daydreaming. When the walls of the room started closing in around him, and he needed to be somewhere else—his kingdom was waiting for him.

He began to spend most of every day in his mind, imagining scenes he could see, people he could talk to. The details on the armor of his knight. It would have beaten silver snakes and bronze eagles, for Ravenclaw. There’d be a phoenix on Harry’s robes, green like his fire. His knight would ride a big white stallion, and Harry would have a pretty black mare, elegant and fast as the wind. Helena would be there, and he’d have a pet snake, too. His knight would like snakes. His knight wouldn’t be afraid of his magic.

There would be fields full of flowers to ride through, and experiments to run, and Hermione would run the kingdom’s legislature, and Neville and Harry would experiment with plants, and Daphne would design all of his robes and Theo and Harry would brew potions and play quidditch together. And there would be dancing, which he’d always wanted to try. Maybe his knight would show him how to dance, too.

Harry would have put money on the day being his birthday, so he let himself imagine it. It was the least he could do for himself—and the most he could do.

He was laying on his bed and listening to the Dursleys talk about their dinner party that night, imagining what he would say to the Masons, when there was a small pop. Something—he couldn’t quite see what it was—appeared in his room. It was small and shaped vaguely like a human but was most certainly not. No human had ever had a head that large or limbs that thin.

Harry started and curled away from the thing, but didn’t cry out. First, he wasn’t about to make the Dursleys mad, and second, he hadn’t spoken in nearly a week, so his throat was a little out of practice.

The smell of the creature was overwhelming. He hadn’t realized how strong his magic sense had gotten, or perhaps it was just the fact that he had only sensed his own magic for a month, but either way, the thing smelled as strong as all of Diagon Alley all at once. That being said, it was a pleasant smell—like apple pie.

“Harry Potter?” The thing asked in a squeaking voice.

Harry swallowed and nodded. “Yes,” he rasped. “Who are you?”

“Dobby the house-elf, sir,” the creature said. It really did have a very large head—or were those its ears? It was hard for Harry to tell.

“What is a house-elf?” Harry asked softly.

Dobby seemed to understand that Harry couldn’t really handle loud noises at the moment and responded in a soft squeak.

“We is being cleaners and caretakers for wix,” Dobby said softly.

“I see,” Harry said. “Would you like a seat? How can I help you?”

The elf seemed to vibrate, but Harry couldn’t read his expression and flinched.

The elf stopped vibrating. The smell of apple pie was tinged with tomato.

Am I smelling emotion, now? Lovely. Is he angry?

“You must not be going back to Hogwarts, sir,” Dobby said.

Harry curled a little tighter against the wall.

Was this elf some sort of messenger from the school? Had his magic been discovered?

Were they going to leave him here?

“Why not?”

“Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”

“Dobby,” Harry said, half relieved that this wasn’t an expulsion notice via elf. “I’m glad you’re warning me. But you can see—you can see—I need to go back.”

Harry swallowed.

“I think I might die here,” he whispered. “And I’d rather die there than in this room.”

“I see, Harry Potter,” the elf said. The smell of tomatoes was becoming even more overwhelming. “I see.”

“It was nice to talk to you,” Harry said, meaning it. “But I think they might hear you.”

“Goodbye, Harry Potter,” the elf whispered.

Then he vanished with another little pop.

Harry lay back on his bed and fell asleep. The Dursleys had forgotten to bring him dinner.

Chapter Text

The Dursleys let him take a long shower and wash his clothes the day before the Grangers came. It was that, more than anything else, that made Harry feel the wrongness of the past two months.

“Don’t come home for Christmas,” Vernon said as he shoved Harry out of the front door with his trunk in hand.

“Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy,” Harry croaked as the door shut behind him.

Harry sat on the stoop and tried not to panic at the feeling of open space around him. His hands shook a little on his trunk and Helena’s cage. He hoped his owl was alright, wherever she was.

He smiled a little at the blue sky above, just to stretch the muscles in his face.

His brain was not working right, he decided. His thoughts were moving too fast for reality.

All too soon, the Granger’s sedan pulled up to the house.

“Harry!” Hermione yelled, barreling out of the car toward him. He stood up to greet her—

She’d grown an inch or two over the summer. She was literally taller than him.

Ouch.

“Hey, Mione,” he said, hoping his voice sounded normal. “How are you? How was France?”

“Good, but—Harry, why did Helena come to me? I told everyone you couldn’t write because your owl wouldn’t leave my house, so I have all of your mail,” she said, sounding very sheepish. “You got birthday presents from everyone, too! Wait, where are your glasses?”

“Uh, they broke yesterday,” Harry lied, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of this obvious question. “We didn’t have time to fix them. I can go to a shop in Diagon.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hermione said. “We can go to Diagon tomorrow, then! You need to see,” she said. “Anyway, what’s up with your owl?”

“Oh, that,” Harry said, thankful that his window was in the back of the house. He wasn’t sure if the bars were visible from the outside or not. “I got shade fever the first week back. It’s been awful, but I’m better now—the Dursleys were safe ‘cause they aren’t magical, but Helena could have been possessed, so she had to stay away.”

“Oh no,” Hermione said, clapping her hands over her mouth. “That’s awful. I can’t believe they don’t have a vaccine for that—you should ask madam Pomfrey.”

“I should,” Harry said, forcing a tight smile. “I’d like to talk to her more, actually. About being a healer.”

“Are you coming, kids? Good to see you, Harry,” Ms. Granger said, getting out of the passenger side of the car and opening the trunk for Harry to put his things in. He tried not to let her see the way his arms shook at lifting his owl cage.

Clearly, he had failed, because she frowned down at him.

“Are you well, dear?”

“Oh, yes, I am now,” he said. “Sorry—I haven’t been writing because I got a magical illness over the summer. It was really hard, but I’m better now.”

“Oh! You poor thing—should we be taking you from your family now?” She asked, looking worriedly up at the house.

Harry avoided breaking down in tears by the skin of his teeth.

“Oh, no, it’s alright,” Harry said. “I’ve really missed my friends, since I couldn’t write at all.”

“Of course, that makes sense,” Ms. Granger said. “Well, you let us know if you need anything, dear.”

They all piled into the car, and Harry’s nose—or magic sense—was instantly assaulted by the smell of grass and what seemed like a strong artificial geranium perfume. He resisted the urge to cover his nose only by reminding itself that it wouldn’t help. His magic sense had definitely gotten stronger in his confinement, and Hermione’s magic had both gotten more powerful and taken on more of the artificial smell of all wand-bound wizards.

Still, he would have accepted anything to get out of that house. As soon as the car started moving, Harry’s heart soared with euphoria.

I wonder if they’ll let me stay at Hogwarts over the summer. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask, he thought, trying not to get his hopes up too much. Maybe he could ask Sprout.

“Hi there, Harry!” Mr. Granger said. “Did you get contacts?”

“No, Harry’s glasses broke yesterday,” Hermione said. “Can we go to Diagon tomorrow? To get him some new ones?”

“Oh, of course! I have the day off,” Ms. Granger said. “I’ll take you.”

Harry smiled again. It still felt unnatural.

They arrived at the Granger’s lovely, horrible, perfect, Privet-Drive-clone home just forty minutes later. As Harry got out, Helena fluttered down to land on his arm, hooting softly at him. He blinked back unexpected tears.

“I missed you too, girl,” he said, stroking her head. “Thank you so much for taking care of her,” he said to the Grangers.

“Oh, it was no problem—she was so sweet, we’ve decided to get Hermione an owl, too, once we’ve had time to prep for one,” Ms. Granger said. “I’m so sorry you were sick!”

“Come on, Harry, we’ve got the guest bedroom set up for you,” Hermione said. “And I have all of your mail! I can help you write letters to Neville and Theo and Daph. We were all really worried about you!”

Warmth flared like a sun in Harry’s chest, and he felt himself give the first real smile he’d had in two months.

Harry got settled in and then he and Hermione threw themselves down on the floor in Hermione’s living room, where Hermione wrote letters to their friends that Harry dictated. Then, Hermione made Harry open his birthday presents and read him his cards.

Neville had gotten him a lovely little wand holster (which Harry suspected could also house quite a bit of lavender). Fortunately, Harry had pre-ordered a seed of the month subscription for Neville’s birthday (which was the day before his) back in June, so he wasn’t going to have to apologize on that front. Theo and Daphne had gone in together to get him a miniature one-plant greenhouse with sunlight charms, and Hermione had gotten him a tiny, golden ball.

“Wait, is this—”

“A practice snitch,” Hermione said, grinning. “So you can practice before you try out for the team this year!”

Harry beamed at her.

“Thank you, Hermione. This is amazing,” Harry said, blinking somewhat harder than normal.

By the time they had cleared away all of the wrapping paper, it was time for dinner.

It was a trial.

First, Harry had to sit at a dining table. Every time Hermione’s parents looked at him, or asked him to pass a dish, he almost flinched. His mind went round in circles of permission and self-hatred. He didn’t belong at the table. He did belong at the table. He had been asked to the table. But he didn’t belong at the table.

Freak.

He was grateful that Hermione seemed content to talk about France ad nauseum. She had visited several wixen sites there, and Harry let himself get lost in her voice. He certainly didn’t feel up to contributing to the conversation.

The second challenge, as it turned out, was eating. Harry had two bites of pot pie and then felt like he was going to burst. He knew that it was because he hadn’t eaten hardly anything over the summer, and most of what he had been given was liquid. He knew he shouldn’t force himself. He couldn’t help feeling rude, however, and he tried to take tiny bites, to seem polite.

Part of him thought that he should save the food for later—just in case.

He tried to kill that thought.

“Everything alright, Harry?” Mister Granger asked.

Harry wanted to sink into the floor.

“I’m still recovering my appetite,” he said. “From the fever. It’s really hard to eat while—um, sick.”

Hermione nodded.

“Shade fever is awful, but not usually fatal,” she supplied helpfully.

“Still alive,” Harry said, smiling. “And glad to be here.”

The Grangers smiled at him. It wasn’t Hogwarts, but it was a start.

He woke up in the Grangers’ well-stocked guest room, surrounded by a dozen pillows and shelves full of tchotchkes and a door he left slightly ajar because he couldn’t bear to see it closed. He took a deep breath and tried to assure himself that he would be okay.

It almost worked.

Harry showered in the spare bathroom just because he could, then put on a fresh pair of pants and a loose white shirt before going downstairs to the aroma of pancakes (just barely detectable above Hermione’s magic pervading the house, but he decided to ignore that).

“Good morning, Harry!” Ms. Granger said. Hermione was still in her room, and the house was quiet and sunlit and full of color, so unlike the Dursleys—

And yet.

Harry looked at the stove when Ms. Granger’s back was turned and shuddered at the phantom feeling of bacon grease sizzling on his skin.

“How many pancakes would you like? I can start you out with just two, for your stomach—and here’s some tea, also. Mint always helps me with nausea.”

Harry had to stop himself from staring at her. He took the offered plate and mug and started trying very, very hard to eat. He wanted to keep the Grangers’ favor. He had to.

“Thank you,” he said warmly, realizing with his first bite that the pancakes had blueberries in them, bursting in his mouth like warm fireworks. “These are wonderful.”

“Oh, I’m glad you like them,” Ms. Granger said. “Hermione always says I should use chocolate, but gum disease never rests, you know.”

“I like blueberries,” Harry said honestly. “I’ve never had blueberry pancakes before.”

“No! That’s a tragedy,” Ms. Granger said. “How about strawberry waffles? I’ll make those tomorrow, if you like.”

“I’d love that,” Harry replied.

He had just finished the first pancake and started on the second by the time Hermione arrived, also fully dressed, her bushy hair up in a large ponytail.

“Morning, Harry! Are you ready for Diagon?”

“Ready—wait,” Harry said. “You don’t have my Hogwarts letter, do you?”

“I don’t,” Hermione said apologetically. “I only have your birthday presents because I sent Helena to Theo and Daph and Neville to tell them to send them here, because I figured you couldn’t get anything if Helena couldn’t get to you. But Hogwarts must not have known.”

“Oh,” Harry said, completely at a loss for what to do.

“It’s not problem, though,” Hermione said. “We can just share! Here, it’s not that much,” she said, pulling the letter from the purse she had placed on the chair next to her.

Harry looked it over. It seemed that all he would need was the Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two, and—

“Who is Gilderoy Lockhart?” He asked, blinking at the booklist full of the man’s books. “Is he a novelist?”

“He’s a very clever Dark creature hunter,” Hermione said. “He’s caught all sorts of Dark wizards and beings and brought them to justice.”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

Did Dark beings include him, too?

“Is he our new defense teacher?” He asked, making his voice carefully neutral.

“Maybe, or maybe they’re just a fan?” Hermione shrugged. “Well, his books are really good, so I’m not complaining. Are you going to buy a broom, Harry?”

“Not unless I make the team, I think,” he said. “But I am going to buy something cool to put in the greenhouse pot. Do you think Michael would be mad if I kept a venemous tentacula in the dorm?”

Hermione laughed, and Ms. Granger raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Half an hour later, Harry had finished a second pancake and he, Hermione and Ms. Granger walked to the train station near the Grangers’ house. Harry brought his trunk along to store all of his books, as it was plenty light enough to wear over his shoulder thanks to the charms in the leather.

“I’ll need to go to Gringotts first,” he said as they arrived at the Leaky Cauldron. “And then I can get glasses, and then we can go to Flourish and Blotts?”

“We need to change our money too,” Ms. Granger said, as they stepped into the pub.

Harry couldn’t stop himself from gagging. The smell of magic was so overwhelming and bad and good and synthetic, synthetic, synthetic that he thought he was going to be sick.

“Harry? Are you alright, dear?” Ms. Granger asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Harry nearly winced at the touch, but managed to stop himself by force of will alone. He nodded, not trusting himself to open his mouth, and gave her a thumbs up.

“Bouts of nausea can last for up to three months after shade fever,” Hermione supplied helpfully, sounding very sympathetic.

Harry beamed at her, his mouth still tightly shut as his stomach roiled.

Ms. Granger pursed her lips, but eventually—seeing as Harry was still standing—nodded, and let Hermione lead them into Diagon Alley.

Hermione tapped the bricks, and Harry braced himself, one hand on a barrel.

It was a good thing he had.

The portal opened, and Harry thought for a moment that he was actually drowning in bleach and the lemon cleaner that his aunt favored in the bathrooms and grape candy and the smell of cola and—

“Harry?” Hermione asked, sounding worried. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I still need glasses,” he said slowly.

“Yeah,” Hermione said. “Come on, stick close to us.”

Harry nodded and followed Hermione and her mother up the street. It was about all he could do, with his stomach churning from all of the strange scents and his lack of sight leaving the alley as little more than a very colorful blur. The trip to Gringotts seemed to last an age, and a painful one at that.

Still better than hell, Harry reminded himself. Still better than a cat flap.

Fortunately, the bank itself was a little better: the goblins’ iron and dirt magic didn’t make his head spin nearly as much. He left Hermione and her mother at the counter to follow a goblin named Narboc into the tunnels below the bank, where he collected several hundred galleons and put them in his money pouch—he had no idea how much glasses cost.

I cannot wait to see again, Harry thought as they returned to the surface.

“I saw an optometrist on the street on the way here,” Ms. Granger said as they left the bank. “Hermione, dear, we can go look at new robes while Harry gets his glasses—if that’s alright with you, Harry? We’ll meet you here in an hour.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” he said, smiling. They dropped him off at the magical optometrist—he had no idea what it was called, as he couldn’t read the sign—and vanished into the crowd.

“Uh, hi,” he asked the blurry shape of the attendant. “Can I have an eye exam?”

“Sure! You’re in luck, we have an opening now. One moment please,” the attendant said, and vanished. He was soon replaced by a much smaller blurry shape.

“Hello dear,” the new shape said. “Here for an exam and a pair of glasses? Follow me. I’m the optometrist, Tracey Barnes.”

He was led into a cozy back room and directed to sit in a chair.

“Ready?” The woman said. Harry nodded, and felt a wand gently poke between his eyes. A cold sensation flooded over him.

“Ah. Near and far-sighted, sorry about that,” she said. “Alright. What kind of glasses would you like?”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Maybe something roundish? But with light frames,” he said.

“You do have a very sharp face,” Tracey said. “Here, let’s try these. Silver or Bronze?”

“Bronze,” Harry said at once.

There was some tapping of a wand, a few clicks, and—

He could see.

Better than he had ever seen in his life.

Colors were so bright, and shapes so crisp, and depth made sense, and—

“Wow,” he said.

“Take a look at yourself,” Tracey said, holding up a mirror.

Harry’s first instinct was to grimace. His skin was as ashen as he’d ever seen it, and his hair—for all that he had tied some of it back in a half-ponytail—still looked like it needed a hearty trim. Still, the rounded, thin-framed glasses were doing their best to make his face look good. They brought out his eyes nicely, which was something.

“I’ll take them,” he said at once. “How much?”

“For those and the exam, ten galleons,” Tracey said, which was far less than he had been expecting—though he supposed it was more than a wand, which was already likely quite a bit of work to produce. He handed over the money and walked back out into Diagon Alley, pausing to grip the doorframe of the shop as the smell of magic overwhelmed him.

He couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes, and he didn’t want to worry Ms. Granger, but he also didn’t really want to stand here in this crowd, overwhelming both in scent and sheer pressure of presence. He wondered for a moment if he should look for the Grangers in one of the robe shops—but there were so many, and he had no idea which one to try.

Finally, Harry decided to just sit on the bench across from the optometrist’s shop—which was called All Eyeballs, much to Harry’s delight—and watch for the Grangers. Fortunately, the peoplewatching was very fun. Wix had such colorful and varied senses of fashion, and occasionally someone truly odd would come down the road, sporting a tail or horns or, once, talking to a parrot in animated Japanese.

About twenty minutes into his vigil, he spotted a familiar blonde-haired boy trailing through the crowd, just behind an extremely tall, equally blonde man in jet black robes who Harry assumed was Draco’s father. Draco appeared to be telling his father some sort of very dramatic story, complete with hand motions and yelling, while Malfoy senior simply nodded along, looking bored. It made Harry feel a little bad for Draco, actually. What had Theo said about Lucius last year? That he didn’t like interruptions?

As they passed, Harry caught a whiff of something incredible.

It was sandalwood and jasmine and a hint orange with a dash of cedar smoke, spicy and woody and just a little tangy and the first thing he had smelled since he had returned to the wixen world that hadn’t made his head spin at all and he wanted it.

It definitely hadn’t been Draco’s magic, which he had smelled before and was a reasonably pleasant caramel with just a hint of artificial lime. It could have been Malfoy senior’s magic, he supposed, though he felt a little weird about his reaction to the smell if it had been Draco’s father’s magic. Maybe it was some spell that they had cast, or an object that they had. If he could catch up with them, maybe he could ask.

He was on his feet before he knew it, taking a step after the disappearing Malfoys, when Hermione called his name.

“Oh, those look great, Harry!” Hermione said, grinning at his glasses as she and her mother reached him. Harry glanced over his shoulder, but the Malfoys—and that glorious magic—were long gone.

“Thanks,” Harry said, trying to pull his mind out of the smell of sandalwood.

“Would you like to get lunch before we go to Flourish and Blotts?” Ms. Granger asked.

The Malfoys had definitely not been heading towards the bookstore, and Harry was feeling a little hungry, so he nodded. They ended up at a small café opposite the bookstore, eating finger sandwiches on a flower-filled patio. The sheer normalcy of it was enough to give Harry a bit of a headache.

How on earth can this be the same world, he wondered, as the one in which I was locked in a room for two months? How can that have been my yesterday, and this be my today? Are they both real?

Suddenly, he dropped he sandwich he was nibbling on.

“Hermione, have you heard of a house elf?” He asked.

“A what?” She replied.

“A house elf. They’re, uh, caretakers for wixen, I guess? They’re small and they have big heads. One came to visit me over the summer.”

“That’s weird, do you know why?” Hermione asked, frowning.

Harry realized this might not have been the best conversation to have in front of Ms. Granger.

“No idea,” he said. “He left when I told him I was sick, though.”

“I’ll look it up when we get to school,” Hermione said.

“So will I,” Harry replied.

As they ate, a crowd began to form outside of the bookstore.

“I suppose we should have just gone earlier,” Ms. Granger said sadly.

“You can wait here, mom,” Hermione said. “I know you don’t like crowds, but I really want to find a new book on communication charms. I don’t want an owl or illness to keep me from talking to my friends,” she said, grinning at Harry, who felt another burst of warmth in his chest.

“Alright, you two go on ahead. But be careful!” She said.

Harry steeled himself for the crowd. Diagon Alley itself was already busy, but to go from the cupboard to that mass of people—well, it had to be done.

Harry and Hermione stood and dove into the swarming people. The reason for the gathering was apparent as soon as they reached the door: Gilderoy Lockhart was doing a book signing that day for his new autobiography.

“Oh, I’m going to go see him,” Hermione said, eyes wide. Harry grimaced at the crowd near the stage where a very blonde man in bright green robes was smiling at everyone in sight.

“I’ll get you come copies of his books, too, so you don’t have to go over there,” Hermione said, smiling softly at him. “I bet all the crowds are hard after being inside for so long.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said, feeling his chest balloon with relief. “I’m going to go look at the herbology section. Sprout promised I could go in the fifth-year greenhouses this year and I want to be ready.”

Hermione nodded, and they split apart into the crowd. Harry made his way to the herbology section and quickly lost himself in a slightly dusty but beautifully illustrated copy of Flesh-Eating Plants of Scotland.

Before he could give the book more than a cursory glance, however, he was jerked away from the proper growing conditions for the vampiric harebell by the beautiful and now-familiar smell of sandalwood.

“Well, well, well,” a drawling voice said in the aisle beside his. “Arthur Weasley.”

Harry looked up to see Draco’s father facing down a redheaded man who had to be Ron Weasley’s dad. Ron himself, his older twin brothers, and a girl Harry didn’t recognize but who must be Ron’s little sister were facing down Draco and his father, both of whom had identical sneers on their faces. This close, Harry could tell that the sandalwood-jasmine-wonderful smell wasn’t coming from the older Malfoy, who had a pleasant-ish, lime and pine smell to his magic. That meant it had to be coming from some object.

“Lucius,” Mr. Weasley replied tartly.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” Lucius said. “All those raids. I do hope they’re paying you overtime?”

Lucius plucked a book from the girl’s cauldron. It was very battered, but with his new glasses Harry could just barely make out the word Transfiguration on the cover.

“Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?” Lucius asked, sneering at the book.

One part of Harry wanted to be rather incensed on the Weasleys’ behalf. He didn’t particularly like Ron, actually, but the poor little girl looked like she was going to cry, and no one deserved to have their parents’ poverty thrown in their face like that.

Another, much larger part of Harry had lost all concern for the Weasleys the moment he had seen Lucius Malfoy pull a small black book from his pocket. That book, Harry was sure of it, was the source of the wonderful smell. If he could just carry that around, he could get through a day at Hogwarts without fainting.

Suddenly, Mr. Weasley leapt at Lucius Malfoy. The girl’s cauldron and all of her books went flying, and a bookshelf tipped over, sending thick tomes raining down on both combatant’s heads.

Without thinking, Harry ran forward towards the fray just as a woman he suspected was Ms. Weasley pulled her husband away from Lucius. The blonde man was still holding the girl’s book, a book that now looked a little overstuffed and had the sandalwood pull Harry was so drawn to. Lucius scoffed, shoved the book at the girl and stalked away. The Weasleys turned to go, the girl trailing after them.

“Excuse me,” Harry said, tapping the girl on the shoulder.

The girl whipped around, staring at him with sharp eyes.

Then her gaze flicked to his forehead, and she squeaked.

“Harry Potter,” she whispered.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry said. “Can I please see your transfiguration book for a minute?”

“Sure,” the girl said breathlessly, handing it to him. He took it reverently and opened it to where the black book was sitting inside. With trembling hands, he picked it up.

He had been right. With the book in his hands, the artificial magic of the rest of the wix melted away—still there, like an undercurrent, but no longer so strong as to be disorienting. Instead, there was a comfortable smell of sandalwood, blending so beautifully with his own lilac magic, highlighting it, the orange notes of the book and the vanilla of his magic adding a perfect hint of sweetness.

What is this thing? Harry wondered.

“I really need a new journal,” Harry said, trying to keep the exhilaration out of his voice. “I saw this one hidden in this book earlier and couldn’t get it out of my head. I’ll give you five galleons for it?”

The girl’s eyes went wide, and she nodded. Harry handed over the money and slipped the book into his pocket, his shoulders releasing their tension at last. In his opinion, it had been more than a bargain.

“Ginny? What’s up?” Ron Weasley asked, appearing at his sister’s shoulder. “Oh, what do you want, Potter?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, smiling widely, his finger tracing the spine of the book. Ron’s mustard magic could barely touch him with the journal in his pocket.

“Well, that’s not weird at all,” Ron snapped. “Gin, stay away from him. He hangs out with snakes.”

Harry rolled his eyes and walked to the counter, where he bought the Standard Book of Spells and the carnivorous plant guide, then went to wait for Hermione at the entrance. She appeared a few minutes later and handed him a massive stack of books, the covers of which were all graced with the same smiling, blonde-haired wizard.

“He’s handsome, don’t you think?” Hermione said, smiling at her signed copy of Lockhart’s autobiography. “He is going to be our new defense teacher, too!”

“Eh,” Harry said. “I think I like someone a bit…More mysterious.”

Darker, he carefully did not say.

“Mysterious…Harry, hang on—do you like—boys?” Hermione asked.

Harry blinked at her.

He honestly hadn’t thought about it.

He certainly wasn’t opposed to girls. He liked girls. He had several friends who were girls. He also liked boys and had several friends who were boys. He didn’t particularly want to kiss any of his friends. He might have wanted to kiss Rodger Davies, maybe, a little.

Had his knight been a boy?

He knew what the Dursleys would say about that.

Was that why he’d been so reluctant to think about their gender at all?

“It’s fine if you do,” Hermione said quickly. “I know people are against it in the muggle world, but I asked Daph if she liked Theo and she said she liked girls, and I asked her about it and she said it was totally normal for wix,” she said in a rush.

“Oh,” Harry said. “Oh.”

He thought for a moment.

“I think both are good,” Harry said. “Maybe someone tall, though.”

Hermione laughed, and Harry grinned at her.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said, genuinely. “I think that would have taken me years to figure out on my own.”

“Sometimes, Harry Potter, your sight is as bad as your vision,” she said in a mock wise voice.

They got ice cream afterwards, and Harry managed to eat an entire scoop.

Chapter Text

Harry curled up in his bed in the Granger’s guest room that night and actually managed to shut the door. With his clean pajamas on and a glass of water at his side and an easily accessible bathroom nearby, it had only taken him twenty minutes to talk himself into it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to lock it, despite his desire for privacy.

He pulled the journal toward him, breathing deep as he turned it over in his hands. It was plain black leather. He opened it reverently.

To his surprise, it was completely blank, with the exception of a small inscription on the front cover in incredibly neat cursive:

1943. M. Riddle. 1943.

“Hello,” Harry said to it. “Who are you? What are you?”

All of a sudden, he felt—smelled?—a sharp little tug on his magic.

“Ow,” he said, though he wouldn’t say it had hurt, exactly, just—

He felt a little more tired, suddenly.

Well, it had been a long day. He put the journal in his trunk and tiptoed to the door, cracking it just a hair before turning off the lights and going to sleep with the faint smell of sandalwood still hanging in his head.

Harry left the diary in his trunk for the rest of his week with the Grangers and had a wonderful time with a functional, caring family. Mr. Granger took them up to London to see Parliament, which both Harry and Hermione loved; at home, they played board games and Ms. Granger even let Harry help her in the garden, which he hadn’t realized he’d been missing until he nearly started crying at the smell of fresh dirt.

Then it was time to return to Hogwarts.

Harry slipped the journal into an inner pocket of his robes when he got dressed that morning, a private talisman against the overpowering magic around him. Then, a few hours later, Harry and Hermione bounded up to the platform barrier together, Mr. and Ms. Granger watching with fond smiles.

“Thanks again, Mr. and Ms. Granger,” Harry said, smiling at them.

“You’re welcome any time,” Ms. Granger said. “My hydrangeas have never looked so happy.”

“Tell them I miss them already,” Harry said, grinning, and turned to walk through the platform with Hermione.

They both ran face-first into the brick. Helena hooted indignantly in her cage.

“That’s weird,” Hermione said, a tinge of worry in her voice. She pressed a hand to the platform, pushing so hard that her fingers started to shake, but it remained solid.

They waited for a minute, exchanging nervous glances, until a boy Harry recognized as a Hufflepuff in their year walked up to the platform.

“You’re Justin, right?” Hermione asked. “Can you get through the barrier?”

“What?” Justin asked her, looking confused. His parents glanced at the Grangers worriedly. Justin shrugged and walked at the barrier, only to run straight into the brick himself.

“You don’t think they’re keeping out muggleborns?” He asked, looking horrified.

“It’s keeping me out, too, and I’m not muggleborn,” Harry said.

“Is everything alright, Hermione?” Ms. Granger asked.

“The barrier is broken!” Hermione squeaked. “Oh, how are we going to get to school?”

“Why don’t we use Harry’s owl to send them a letter?” Mr. Granger said. “Those owls are right quick. I know you got your order from Flourish and Blotts the same day you asked, and that was on Christmas.”

Yule is on a different day than Christmas, Harry thought. So it might not have been a staff holiday…But still, good point.

“Of course,” Harry said. At that point, a small and very excitable first year named Colin Creevy had also shown up and also failed to get through the barrier, and the time for the train to leave had come and passed. All three sets of parents led their children out into a side street, where Harry and Hermione wrote up a quick letter and sent off Helena to Hogwarts.

“What am I going to do? I might be missing the sorting,” Colin moaned.

“It’ll be okay,” Hermione assured him. “You just have to wear a hat, and it’ll tell you what house you’re in. If you miss it, Dumbledore will just let you get sorted in his office.”

Hermione and Justin took turns telling Colin about their houses, while Harry looked up at the sky and ran his fingers over the smooth leather of the diary, pointedly ignoring Colin’s staring at his forehead.

All at once, he felt it again: a tiny bite on his magic.

It’s the diary, he realized with a start. It’s stealing my magic.

Well. That’s awkward.

Harry didn’t think he could handle the magic of Hogwarts without it. And yet he also didn’t want to have his magic drained by the object. Would it be permanent? It didn’t feel permanent. His magic had certainly recovered from the attack by the book earlier that week.

He’d just have to deal with it that night.

The group of ten ended up getting lunch at a nearby pub, which is where Helena found them on the patio, a short letter tied to her talon. Harry unrolled it and read it aloud to the group.

“Please return to King’s Cross station and go to the supply closet nearest the far-right entrance. Signed, Minerva McGonagall.”

Harry gave Helena a bit of his partially eaten sandwich, and then told her to return to Hogwarts. She hooted exasperatedly at him, and he grinned as he watched her fly away.

Minerva McGonagall was in the supply closet.

“Hello, all,” she said. “I am very sorry to all of you for the inconvenience. The barrier has been…Repaired. This rope is a port key which will take us to Hogsmeade village, near Hogwarts. Are you all ready to go?”

Everyone nodded. Colin hugged his parents and grabbed the rope. Harry waved goodbye to the Grangers once again and held the diary tightly in his pocket.

“Jiffy pop,” Minerva said.

Harry felt a jerk in his stomach, and then he was being sucked through an endless tube of air. A moment later, he was face-down in the middle of a street alongside a similarly topsy-turvy Hermione. He got slowly to his feet and was gratified to see that only McGonagall had remained standing.

“Sorry about that,” she said brusquely. “Portkeys are quite difficult your first time.”

A warning might have been nice, Harry sighed to himself.

He was abruptly very grateful for the diary’s presence, as the village of Hogsmeade was fully awash in magic. He could feel it humming under the road, like someone playing an organ in a distant church, threaded through with the ever-present smell of linen candles and bleach. A shield of sandalwood stood between him and a long trip into delirium.

McGonagall led them up the road to where the carriages already stood waiting.

“You’ve beaten the train considerably, despite the mishap with the barrier,” she said. “Mister Finch-Fletchley, Miss Granger, Mister Potter, you can all go to your dormitories and get settled in before the feast. Mister Creevy—we’ll find something to do with you.”

Colin beamed, and Harry bit back a laugh at the boy’s sheer enthusiasm for being dealt with. Really, though, he was most excited to have a few minutes alone to try out an idea he’d had over lunch.

“What do you think went wrong with the barrier?” Hermione asked as the four of them took one of the horseless carriages up to the castle. The carriage was slightly less dramatic than the boats they had taken in first year, but far more comfortable. It had a very interesting, pleasant smell, which Harry assumed was coming from whatever powered it. He wondered what the source of the motion was, but didn’t want to derail the conversation to ask.

“No idea,” Harry said. “Maybe it just closed too early?”

“Are you really Harry Potter?” Colin asked suddenly. “I know all about you. We stayed in the Leaky Cauldron and people were talking about you. About how you survived when You Know Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a lightning scar on your forehead.”

Harry looked at him, meeting Colin’s grey eyes with his own green ones.

The carriage was very, very small.

He was being seen again—being watched. What if Colin noticed that his magic was different? What if he noticed that Harry was wrong, broken, fundamentally bad? What if Colin never stopped looking at him, and Harry never got free of these ever-shrinking cages, never had a chance to grow?

In the horror, a seed of anger bloomed.

Colin was only a year younger than Harry—shouldn’t he know not to say things like this—

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice came from very far away. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Sorry. I am Harry Potter, yes.”

Colin was staring at him with a mixture of awe and terror.

“Did you know your eyes glow?”

“My eyes what?” Harry said, nonplussed.

“Uh, he’s right, mate,” Justin said. “Your eyes got a little glow-y. Very green.”

“Sorry,” Harry murmured, his shoulders folding inward under the weight of the other’s gazes.

“It’s fine, Harry, don’t worry,” Hermione said. “Colin—look, I know you’re new, but it’s really not polite to gawk at someone like that. Think about why he’s famous for a second, will you?”

Colin’s face fell slightly.

Then, abruptly, he clapped a hand over his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he moaned.

“It’s okay, Colin,” Harry said softly.

“Thanks, Harry,” Colin replied, still a bit pink in the cheeks.

Harry all but ran to Ravenclaw tower as soon as they were inside the castle, leaving Helena’s cage in the carriage but bringing his trunk over his shoulder.

“Harry?” Hermione puffed, jogging to keep up.

“Sorry, I just really want a nap before the feast,” Harry said apologetically. Hermione rolled her eyes but kept jogging with him all the way to the tower.

At last—at last—he reached the dorm.

Harry pulled off his trunk and rummaged through his store of jars for one very particular jar of leaves. He chose two and pulled them out, then sat on his bed and held the diary in his lap. Then, gently, he pressed the leaves to the book’s cover.

Cage it.

Tea tree leaves produced an antibacterial, antiviral oil. In rituals, they were one of the most powerful shields he had yet found.

The leaves dissolved, and Harry had a distinct sense of something pulling back from him like a retracting snake. The smell of sandalwood still filled his lungs, but it was damper now—maybe enough to stop him from passing out in the great hall, but certainly not as lovely as it had been before. The shield had worked, but it also made the book less useful. Naturally.

Harry sighed and decided to do something very stupid.

He pulled a quill from his trunk, dipped it in an inkwell, and opened the diary.

++ Please stop trying to eat me. You smell amazing and you are the only thing keeping me from throwing up (which I would prefer not to do in class), so I would like to keep you around, but I won’t if you keep attacking me. I’m happy to try to find you a different source of food if you need to eat magic, but it’s rude to take without asking. ++

He had been expecting the ink to fade away. After all, the diary was almost fifty years old; there was no way it hadn’t seen some ink or at least some mud, so there must be some sort of cleaning spell on it.

What he hadn’t been expecting, not really, was for it to write back.

== To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? ==

Chapter Text

Tom Marvolo Riddle was a logical boy.

He prided himself on it, above almost anything else. He was born with two gifts: magic beyond anything seen in recorded memory, and a mind worthy of martialing it. For Tom, everything—everything—happened for a reason. His reasons. He was control.

So, faced with a dead girl in a bathroom that he did not intend to be there, he grasped for what command he could. It must have been right. He would make it right.

Tom had already planned to make his first horcrux. He was going to kill his bastard of a father who left him in an orphanage while bombs rained down overhead and the priests whispered damnations in his ears. He was going to make a great and righteous ceremony of it, his first murder, the life he so desperately wanted to take. He’d turn their living room into a grand circle. He’d planned the whole thing for just before his sixteenth birthday later this year, a death on Yule night.

This—sodden, smelling of slightly under-washed toilets and blood where Myrtle had hit her head as she fell from mortality—this was not what he had planned. A random day in June, his last jaunt with Euryale, this—no.

But he could use it.

Tom filled a vial with her blood and descended into the chamber, a small black book in his hand.

The last real thing he remembered was inscribing the circle on the floor, her blood and his mixing together with ashes and basilisk venom he had gathered far in advance of needing them, just because it never hurt to be prepared. Well, that was paying off now, wasn’t it?

He was paying for it now, wasn’t he?

Tom Marvolo Riddle was fifteen years old.

He might also have been five hundred, for all he knew.

There was no way to tell the passage of time in the diary. He lived in a white room, which he supposed was a conjuration of his imagination so that he didn’t go mad. On one wall he could watch his memories like the world’s clearest, most colorful television set. On another wall, writing would appear, or so he assumed.

If someone had ever written to him.

But no one had.

He didn’t know if his self in the physical world had kept him close—tucked him safe into a personal library—or if he had been thrown into a dark vault in Gringotts, or even pawned off to a follower as a gift and a test and a threat. Wherever he was, no one was touching him. That, he always knew. No one had held him, and no one had grown attached to him—

Not even my own soul, he thought, curious. I certainly feel attached to myself.

Or I used to, I suppose.

How could he be detached from me?

How could he be so cruel to me?

Tom’s worst fear was that something had gone wrong—that the ritual had killed his physical self, and that the diary was all that was left of him. This room—four walls, so small, so vast—was all that remained of Tom Riddle.

He’d been so clever, he thought. Scare the muggleborns off, and then they’ll stay in their muggle world and eventually release their magic and wix could be safe. People like him could be found and taken in and kept from the hell that muggles wrought for themselves. He hadn’t really wanted them dead—just gone. Away. Obviously, he had miscalculated.

Well, Myrtle was gone. He didn’t feel bad about it, really. Other than the fact that it had tampered with his carefully laid plans. Myrtle was gone and he was here and if he wasn’t living, well, at least he wasn’t dead.

Besides, he supposed, he was serving a life sentence for murder now. Who could begrudge a man who had paid for his crime?

On occasion, he felt something: a brush of a hand on his cover as he was transferred, perhaps. An odder sensation, like a phantom limb pain of someone that wasn’t him but wasn’t not him being split in two. He counted those sensations carefully.

There were six.

That couldn’t be right.

Of course, he would have stopped on a number of power. After creating the diary, he should have split his soul five more times, to leave seven total pieces of Tom Riddle in this world, seven points of anchor.

Now there were eight.

Unstable.

He would never have done that. He would never have done that. Whatever remained of him in the world above—he was making mistakes. Tom never made mistakes.

(He carefully didn’t think about Myrtle).

Time stretched on like molasses from a jar, white and white and white and endless.

It took him decades, or maybe a few minutes, to notice that he couldn’t feel or taste or smell. Those senses were far too tied to the body. He could speak, hear his own deepening timbre, always caught on the cusp of adulthood. He could see, facsimiles of his hands and legs and feet when he looked down. But his tongue was always a blank in his mind, his nose empty of scent. He supposed that was better than the alternative.

No one wrote to him.

He’d watched some of his memories at first, but he could only play through his many dramatic chess victories over Abraxas so many times, only find so much delight in the same clever words he used to undermine and corral his Knights. Eventually, it all tasted stale. It made time more apparent, too, reminding him that he was not human, that he was nothing but a mind in a box—no heart, no body.

He watched his memories of the orphanage just once. Just for something else to think about.

At least he wasn’t there.

There was no concept of days in the place of infinite boredom.

Still, Tom thought of it as a day.

The day when he was moved.

Picked up by a gloved hand—he ate a little of their magic, just to see if he could—released, and then—

Picked up again.

Foreign skin brushed his cover. Tom could feel—somehow—that whoever was touching the diary was already fond of him. Wanted him. Liked him.

But he hadn’t even written to them yet.

Did they know his other versions, perhaps? Did he have a lover, more fond of his own soul than he apparently was? If he was going to be Minister of Magic, he would have to be married. Did his husband love him? Was it a political match? Was that who had touched the diary? He’d never even had a friend—how could anyone be fond of him?

For the millionth time he cursed his bodied self for leaving him no instructions whatsoever. How was he to know who to kill and who to save?

Well, if it was his embodied self’s lover up there, he certainly wasn’t Tom’s. He wasn’t the man in the physical world. He was a book, and his other self had doomed him to this, and he was tired of being a book. So—the next time Tom felt the touch on his spine—he took a bite of the magic he found there.

The fingers jerked away.

That shouldn’t happen.

They know.

How?

Tom resolved to be more gentle next time. The fingers returned, still so fond, and Tom was a featherlight touch of fangs—

And still the hand jerked away.

But it had come back.

Tom growled at the blank walls. Why had he not given this book eyes?

“Just write something, damn you,” he said, cursing his own hubris.

Suddenly, his feed to the emotions of his new carrier cut off like a silencing charm had been cast on his mind. A moment later ink appeared, bleeding across the far wall of his strange room in an untidy scrawl.

++Please stop trying to eat me. You smell amazing and you are the only thing keeping me from throwing up (which I would prefer not to do in class), so I would like to keep you around, but I won’t if you keep attacking me. I’m happy to try to find you a different source of food if you need to eat magic, but it’s rude to take without asking.++

Tom stared at it, one hand fisted in his hair. He had been shielded somehow—he couldn’t touch the writer’s magic, and he couldn’t read their emotions, either. Whoever had the diary knew what he was trying to do and knew how to block him. They could sense his attacks. Via…Their sense of smell, perhaps? Tom ran through what he knew about magic sight, which was incredibly rare. Perhaps if the person was blind—but then they couldn’t have written to him. Maybe the writer just had very poor eyesight, and their magic sense had been transferred to their…Nose? Not their ears? Well, that was odd. Maybe they had an exceptionally good sense of smell.

But Tom smelled good to them. Relative to all other magic. If they were going to class and writing in English so colloquially, they were either in Hogwarts or Ilvermorny, and he doubted that it was the latter. If Tom smelled better than Hogwarts, well, that explained the fondness he had felt from them earlier.

Hadn’t they also said that Tom was the only thing keeping them from being sick?

Oh, he could use that.

Whoever it was also didn’t know what Tom was. They probably didn’t know what he could do. If he could make them more fond of him, well—

He could take their mind, and then their magic, all in one fell swoop. All he had to do was to build upon what was already there. Tom Riddle had always been a charmer. The diary’s purpose had always been to hold his soul and to gain itself—himself—a body. He’d considered opening the Chamber again if he ended up at Hogwarts, but after the—accident—and his imprisonment, it seemed more prudent to simply be fully alive once more.

He pressed his hand to the wall, rearranging the ink with his mind on instinct.

== To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? ==

++ My name is Harry. I go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Are you T. M. Riddle? ++

Hogwarts, then. He had been right. They boy’s handwriting was quick and rough but legible, as though he was used to scribbling down notes in a heartbeat.

== My name is Tom. It is nice to meet you, Harry. My apologies for any discomfort when I was testing your magic; it is merely how I get to know my new authors. ==

++ Why did Lucius Malfoy have this diary? ++

That must be Abraxas’ son. But how did Harry get the diary from him? Had he stolen it? Or had enough time passed, and Harry was Abraxas’ grandson? Was his full name Hadrian, perhaps?

There was too much Tom didn’t know. It made his skin crawl. Still, this Harry was just a student. He had no means of really hurting Tom, not without taking him to a professor.

== He is related to an old schoolmate of mine at Hogwarts. My friend must have gifted me to Lucius. ==

++ Why would he be trying to get rid of you, then? ++

Tom scowled. If he had a heart, it would probably be racing. Before he could reply, however, more words appeared.

++ Don’t be scared. Like I said, I want to keep you, but I know you’re lying about why you tried to eat my magic. ++

Can he smell my emotions? When I can’t sense his?

Unfair.

Tom reinforced his occlumency shields and mimed taking a deep breath. It felt like nothing.

== My apologies. I didn’t want to scare you; you are correct. I was trapped in this diary, and I need to consume magic to one day escape. ==

++ Trapped? Did Lucius—or his father, I guess—trap you? ++

Tom ran through a dozen options and settled on one that would be impossible to fact check and was close enough to the truth to pass muster.

== It was an experiment gone wrong. ==

++ I can understand that, believe me. Are you like a portrait, or are you a real soul? ++

== I am a real soul. ==

++ How can I help you? Can I help you without permanently harming my magic? ++

== Perhaps. I can run some tests, and I can see if you are compatible for my magic. In the meantime, maybe I can help you. I know a great deal about a great many subjects. The original purpose of this diary was to help other students study. Unfortunately, part of my consciousness was trapped here—but still, feel free to ask me about anything. ==

A formless blob of ink spread over the wall, brilliant black in Tom’s too-white world.

++ Would you have taken my magic regardless, if I hadn’t noticed? ++

Tom smiled. The boy hadn’t spotted his stretching of the truth in his previous message. He could try a little more now.

== Only a little. I only meant to strengthen myself. ==

Another blot of ink.

++ I don’t believe you. ++

Tom hissed. Perhaps what he had said earlier had been too close to the truth to trigger Harry’s lie detection.

Damn this boy and his nose.

++ Like I said, I want to keep you. But still: did you mean to kill me, or just to make me a squib? ++

Tom closed his eyes.

He opened them again slowly.

++ If you don’t answer, I’ll keep you shielded. I might even turn you in. ++

Tom shuddered.

== I would have drained your magic. With a full Core, I would be able to make a new body and finally escape my prison. You might have survived. ==

There was a long pause, in which Tom shivered in his not-body.

He hated this. Hated this weakness.

++ I see. But I would be left a squib, or dead. ++

== Yes. ==

++ Can you do this to anyone? ++

== It requires physical contact and an emotional connection. ==

++ Can you feel my emotions? Yes or no. ++

Tom sighed.

== Yes. ==

++ Even while I have you shielded? ++

== No, not currently. ==

++ What allows you to sense them? ++

== I have some mental connection with my authors. ==

++ Alright, then. Right now, we need each other. I want to use you to walk around the castle without passing out. You would probably like to not be destroyed. I know when you attack me. How about a truce? We can both try to think of other solutions for your problem in the meantime. ++

== You cannot hurt me. ==

++ I could shrink you to nothingness, and then no one would ever be “fond” of you again. I’ve done it to warded objects before. ++

Tom paced up and down the room.

If there was even a chance that the boy could destroy him—or trap him here permanently—

A familiar fear welled up, the sound of bombs crashing in his ears.

== Very well. I will not harm you while we search for other solutions. ==

++ Good. If you try to eat my magic again, I will destroy you. We’ll talk later. ++

Tom collapsed against the wall as the hands that had held him vanished. He felt the shield lift, and then the press of skin through fabric that he assumed implied he was in Harry’s pocket. The fondness emanating from the boy returned, as did a bit of what he was sure was nervousness.

The last of the adrenaline from the encounter flowed through him, and he smiled.

Well.

Even if he’d managed to royally fuck that up, at least it was interesting.

And maybe all was not lost.

He could be patient.

Chapter Text

Harry closed the diary with shaking hands. He was not used to threatening people, but it seemed his bravado had worked.

“Tom M. Riddle,” he whispered, tucking it into the pocket of his school robes. “Who were you—who are you?”

It was a question for later, Harry decided, and he was satisfied. He knew the boy in the diary wanted to hurt him, if only to save himself from what was likely a horrible prison. Honestly, Harry understood. It wasn’t like Harry wasn’t using Tom for equally selfish—if less destructive—reasons. He wouldn’t trust Tom, but he didn’t blame him for trying to eat Harry, not really. Fifty years was a long time.

He pulled a pair of potion shears from his trunk and went to the bathroom. There, he shucked his robes and shirt, trying not to fall over as the layered waves of Hogwarts’s magic hit him. Showers were going to suck, as he certainly wasn’t taking the book with him.

Trying his best to be neat, he trimmed the split ends of his hair. The thick black waves had improved a little from the limp state they had fallen into at the Dursleys, thanks to regular washing at the Grangers. Still, it looked a little depressing even with the trim. He gave up after a few minutes and pulled half of it back with the ribbon he had been using, donned his robes again, and went down to the common room.

Sure enough, he found Hermione curled in their favorite chairs, reading one of Lockhart’s books.

“Hey, Mione,” he said, plopping down beside her. “How’s the book?”

“It’s great,” she said. “His lessons are probably going to be so practical. I can’t wait.”

Harry tried not to grimace at that; it looked like he would be failing another subject. He did at least have a few options for a shield charm now, though a wand user’s protego was accompanied by a lot of flashing light that didn’t happen when he used his tea tree or aconite shields. He’d probably have to mix it with some gingko.

“Your hair looks nice,” Hermione said. “It works with the glasses.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling. “I didn’t want to look like too much of a zombie on our first night back.”

“What did you get possessed by, anyway?” Hermione asked.

“One of my neighbor’s cats,” Harry said, thinking of Ms. Figg. Hermione winced.

“Yeah, it was pretty embarrassing,” Harry said, smiling.

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better now. Should we head down?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” he said. “I don’t want Theo and Daph and Neville to get too worried.”

They arrived at the entrance hall just as the carriages did and ran over to their friends as soon as they spotted Daphne’s distinctive blonde hair.

“Harry!” All three of them cried.

“Are you okay? Not still ectoplasmic, are you?” Daphne asked.

Theo peered closely into Harry’s face.

“You look kinda sick still,” he said.

“Thanks, Theo,” Harry replied dryly. “Yeah, I’m okay now. I’m so sorry I couldn’t write—I just didn’t want to send you a possessed owl, and I was out of it for most of July and August.”

“Don’t worry about it, Harry,” Neville said, grinning.

“Why weren’t you two on the train?” Theo asked, still looking skeptical.

“It was wild,” Hermione said. “The barrier to the platform wouldn’t open! Most of the older students apparate onto the platform or floo if they have wix parents, but we ended up with Justin Finch-Fletchley and a new first year, just stuck outside.”

 “Weird,” Daphne said. “Well, you’re here now. Come on, let’s get some food.”

They went into the great hall, where they separated to their own house tables with a promise to meet the next day for breakfast. Harry waved at Justin Finch-Fletchley, who was already seated at the Hufflepuff table with Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones. Justin waved back with a smile.

Dinner was a wonderfully warm and familiar affair. Harry enjoyed seeing Colin sorted into Gryffindor (as he rarely interacted with Gryffindors that weren’t Neville) and got a private laugh at Hermione’s moon eyes when Lockhart was officially announced as their new teacher. He did his best to eat, though he ended up just eating a bite or two of every dish he could get his hands on; everything was so delicious, but he still felt like he was going to be sick at every turn. Luckily, after Diagon and a week with the Grangers, being around people was no longer so overwhelming, and he managed to get through everything without a panic attack or deciding he didn’t deserve to be at the table, though the thought did cross his mind.

The best part of dinner came when Dumbledore stood up to give the start of term announcements. Harry braced himself for the shock of lemon and bleach that he always got when he looked at the headmaster, but it never came. He got a faint whiff of lemon, but all Harry really smelled was the heady scent of sandalwood and jasmine, curling around him like a blanket, mixed with the warm and real smells of the food around him. He smiled up at Dumbledore, running a gentle finger over the book in his pocket.

This was going to be a good year. Harry was sure of it.

The next morning, Theo, Daphne and Neville came to the Ravenclaw table after getting their schedules. Neville regaled them all with his very interesting August vacation to the Scottish Highlands, and Harry promised to lend him Flesh-Eating Plants of Scotland when he had finished it, which made Neville grin.

“What did you do over the summer, Theo?” Harry asked the boy. He sighed.

“My father decided he wanted to clean out one of the old family manors,” he said. “Which meant I was living in a mess of a house all summer, in the middle of nowhere, with no one to talk to. The only guests we had were the Malfoys in August, and that was about as fun as it sounds.”

“I kept telling Theo he should just come stay with me,” Daphne said. “But his father—”

“Doesn’t answer questions well,” Theo finished grimly.

Harry looked at Theo and wondered suddenly if he should tell the other boy about the Dursleys. But Theo looked whole and hale and didn’t move like he was hiding bruises. It wasn’t a competition—Theo’s father sounded unpleasant, to say the least—but Harry didn’t want to seem like he was…Bragging, about how hard his life was.

“I’m sorry, Theo,” Hermione and Harry said at once.

“Well, I had a good summer,” Daphne said. “My aunt took me and Astoria to New York, and we got to see all of the new styles the Americans are coming out with. They’re kind of gaudy but some were really interesting. You’d have liked the Trailblazer store, Harry. Next time we go to America you have to come with us.”

“Oh, I’d love that,” Harry said, his eyes wide. “Do you have any pictures?”

“Tons,” Daphne said, while their friends laughed. Harry rolled his eyes at them. It wasn’t his fault they didn’t understand the pleasure of looking like you were worth looking at.

After breakfast, they all left for their respective classes. The Ravenclaws had transfiguration first, and Harry had a pocket full of chrysalis powder and was itching to do some magic. He was probably going to get terrible marks for the atrocious handwriting on all of his summer homework, but Hermione said that he could probably just tell the professors he had been sick. Harry thought that would work for McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout, but Snape wasn’t likely to be so kind.

Their transfiguration for the day was a first: turning a living creature into an inanimate object. In this case, they were turning tulips into teacups.

Harry and Hermione both achieved it on the first try, and Harry was particularly proud of his cup: where the cut tulip had been brilliantly pink, his cup was a deep blue and patterned with flying ravens. Hermione’s was gold-plated, which made them both laugh.

All in all, his first day back started off excellently. That was, until the end of class.

“Mister Potter? Can you stay behind, please?” McGonagall said, motioning him over toward her desk. Hermione gave him a concerned look, but Harry shrugged and waved her off.

“I’ll meet you in the library?” He asked, and she nodded, but not before casting a last look at McGonagall.

When the room was empty, McGonagall sat behind her desk and pulled out a stack of familiar playing cards. All of the face cards looked like they were on fire. It was the first thing he had ever transfigured, back in his first year.

“Um, professor, is there a problem?” Harry asked, feeling rather nervous beneath McGonagall’s gaze.

“These cards have now lasted almost eight months,” she said. “With no wear and tear other than what you would expect from ordinary cards. I also cannot undo the transfiguration through normal means. Certainly, I could transfigure them back into a matchbox—but the fundamental link has been severed. These are playing cards, mister Potter.”

“Oh,” Harry said.

He understood enough transfiguration theory to know that he should not have been able to do that.

At all.

Definitely not.

Transfigured objects lasted only a time before slowly (or rapidly) reverting to their original state. The more powerful the caster, the longer the transformation lasted, which could sometimes be years or decades. However—it always ended. It was one of the reasons why both food and money were not conjurable: an international, magically binding treaty held that no one could conjure such objects, because anyone who ate conjured food was liable to suddenly die an indefinite amount of time later, and conjured money would simply vanish. These were two of the elements of the exceptions to Gamp’s law of elemental transfiguration: two by law (food and currency); two by magical impossibility (magical cores and souls) and one by nature (nothingness could not be transfigured, though things could be conjured).

“Mister Potter?” McGonagall asked, sounding concerned. “You were muttering about Gamp’s law.”

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I don’t know how I did it.”

“Unfortunately, this is the only example of your work that I have, as you turned all of the rest back—perhaps we can try on your tulip,” McGonagall said.

Harry swallowed and nodded, walking back to his desk where his lovely teacup was still sitting.

Hang on.

If I can transfigure a tulip to a teacup permanently—could I turn the diary into a body?

I’ll talk to Tom about it later.

Somehow, the thought made him smile even as he confronted McGonagall.

“I can turn it back, Professor,” Harry said, and tapped the flower with his wand, one hand in his pocket in the chrysalis powder. “Primus.”

The teacup turned into a tulip.

It was not the same tulip.

McGonagall nodded, apparently not noticing that Harry had, apparently, just created life. Harry tried not to freak out too much about that fact.

“That is odd, then,” she said, looking back down at the cards. “Sometimes, Hogwarts’ magic interacts oddly with students’ magic and events that seem like…Miracles may occur. I suppose we’ll have to leave it at that. Thank you, mister Potter.”

“No problem, Professor,” he said. “I’m sorry about my summer homework. I was sick, so my handwriting is really bad.”

“I assure you, mister Potter, it is not the worst I’ve seen,” she said, giving him a small smile. “Here, you can keep the flower.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, taking the tulip from her. “Could I keep the cards, as well? It’s a bit cool, I guess.”

McGonagall pursed her lips and nodded, handing him the deck with an odd reluctance.

“Thank you,” Harry said again, turning and trying not to bolt out the door.

Once the door closed behind him, he dashed through the halls until he found a suitable broom closet. Once there, he torched the playing cards with a bit of phoenix fire and dumped the ashes in a bucket.

Then he stared at the now-white tulip.

Slowly, under his gaze, it shriveled.

“Well, there goes that plan,” Harry groaned.

He sank to the ground and set a ball of green fire over his head to see by, then opened the diary.

++Hello, Tom. How do you feel about Dark magic?++

Tom’s elegant cursive spilled across the page. The scent of the diary flared with orange, which Harry was beginning to associate with Tom’s curiosity.

==You are interesting, Harry. Why do you ask?==

Harry bit his lip, his quill hovering over the paper.

He couldn’t express how badly he wanted this. He wanted to tell someone—someone, anyone—what he could do. But no one could be trusted to keep quiet.

Except Tom.

Tom might be trying to steal his magic or murder him, but the only case in which he could spill Harry’s secrets was if Harry had already been taken out of the picture, or if Harry had already helped him get a body, in which case Harry’s secrets would implicate Tom, too. In a sense, the diary was…Just like a diary. The perfect place to get things off of his chest. Only, it would talk back.

Harry could see how that might be intoxicating—how he might come to trust Tom too much. He would have to keep reminding himself that Tom would probably do anything, say anything, to get out of the diary. Given the date on the journal, Harry was pretty sure he would have been the same way after fifty years of solitude.

But right now, he needed someone to tell, and he had exactly one option.

++Do you know anything about rituals, Tom?++

Harry held his breath and waited. More orange. That was a good sign.

==I do. What do you want to know?==

++I can do ritual magic.++

==That’s not too uncommon. Many wix can command some circles. I take it you mean something more dramatic?==

Harry snorted. Yes, a lot more dramatic.

++What is a circle? People keep mentioning them, and obviously I can’t ask about them.++

Tom’s reply came quickly.

==A circle is the basis of a ritual: a combination of runes and arithmantic placements that will guide your offering to create your intended result. How do you know about ritual magic and not circles? Why can’t you ask?==

++I can do rituals without circles. And in that case circles have been basically illegal since 1981.++

A hint of woodsmoke curled in the air.

==That’s impossible.==

++Well, I turned a tulip into a teacup like thirty minutes ago with a bit of chrysalis and a thought. And I can copy the Wizengamot statute out for you if you want. There are some exceptions, but yeah, pretty much the only legal use of runes is in the direction and amplification of Core magic. The law doesn’t actually mention circles, it just says what you can do with runes. So if runes go in circles, you can’t do that.++

==You aren’t lying.==

++Nope, I’m not.++

Tom’s writing came fast and furious.

==Did you manage to turn the teacup back? Was the transfiguration ordinary or did it have any non-standard properties? Who led the passage of the law?==

There was a pause.

==What year is it?==

++It is 1992. Albus Dumbledore was the one who got the law passed. The transfiguration is maybe permanent, but when I tried to turn the teacup back to a tulip, it died.++

==Permanent, you say? Then you are doing alchemy—true transmutation, not transfiguration—which makes sense, as you perform ritual magic, of which alchemy is a branch.  Of course, using alchemy to create life is generally considered impossible.==

Generally? Harry thought, frowning and tucking the thought away for later.

++Yeah, I thought I could transfigure you a body, but maybe not.++

==It is still something to think about. I will keep your abilities with alchemy in mind.==

++You know a lot about this.++

==I have more facility with rituals than most. I do still require a circle, however. You are interesting.==

++Thanks? I’m mostly trying not to get arrested. Ritual casting itself is also illegal, as of 1982, including doing alchemy without a permit. It’s considered dangerous.++

==I see that the Wizengamot’s logic is as flawless as ever. If I was not aware of your abilities, as I now am, I would have said the two laws were redundant.==

++The ritual one has a much harsher punishment.++

==Also spearheaded by Dumbledore?==

++That’s right.++

==I have a question, Harry. If alchemy is illegal, why are you using it to do your classwork? I assume you don’t have a license.==

Harry blushed. He was getting the impression that Tom was very smart indeed. That should probably make him more wary of the boy. Unfortunately, Harry had a bit of a weak spot for a great mind.

++How did you know I was using it for classwork?++

==Please. No one turns a tulip into a teacup in real life. They either conjure one or use a real teacup. You’re in your second year, then.==

++Yes. What year were you in?++

==At the end of my fourth. Now, why were you breaking the law to do schoolwork?==

Well, he was already in this deep.

++I can’t do Core magic. My Core only accepts additions, apparently, though I don’t really know what that means.++

 ==And you are attempting to cover this up with your affinity for circle-free rituals. I see. Here: a lesson they don’t teach at Hogwarts.

All magic is three things: energy, a transformation from pure energy into magic, and an intention to direct that magic.

When wix use Core magic, a small piece of their Core is used as a transformation medium. The Core grows back, of course, unless it is all used at once. Typically, your body will give out long before you use up any substantial amount of your Core. The energy is from your body, the transformation into magic is via the Core, and the intention is channeled through a wand, words, hand motions, and the like.

You cannot use your Core to channel magic, I take it, but you can use an appropriate sacrifice. All ritual magic is a brief addition of a sacrifice’s power to the Core and to the body’s own energy, which is then shaped through a circle. Or, in your case, just through you. The energy is from the sacrifice, the transformation is still via the Core—augmented with the sacrifice—and the intention is set via the circle. Or your mind, apparently, in your case.

Your Core only accepts additions and is only willing to release pieces that are not native to it. A slight majority of Cores only accept subtractions. A minority accept both in varying degrees…And then there’s you.

There is also natural magic, which is not channeled through a Core at all, but—maybe that’s a topic for another time.==

++That makes so much sense.++

Harry abruptly realized he had been sitting in this closet for nearly half an hour.

Hermione would worry.

++I have to go, but is ritual magic all Dark?++

==No. Core and Ritual magic are scientific distinctions. Light and Dark are human ones. There are more Dark rituals than Light rituals—at least, there were in my time—and more Light spells than Dark spells. But to say all rituals are Dark is like saying all dogs are brown.==

++Dark doesn’t mean evil, though.++

==No. It does not.==

++Bye, Tom.++

Harry didn’t wait for the diary’s reply before he closed it, tucked it safely into his pocket and fled the closet for the library. He found Hermione alone at a table and slid into the seat beside her.

“Are you okay? What did McGonagall want?”

“Something was a little weird with one of my transfigurations from last year, but it was a fluke,” Harry said. “It lasted longer than it should have, but she said it was just Hogwarts’ ambient magic.”

It felt very strange to go from complete honesty with a near-stranger to telling his best friend a bald-faced lie. Still, there wasn’t much he could do about it. Dumbledore had seen to that. Hermione nodded, and they drifted into their work in comfortable silence.

Every few minutes, Harry’s mind drifted back to the desiccated tulip. By the time lunch arrived, he had barely scratched the surface of his transfiguration essay, but he did feel a little calmer. They joined Theo and Daphne at the Slytherin table and then headed to defense, which they had with the Slytherins this year.

Hermione was very excited. Harry was also very excited, because he was fairly sure he could ignore the entire lesson and get exactly the same (failing) grade either way. He was half-tempted to pull out the diary and start talking to Tom again, which would certainly be far more useful to him than anything Lockhart could possibly say. He’d read the man’s books, now, and he wasn’t entirely confident that any of it was true.

Harry and Hermione took seats in the middle of the defense classroom. It was somewhat posher than when Quirrel had run the class—the curtains were new, and the desk finer—but otherwise it was largely the same. A cage of some sort was on the desk with a cloth thrown over it. Lockhart beamed at them all as they entered.

Then, his eyes fell on Harry.

“Harry Potter, as I live and breathe,” he said. “How wonderful to have you in my classroom. Why, they should write up a story about us! We’d make the cover of the Prophet together, I wager.”

In the row behind Harry, Michael Corner sniggered. Harry felt his cheeks heating and resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands.

Lockhart walked toward him with a sweep of his robes. His magic was faint—fainter than Harry had expected, even—but carried the exact scent of hairspray and mouthwash. If Harry hadn’t had the diary in his pocket, he might have been sick right there.

Lockhart beamed at him, his smile full of far too many teeth.

“You know, Harry, you are part of the reason why I took this position. Indeed, you were an inspiration to me in my career path! I wasn’t much older than you are now when I heard about your feat of magical power. Your achievement, at such a young age—well, it inspired me to glory!”

He turned his spotlight smile around the classroom. Harry clenched his hands to keep them from shaking.

The room felt very small. Was the door locked?

Could he get out?

Half of the Slytherins were looking murderous, and he wasn’t sure if it was on his behalf or because Lockhart was all but trashing Voldemort. Theo and Daphne at least seemed ready to kill Lockhart for Harry’s honor, and Harry didn’t doubt that they probably could if they tried. Beside him, Hermione was quivering with rage. He felt his stomach heave, the phantom pain of starvation drifting in, unbidden. If Lockhart tried to touch him—

I hate attention I hate attention I hate attention I—

Harry ran a finger over the diary. The smell of sandalwood surrounded him, holding him, filled with the woodsmoke that Harry thought implied agitation—could Tom sense Harry’s stress?

Harry had one hand on the diary, the other hand on his quill. It dug into his palm.

“Are you alright, mister Potter? Don’t be spotlight shy, now. That’s never good news for a celebrity.”

The quill broke skin. Hot blood fell onto the desk.

Harry looked up at Lockhart. The man’s smile faltered and he looked away.

“Well, anyway—Let’s get started!”

Lockhart turned away, walking to the front of the room to grab a stack of parchment.

Beside him, the cage on the desk rattled and popped. Abruptly, the sheet covering it was splashed with a very wine-dark red liquid.

Everyone gasped, including Harry.

Lockhart stared at it.

“That’s never happened before,” he said softly, grabbing the cage and putting it behind his desk. “Um, yes. Well. We’ll just have a little quiz, here…”

It didn’t escape Harry’s notice as he filled in the so-called quiz that the cut on his hand had vanished like fog in the morning sun.

++Did I kill whatever was in the cage with my blood? Or did I heal my cut by killing whatever was in the cage?++

The smell of orange was everywhere, the sandalwood even darker than usual—a hint of cinnamon?

==Either is possible. I would recommend further experimentation, if you are comfortable. Though you should find a secure place. No abandoned classrooms.==

++I’ll look for something.++

Chapter Text

That Saturday morning was the thing Harry had been looking forward to since his very first flying lesson last year: quidditch tryouts. All of his friends had come out to watch him—as had Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, for some reason. He had heard a rumor that Malfoy was on the Slytherin team, so he might just be scoping out the competition. Still, he’d been polite to Harry (and coolly cordial to Hermione, which was more important) so far this year, so Harry wasn’t inclined to suspect the worst of him.

Plus, the Malfoys had brought him Tom, albeit in a roundabout way. It was because of Tom—tucked safely into an inner pocket of his robes—that Harry could even try out. His magic sense seemed to get stronger every day, to the point where being without the diary made him almost instantly ill. Even with the book in his pocket, he was beginning to become a bit of a human lie detector as people’s scents changed with their words.

He sometimes wished he didn’t know when someone was lying to him.

Harry stood on the quidditch pitch holding a school Comet 220 along with two third year girls he recognized by face but not by name and a fourth-year boy named Randolph Burrow. The captain was a sixth year named Rhonda Jenks, who played chaser along with Rodger Davies and Jeremy Stretton. The team had one beater, an extremely tall and very attractive seventh-year girl named Angela Zhao, and a keeper named Grant Page. Harry thought the whole team was rather unfairly good looking, though Zhao and Davies took the cake.

Jenks had declared that the seeker tryouts would be first, and that they would be playing a seeker’s match—best of ten, first to the snitch wins—to see who would get the position.

“On my whistle, mount up,” Jenks said in a no-nonsense voice. She blew the whistle, and Harry threw himself onto the broom and into the air.

Harry loved to fly.

He’d missed it so much during his time at the Dursleys. Even if he hadn’t been imprisoned, he likely still would have been grounded—but still, he had missed it every day. He wished he could fly on an owl feather in public, but a broom would do.

He circled the pitch and watched the other three carefully. Burrow was an excellent flyer, but it remained to be seen how good of a seeker he was—catching a small ball and directing a broom were not entirely the same skill. One of the girls, a shorter redhead, seemed a little unsteady on her broom, but Harry could tell the other one was going to be trouble. She had long, black hair and moved very well in the air.

Well, it was a pity for her that he was here.

Jenks released the first snitch, and the seeker hopefuls all gave it a thirty-second head start. The captain blew her whistle again, and they were off, chasing the golden ball.

Harry spotted it almost at once, hovering near the goalposts at the opposite end of the field. He was further away than Burrow, so there was no way he’d beat him in an all-out race. Instead, Harry turned on a dime and rocketed upwards towards the top of the goalposts. Sure enough, Burrow got there first—so Harry turned into a dive and caught the snitch two feet from the ground.

The crowd—his little crowd—went wild.

The matches continued. Harry caught two more, then Burrows got lucky and spotted the snitch a few inches from his broom handle. The black-haired girl nearly beat Harry to the fifth one, but he jabbed a bony elbow into her arm and caught the little ball. The sixth match went to the redhead who went into such a spectacular vertical dive to catch it that he thought for a moment that he had misjudged her as a flyer. Then, she pulled up too late and skidded across the ground, snitch in hand.

She handed her broom to Jenks and left.

After that, the black-haired girl caught the seventh snitch, and Harry caught the eighth, which sinched him the spot.

“Damn, Potter,” Jenks said as he landed, still clutching the golden ball and grinning. “You’re on the team, no question. Are you going to get a new broom?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, flushed with joy. “What model should I buy?”

“A nimbus would be great, if you have the money,” she said. “The 2000 model isn’t too bad now, especially second hand, because everyone rich is getting the 2001.”

“I’ll go for the 2000, then,” Harry said, and settled back with Page to watch the chasers put the potential beaters through their paces. Soon enough, a very vicious third year named Duncan Inglebee was the seventh member of the team.

“Alright, team,” Jenks said as they all headed to the locker room, “this year is our year. The lions and the snakes are not the bloody protagonists of this school. Practice is Saturday morning and Wednesday evening, and I will call extra sessions if people are slacking, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the team chorused, and Jenks grinned at them. “Potter, Inglebee, hit the showers and then come with me.”

Harry glanced at the new beater, who shrugged, and then went to the shower stalls. He washed as quickly as possible—Inglebee’s magic smelled like artificial peach, and the moist air only made it worse—and rejoined Jenks as soon as he could, his fingers on the diary in his pocket.

“What’s up, captain?” He asked.

“You both need to get a physical,” she said. “Not all of the teams do it, but I like to think we’re smarter in Ravenclaw house.”

“Oh,” Harry said.

His stomach sank, but he kept his face neutral as Jenks led them both to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey seemed to be expecting them, because the white-aproned witch met them at the door with a smile.

Harry shuddered at the smell of antiseptic (real antiseptic, really in his nose) combined with Madame Pomfrey’s smell of pure, unadulterated bleach. He curled his fingers over the diary again.

It’s been one week, and I’m already entirely dependent. Wonderful.

Jenks left them in the nurse’s care. Inglebee disappeared into Pomfrey’s office and returned ten minutes later, giving Harry a thumbs-up and leaving the way he had come.

Harry went into the office with a strange mixture of elation and abject terror. There was a chance for something to go very wrong here. Would her diagnostics reveal what type of magic he cast? Or would they show signs of the Dursleys’ treatment of him, which would inevitably lead to questions of why, which would result in Dumbledore knowing about the mind control rituals he had used on the Dursleys, in some cases even after he had known they were illegal?

If you get caught here, well—it’s your fault.

At the same time, he couldn’t fully quash a thread of excitement. Pomfrey was a real, live, trained healer. She could tell him how healing worked. Did healers reach for potions or charms first in an emergency? He hoped it was potions. Were there weird diseases he could help with? Harry loved the idea of being able to help someone with a unique problem no one else could crack.

Pomfrey’s office had an examination couch, a desk, a sink, and a collection of things in jars—mostly liquids—that almost rivaled Snape’s. The woman herself sat in her desk chair and gestured for Harry to hop up on the examination couch, which he did.

“Hello, Mister Potter. I’ll start with some minor diagnostics, if that’s alright?”

Harry nodded. She waved her wand at him, and he saw several symbols and numbers appear near his head. As they flickered, her eyes seemed to take in his still-gaunt face and thin frame. At least his clothes from last year still fit (which he didn’t want to think too hard about).

“I was ill over the summer,” Harry said as her face grew increasingly grim.

“With what?”

“Shade fever,” Harry said. “I’m fully recovered, though. Except for the appetite.”

“Hm,” she said, waving her wand a little more. “Were you diagnosed by a healer?”

“Uh, no,” Harry said, suddenly sure he was about to be outed as a liar. “I’m familiar with the symptoms, because I’m interested in healing. My relatives are muggles, so they couldn’t take me to St. Mungo’s, and I obviously couldn’t go myself.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, I can find no trace of the specter remaining, so that’s good.  However—and I don’t mean to alarm you—you are suffering from a moderate case of malnourishment, presumably the lingering effects of your sickness. And you haven’t had your magical vaccinations, clearly, or you wouldn’t be in this position.”

“Those aren’t mandatory,” Harry said.

“They should be,” Pomfrey muttered. “I can do them now, if you like. I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be on a quidditch team in this state, but given that your sickness is well and truly passed, I’m willing to allow it—if you come here for weekly check-ins.”

Harry tried to hide his glee. He was getting away with it.

“I will,” Harry pledged. “When should I come? And could you tell me more about healing when I do? I’ve read some books, but I really want to know what it’s like in practice.”

“Thursday evening before dinner—say, five o’clock? And yes, I’d be happy to tell you more about healing,” she smiled. “I love it when a student takes an interest. So few do while they’re your age. Do you have any questions now?”

Harry beamed at her.

“How does healing work? I know it’s mostly a combination of certain charms and potions, but how do you know which ones to use? Do you brew the potions yourself?”

“Big questions, mister Potter,” Pomfrey said, smiling. “Knowing which charms and potions to apply and in what order and in what dose is most of the work! Some healers are dedicated potion brewers, who supply potions to others who work face to face with patients. Professor Snape brews most of my potions, but I sometimes whip up a batch of bruise cure myself if he’s busy. Here—I’ll start you out with this,” she said, handing him a small book entitled Functional First Aid.

“You may practice the spells in here on plants only—I know Professor Sprout speaks very highly of you, so I’m sure that won’t be a problem?”

“Not at all,” Harry said, grinning.

“Very well, then.”

Pomfrey gave him several vaccinations, then handed him the signed permission slip.

“Here—bring this to Miss Jenks. Congratulations, mister Potter,” she said. Harry tucked it into the healing book and left, nearly skipping to the great hall for lunch. He’d avoided outing himself as a lawbreaker and managed to snag a spot on the quidditch team. He handed Jenks the signed slip as soon as he arrived at lunch, and she gave him a broad grin in return.

“Don’t get a big head, Potter, but you’re really good,” she said.

“Thank you,” Harry nearly squeaked, then scurried over to where Hermione, Neville, Theo and Daphne were all waiting for him at the end of the Ravenclaw table.

“Congratulations, Harry!” Hermione said, beaming at him.

“I’ve seen you fly, I knew you’d get it,” Theo said, looking very pleased. “What broom are you getting?”

“I think a Nimbus 2000,” Harry said. “Jenks said there were some second-hand, now that the 2001 has come out.”

“Draco bought all of the Slytherin team new 2001s,” Theo said quietly.

“Honestly, it was a bad move,” Daphne said. “He’s a better chaser than he is a seeker, and now it just looks like he can’t do anything without his father’s help. He should have tried out for chaser, then bought the team new brooms next year.”

“How’d you know he’s a good chaser?” Neville asked.

“I’ve seen him play at Malfoy manor,” Daphne said. “They have a pitch.”

Harry stared at her. Every time he thought he understood the sheer wealth of the pureblood families, he was proven wrong. He might have a tidy sum in the bank, but he was under no illusions that it was own a quidditch pitch money.

“Where did you go afterwards?” Neville asked Harry.

“I had a physical with Pomfrey. She was a little worried about the shade fever, but she let me play, and she lent me this,” he said, holding out the book on healing.

“Oh, cool,” Theo said. “You know, I’ve been thinking about getting into healing, too.”

Daphne shot him a very loaded glance, but Harry beamed.

“I can lend you all of my books,” he said, eagerly. “I’d love to have someone to talk about it with.”

Theo beamed back at him. The three boys ended up spending the afternoon ignoring their homework and debating the merits of using sargasso kelp in healing potions, while Daphne and Hermione battled it out over the chessboard. For the first time since he had been let out of that locked room in the Dursley’s house, Harry felt something settle happily in his chest.

Harry fell easily into his usual school routine, now with two additional joys: quidditch practice with his very talented teammates (made especially lovely by the arrival of his excellent second-hand nimbus), and talking to Tom, which he did nearly every night before bed. It was just so cathartic, especially after he’d figured out how to use echinacea for his own version of a silencing charm. With his curtains drawn on his four-poster, he could test out new rituals with Tom in real time.

++ That test was a success. Bruise gone. Calendula definitely makes a passable episkey. I haven’t found anything episkey is reported to do that I can’t use it for. ++

== I still believe that you are too cavalier about the secondary effects of the spells. Episkey has a signature cooling effect; most people will realize you are not using the real spell. Also, why are you getting injured frequently enough to practice this? ==

++ Concerned, Tom? ++

== If you die, how will I get out of here? ==

++ I’m glad you have that attitude, seeing as you did try to eat me when I first met. ++

== Are you really going to hold that against me, Harry? ==

Jasmine rose heavy in the sandalwood scent. Tom was amused, and Harry laughed aloud. He could almost imagine the wry twist of a mouth in the words.

++ I forgive, but do not forget. ++

== That is both very Slytherin and very Hufflepuff of you. What house are you in, Harry? ==

++ Ravenclaw. What house were you in? ++

== Actually, that does not surprise me at all. Can you guess my house? ==

++ Not Gryffindor. Not Hufflepuff, of course. ++

== Of course? ==

++ Hufflepuffs eat sweets. I’m too bitter for a badger. ++

Harry was rewarded with another spike of jasmine for his joke.

== Why, Harry, you are not bitter at all. Between Ravenclaw and Slytherin, then? ==

++ My money’s on Slytherin. You remind me of my friend Daphne Greengrass, a little. ++

== I was indeed a Slytherin. A Greengrass? You have friends in high places, Harry. What is your surname? ==

++ I’m Harry Potter. Though I was raised by muggles, so I’m not really part of the house game. I mean, I guess I’m the Potter heir, maybe, but it’s not as if it’s sacred twenty-eight or anything. ++

== Raised by muggles? ==

Harry took a deep breath. He hadn’t shared anything this personal with Tom before. Secret, yes, like his ritual ability. But personal—no.

++ My parents died when I was a baby. My mum was muggleborn, and my dad was pureblood, but I ended up with my maternal aunt. ++

== I can feel your discomfort. I’m sorry about your parents, Harry. ==

++ I think the pain is more from where I ended up than why I ended up there. My parents are more of an abstract concept to me than anything. I wish they hadn’t died, because I wish I could have grown up in the wixen world, because my childhood sucked and it honestly still does, though I guess I earned it. ++

Harry paused.

++ Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump that on you. ++

The hint of cinnamon grew stronger.

== That’s alright, Harry. I was also raised by muggles, actually. I lived in an orphanage. My witch mother died shortly after I was born. ==

++ I’m sorry, Tom. ++

== I had the same wish as you. To be raised in the magical world. What do you mean—you earned it? ==

Harry swallowed.

Well, he had written it, hadn’t he?

++ My magic is weird, and I think I misused it. I mean, I don’t think people are born bad. I just— ++

++ Sorry. I’m not sure what to say. ++

The cinnamon faded, soon replaced with a hint of woodsmoke.

== Your magic is wonderful, Harry. Were you using it to protect yourself? ==

++ I guess? ++

== Then I doubt you misused it. ==

Harry grimaced.

He wanted to believe Tom.

But he didn’t.

== Now, tell me why you are so frequently injured. ==

++ I play seeker on the Ravenclaw quidditch team. I get dinged by bludgers sometimes. ++

The woodsmoke grew in intensity.

== So that’s why I sometimes feel like I’m flying. You take me with you on your broom, Harry? ==

++ I still need your help to not pass out, unfortunately. I hope you don’t mind. ++

== It’s enjoyable, actually. I was never a gifted flyer. It is nice to experience the sensation when I know I cannot die from it. ==

Harry laughed.

++ I suppose I won’t give you a play-by-play of my successful Wronski feint, then. ++

== I don’t speak jock, Harry. Speak plainly please. ==

Harry grinned and basked in the glow of jasmine and sandalwood and a very odd—friendship?

Oh, he knew he couldn’t trust Riddle. He knew that.

But he wanted to.

October swept in, cold and rainy. Harry didn’t mind; it was as much of a departure from Summer as could be found, and Harry longed to flee the season permanently.

One evening, Harry was deep in a forgotten corner of the library poking through the catalogues of former students in Hogwarts when he finally found him: Tom Marvolo Riddle. Flipping through the file, he opened the little book at once and began to write.

++ Hello, Tom. Are you free? ++

== Sweet of you to ask. I literally have nothing to do but talk to you, so yes, I am free. ==

Harry blushed and hoped the diary couldn’t tell. Sometimes it seemed like Tom had eyes.

++ I found you. ++

== Found me? ==

++ Well, your school records. I guess this diary wasn’t all of you, then? How does that work? ++

The reply took nearly a minute to come, which made Harry very suspicious indeed. The scent of woodsmoke dominated all of Tom’s subtler notes.

== I am only part of myself. ==

++ Hey, you know I’m not going to judge you for your experiment, right? Did I ever tell you about my first ritual? ++

The woodsmoke faded to orange, and Harry smiled.

== No, but please do. ==

++ I used a bit of lavender and knocked my relatives unconscious in the middle of dinner. My aunt and cousin fell face-first into their food. I just cleaned them all up and kipped off to my room and pretended nothing happened when they got weird about it. ++

Jasmine filled Harry’s nose, sweet and heady, and Harry tamped down a little guilt at the memory.

It had been self-defense, at least that time.

== You are more devious than you appear. ==

++ I aim to please. Anyway, do you want to know what happened to the other bit of you? ++

== Please, enlighten me. ==

++ You won an award for special services to the school at the end of your fourth year. Do you know what for? It doesn’t say. ++

== That must have happened just after I was sealed here. ==

++ You were also a prefect, head boy, and had the best NEWT scores since they standardized the results, apparently. You are very impressive. ++

The sandalwood grew stronger in a way that felt smug to Harry.

== Naturally. ==

Harry had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep himself from giggling in the library. He didn’t want madame Pince finding him.

++ I have to go get dinner, but I have a question. ++

== Ask away. ==

++ There is a chance that my mind may be observed by someone at the school. ++

== Is it Dumbledore? ==

++ That was an impressive guess. Yes. ++

== If anyone is spying on students and has overstayed his welcome, it would be him. He hated me when I was a student. He doesn’t like snakes. ==

++ That’s a shame. I like them. Anyway—do you know a way to protect my mind? ++

The diary’s magic became a tangle of scents—orange, and jasmine, and cinnamon, and an undercurrent of woodsmoke. Was Tom worried that he wouldn’t be able to sense Harry’s emotions anymore?

True to his word, as far as Harry could tell, Tom hadn’t attacked him again since their meeting at the start of the year. Harry didn’t think Tom was manipulating him to his death. But he could also see how Tom would be unwilling to give up one of the few senses he likely possessed.

== There is a method. It is called occlumency. ==

++ Could you teach me? ++

There was a long pause.

== I am a master of the topic. I could explain some of the basics. I could also teach you, but it would involve actions on my part that you might perceive as an attack. ==

++ Ah. Is there another way? ++

== You could ask Lockhart for a pass to the restricted section, if you can stand him long enough. He sounds like he’s easily swayed. There are guides there. Look for Mapping the Mind. You would still need an in-person teacher at some point, but perhaps I can do that when we get my body back. In the meantime, don’t meet anyone’s eyes if you suspect them of wanting to read your mind. ==

++ Just so you know, I haven’t stopped looking for a way to help you. ++

Harry meant it; he’d spent many hours every weekend looking for ways to get a person trapped in an object out of said object. The only problem was that he hadn’t found any texts on a person trapped in an object.

== I know. ==

Harry knew he knew; he’d shared every failed detour of his research with Tom. Still, it felt prudent to remind the other boy he wasn’t just leaving him to flounder.

== There may be something in the restricted section that could help me. You might also be able to look for a book on healing rituals. Maybe that would help you translate some of the healing charms into magic you can do. ==

Harry grimaced. Pomfrey had given him a slightly more advanced healing text after he had returned the first one, and he hadn’t been able to find analogues for nearly anything in it. Maybe a book of healing rituals was just what he needed.

++ Thanks, Tom. ++

== Of course. Goodnight, Harry. ==

Harry closed the diary and smiled, then returned Tom’s file to the cabinet.

Of course, one question stuck with him: if Tom was such a talented student, why had Harry never heard of him as an adult? He hadn’t been in the Ministry rolls, or the Wizengamot, or in any of the major transfiguration or charms or potions journals.

What happened to the illustrious Tom Riddle?

The two saving graces of defense lessons were that Hermione’s admiration for Lockhart had not survived the panic attack he had given Harry in their first lesson, and that following the unexplained explosion of his pixies, Lockhart had stuck to entirely theoretical lectures, which did not require Harry to fake any spells.

Of course, neither of those things was worth the humiliation sessions that the class largely consisted of. Lockhart insisted on calling students up to reenact scenes from his book. Most commonly, that meant Harry, which was liable to make Harry clam up in terror at the front of the class. He did not like being in front of a crowd unless he was on a broom (which he suspected was lingering fear from the summer, but he wasn’t going to think about it too hard).

Harry avoided telling Tom about this. He hadn’t yet displayed significant weakness in front of his maybe-friend—other than his weakness to the smell of magic, of course—and he didn’t want to give the boy an opening in case he was looking for one.

“Professor, may I have a word?” Harry asked, loitering by Lockhart’s desk after class one day as Hermione shot him curious and worried glances. It was now midway through October, and Harry was itching to protect his mind. If Dumbledore really had disliked Tom as much as he said, he probably wouldn’t like Harry carrying around a clearly dark artifact with a bit of Tom’s consciousness in it, and Harry already suspected the man had been messing with his mind last year. It was too much to expect the secret of the diary to remain safe forever.

“Sure, mister Potter. How can I help?”

“Would you mind signing this?” Harry asked, holding out the restricted section pass for Mapping the Mind. “I got interested because of your work defending yourself against possession in Break with a Banshee. I actually had a case of shade fever over the summer, and I hear this can help.”

Lockhart’s face went hard in a way Harry hadn’t imagined it even could.

“Occlumency,” Lockhart said softly. “Yes, that would help with possession. I can see why you would want to protect yourself.”

Harry recalled what Tom had said about eye contact and fixed his gaze on Lockhart’s brows. Lockhart signed the pass and handed it to him softly.

“Happy Halloween, Mister Potter. Do let me know if you’re ever interested in talking more about actually putting your fame to work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, scuttling from the room.

That had been weird.

Sighing, he hurried off to the library and gave the pass to a stern looking madame Pince, who—much to Harry’s disappointment—retrieved the book for him.

“Interesting subject for a second year,” she snapped.

“I had a case of shade fever over the summer,” Harry said, shrugging and taking the book, tucking it into his bag. He was suddenly worried that this might come to Dumbledore’s attention. But the man had ignored him so far this year; Harry would just have to hope that his luck continued to hold.

Chapter Text

“Theo? Daph?” Harry asked cautiously, sitting at the Slytherin table for lunch a week before Halloween.

“Yeah?” Daphne said, frowning at his tone.

“Will you be celebrating Samhain this year?”

The Slytherins looked at each other. Harry always admired how so much seemed to pass between them in a glance.

“It’s hard to get out of the feast,” Theo said. “But afterwards, Slytherin house holds a traditional vigil. Snape runs it, actually.”

Harry glanced up at the potions professor. Harry still hadn’t gotten a clear read on the man’s impression of him. He was the same old terse jerk in class, but he didn’t take unneeded points off Harry or knock his grade. Harry got the sense that the man had some very strong feelings about him for reason of his mere existence and was trying very hard to ignore them.

“Do you think I could come? Last year, I really wished I had a way to honor my parents.”

“Oh,” Daphne said, eyes wide in understanding. “Yes, Harry. You’re welcome to come. I’ll tell Snape you’ll be there. You can leave the feast with us.”

“Thank you, Daph,” Harry said.

For the millionth time, Harry was reminded of why he loved his friends.

Harry sat with Hermione and Neville for the feast. He found the levity didn’t hurt nearly as much when he knew he’d have a chance for something deeper later. It didn’t escape his notice, however, how subdued the Slytherin table was as a whole. When Theo and Daphne rose from their benches, Harry stood to join them at once.

“Where are you going, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“The Slytherins have a Samhain vigil after the feast,” he said. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow?”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “To honor the dead. I’d like to join next year, maybe. I lost my grandma over the summer. She was really old, but—I’d like to honor her.”

“I’d like to come too,” Neville said softly.

Harry smiled at them both.

“I think that’s a brilliant idea. I’d invite you now, but Snape runs it, and I don’t know how strict the RSVP policy is.”

Hermione giggled.

“It’s alright,” she said. “See you, Harry.”

Harry waved and walked off, meeting Theo and Daphne as they reached the doors of the great hall. They smiled at him in acknowledgement but stayed quiet. Harry took the hint and kept his mouth shut, too. It wasn’t hard.

He loved the quiet.

They walked to the entrance hall along with several upper year Slytherins, where Snape was waiting with a massive basket of black candles. Harry very carefully did not meet his eye as he took his own candle.

“Potter? What are you doing here?” A familiar drawling voice hissed. Harry glanced at Malfoy, and found himself wondering if he had lost anyone dear to him.

“Celebrating Samhain,” Harry said simply. “I want to remember my parents.”

“But—you’re—muggle-raised!” Malfoy whisper-yelled at him.

“That wasn’t exactly my choice,” Harry replied, his eyes narrowing.

“Quiet,” Snape hissed. Harry’s mouth snapped shut at once. “Let us begin.”

The Slytherins—and one other Ravenclaw, Harry noticed—formed two lines and streamed out the front doors behind Snape. The gibbous moon lit their path as Snape led them to one of the lawns overlooking the lake. Harry shivered slightly with the weight of something on his shoulders. It was a night of thinness, of stretching. Harry felt it in his skin like needles. In his pocket, the diary’s aura seemed to spread, basking in the moonlight. Harry brushed a quick finger over it, smiling, and was rewarded with a hint of cinnamon in his mind.

They stopped and lit their candles, facing each other in two lines. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about his green flame amongst all the yellow pinpricks, but enough of his year had seen him cast flames by now that it apparently went unnoticed.

“We are gathered to honor the departed,” Snape began in a remarkably somber voice.

Harry wondered who the potions master was thinking of, that his heart weighed so heavily. Snape’s magic, like rosemary and ocean spray, had a tinge of floral to it that could only feel mournful to Harry.

Snape continued the recitation—the ritual?—and Harry drifted, picturing his mother and father as they had looked in that photo in the history book he had read before his first year. So young and joyful—his. His parents. His parents that had been taken from him.

One life, or another.

One love, or another, or none at all.

Who would he have been, if James and Lily had lived? Once again, he found himself wondering if what he wanted was really parents, or just—escape. Freedom. Friendship. Family, by any means.

He thought of what Hermione had with her parents; that easy kindness, the bone-rotting (but not tooth-rotting) sweetness of family. Would Harry’s parents have loved him like that?

Or would they have hated him for what he was? They’d been allies of Dumbledore, who had championed the laws that had banned his magic. Would they have chosen him, or would they have chosen Dumbledore?

Would he—did he—deserve that?

He pictured blood on a sheet over a cage, the cloth no longer twitching. That had been magic of the darkest sort, he knew. And yet—

It had felt just fine, to Harry.

There had been pixies in that cage. It wasn’t like Harry had tortured them. It was no different than killing a nest of pixies with a freezing charm and a bucket, like Theo had mentioned his father doing while they cleaned out the Nott manor. One was called Dark magic, one called Light, but the outcome was the same.

He thought about what Tom had said.

Defending myself.

Bile rose in his mouth. He stared into the flickering green flame of his candle as Snape’s voice faded to silence, and he realized he might not have been—certainly was not—the son his parents would have wanted. Maybe it was better to have no one at all than to be cast aside by the ones who were supposed to love you.

Still, he closed his eyes and mourned them. Mourned two young people with life in their eyes who might have loved him—who had loved him, once. Certainly, they would have loved him more than the Dursleys. And he mourned for that: the loss of love.

Black candle wax dripped onto his hand. Harry felt a pull below his feet, his mind on death and love and hope and loss. A thread of magic wound around his hand, like puppet strings. What would happen if he offered the wax and pulled?

Never let it be said that Harry Potter really thought things through.

Harry pulled. The drips of black wax vanished from his knuckles.

Between his feet, a skeletal paw rose from the ground, the remains of a long-dead mouse. Fascinated, Harry watched as it pulled itself up, centimeter by centimeter, into the moonlight. It had a skull, but only two legs, and not much in the way of ribs. It was beautiful: not quite dead and not quite alive, a reminder of how fragile his thin heartbeat was. The scent of oranges spiraled around him.

Tom, can you feel it too?

A shadow passed over the moon, and the moment was over. The skeleton collapsed. Judging from the lack of screaming, no one else had seen.

With the rest of the vigil Harry doused his candle and walked back into the castle, silent as death. He barely registered his steps on the walk back to Ravenclaw tower, so lost in the melancholy of missing his parents and fearing them and in the heady power of the fact that he had just done necromancy.

He was so deep in though that he didn’t hear the crying until he was standing right outside a girl’s bathroom door on the second floor.

Oh, no, not another girl crying in a bathroom on Samhain, Harry thought. Well, I’m not leaving this one either.

He pushed open the door. 

A pearlescent white girl was sitting on the floor, weeping.

“Uh, hello?” Harry said.

“Did you come to make fun of me, too?” The ghost girl sniffed. Harry stepped inside slowly, shaking his head.

“No,” Harry said. “Are you okay?”

“What do you care?”

“I think it’s rude not to make sure people don’t want company for their crying,” Harry said honestly. “If you want me to leave, I will.”

“Don’t,” the girl said, raising her head from her knees. She looked a bit older than him, with incredibly thick-rimmed glasses. “Don’t go.”

“My name is Harry,” Harry said, sitting on one of the sinks. “What’s yours?”

“Myrtle Warren,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you, Harry. Why are you out tonight?”

“I was celebrating Samhain,” Harry said.

“Oh,” Myrtle said. “They never let me do that. I’m muggleborn.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “Did you want to?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And now I’m dead, but no one remembers me on the night I can really talk outside of the castle. My parents remembered me in July,” she said, giving a hiccupping laugh. “It was my birthday.”

“That’s my birthday, too,” Harry said.

They sat, unspeaking, until Myrtle cried herself to silence.

“It was nice to meet you, Harry,” she said, and drifted backwards through the wall.

Harry stood and walked to the dorm, feeling warm and fuzzy and full of death.

Harry passed out the moment his head hit the pillow in the dorm.

As soon as he woke up—far before the sun rose—however, he put an echinacea silence bubble around his bed and pulled out the diary.

++ Good morning, Tom. Are you awake? ++

== For better or worse, I am always awake. What happened last…Night? I felt something intense in your magic. ==

++ You could feel it? I thought you could. I went to a Samhain ritual. ++

== I am glad to hear Hogwarts still celebrates the wheel of the year. ==

++ I don’t think it really does, but I’ll have to tell you about that later. I offered some of the wax from my candle and maybe did some necromancy? ++

The flood of jasmine, orange and cinnamon didn’t surprise Harry at all, which made him feel a little too warm in his chest.

== You never cease to amaze, do you? I would have said that was definitely impossible without a circle. And certainly, impossible with such a small offering. ==

Harry hastened to downplay his achievement.

++ It was just a mouse, and just for a few seconds. ++

== Again, a marvel. Tell me everything. ==

Harry described the ritual to him, and the diary’s scent only grew stronger.

== You clearly have a particular talent with magic of the body, given your healing abilities, and now this. Healing and physical necromancy are two sides of the same coin, you know. Both deal with the flesh and its function as a machine, in a way. ==

++ Physical necromancy? ++

== It is the easier branch of necromancy—not to downplay your achievement, of course. Much harder is work with souls. You should save that for later, I think. ==

Frustration welled in Harry. Tom had so much to show him—and he couldn’t practice any of it.

++ I still haven’t even figured out how I exploded the pixies. I need somewhere to practice, but I still can’t think of anything. ++

== I wish I could help you. I don’t know anywhere safe from Dumbledore’s eye. ==

Oddly, Harry detected a whiff of a lie in that statement, which made him frown.

== Is everything alright, Harry? ==

++ Yeah—I just remembered I have quidditch practice today. Thanks, Tom. ++

== Always, Harry. ==

Harry closed the diary and pushed the book away.

Tom tried to kill me. Tom tried to kill me when I met him. He is not my friend. He is not my friend.

The litany made his chest ache.

Harry pulled the occlumency book from his bedside table and began to read.

The first Ravenclaw Quidditch match of the year arrived in late November. They would be playing Hufflepuff in perfect, sunny weather. Harry found himself both less and more nervous than he had expected. Less nervous, because he did manage to get out of bed and consume the toast that Hermione shoved in his hands. More nervous, because he felt floaty and out of body all the way to the pitch, as though one of the emergency owl feathers in his pocket might just activate and fly him away of its own accord.

“We’ll do great. Harry, get the snitch right away. Let’s trash ‘em,” Jenks said, and that was that.

Harry loved Jenks.

The Ravenclaws walked out onto the field, shook hands with the Hufflepuffs, and mounted their brooms. Harry had the very odd realization that—since all of his friends were in non-badger houses—this was the one match where they would all be unconflicted and cheering for him. The thought warmed his heart.

On madam Hooch’s whistle, Harry kicked off, rocketing into the sky faster than any of the other players. His Nimbus was an absolute triumph, turning at his slightest touch and capable of speeds that would have outrun some airplanes. Harry savored that responsiveness now as he circled the pitch.

Suddenly, he was forced to drop into a roll to avoid a bludger that whizzed right past his head. Zhao rocketed after it.

“Sorry, Harry!” She called. Harry zoomed away, not wanting to get distracted.

Before he had flown more than twenty feet, the bludger did a u-turn and ran straight at Harry again, swerving around Zhao. Harry fell into a steep dive to avoid it, and it followed like a very violent duckling after its mother.

Well, that’s not normal, Harry thought, as he darted around Hufflepuff chasers, the bludger still on his tail. He tried loops, heading for the goal posts—nothing seemed to work, and Zhao and Inglebee just couldn’t keep up with his broom or his flying.

Harry gave up trying to figure it out and just set to conducting the match as though he was being constantly pursued by a potentially deadly adversary—which he was. From inside his robes, the diary smelled of cedar smoke that told him Tom could tell he was worried. It made Harry smile as he waved off the beaters.

“Leave me!” He shouted.

Reluctantly, they drifted back to the guarding the chasers, leaving Harry alone with his new nemesis. Somewhere, he could hear Lee Jordan yelling about the bludger, but Harry ignored him, running zig-zagging laps up and down the pitch as fast as he could while keeping an eye out for a hint of gold.

Then he saw it: hovering in the center of the field, just a few feet from the grass, was the golden snitch. The Hufflepuff seeker—one very attractive fourth year named Cedric Diggory—had long since given up on trying to watch Harry, so the boy didn’t notice at all when Harry sped towards it.

Harry lowered himself on the broom, flying at breakneck speed toward the ball. In seconds, he had it in his grasp.

WHAM!

The bludger took advantage of his victory to smash into his snitch-free arm. Harry plowed into the ground, which was fortunately only four or so feet away, and groaned.

“Ravenclaw wins by 170 points! Also, someone get Potter a medic,” Lee Jordan yelled.

Harry tried to push himself into an upright position with his good arm. The pain was blinding; Dudley had broken his arm once before, but it had been a long time since then. He could see Zhao and Inglebee wrestling the bludger back into a box, for which he was very grateful, as he couldn’t exactly avoid it lying on the ground.

He blinked. The stadium swam before him. The smell of cedar smoke grew stronger.

A blonde face appeared above his, along with a dozen others.

“No,” Harry moaned. “No, I want Pomfrey.”

Or five minutes and some calendula. Why didn’t I bring any with me? Stupid!

“He’s delirious,” Lockhart said. “Don’t worry, Harry, I’ve mended plenty of bones.”

“No,” Harry whispered. Something was off about Lockhart and he did not want the man casting anything at him. Dimly—through rather a lot of pain and fear—Harry was intrigued to notice a new smell from the diary, like black pepper and a roaring flame.

Harry knew—though he wasn’t sure how—that Tom was angry.

On my behalf?

Lockhart twirled his wand and pointed it at Harry’s arm. Immediately his appendage deflated like a popped balloon.

“Bloody hell,” Jenks said, appearing at Lockhart’s side. “Granger, Longbottom, get him to the hospital wing. Also, great catch, Potter. That bludger was crazy.”

Harry looked up blearily at his friends, who pulled him to a standing position. Neville had Harry’s broom in hand, and together the trio limped up to the castle.

Madam Pomfrey was predictably furious. Neville, Hermione, Theo and Daphne were given fifteen minutes to talk to him—most of which involved them speculating on who had tampered with the bludger, as Harry didn’t really have enemies in school—before being unceremoniously kicked out by madam Pomfrey, who brought him a late lunch on a tray while he changed into the pajamas she provided (which was difficult if manageable with one arm).

“Can I have a quill and ink?” Harry asked her.

She raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think you need to be doing homework at the moment.”

“I journal before bed,” Harry said. “It helps me sleep.”

“Oh! Yes, alright then,” she said, and brought him what he had asked for. “But only one hour. Then sleep.”

Harry ate as much as he could—which was not much, after all of the potions he’d had to take—and then pushed aside the tray and opened the diary.

For the first time, Tom began the conversation, his cursive a little less neat than usual as it curled across the page.

== Harry, what happened? Are you alright? ==

++ We had our first quidditch match of the year, and someone charmed a bludger to go after me. It broke my arm. ++

== What? Wait, that can’t be all. I felt your pain and then... ==

Tom paused and wrote slowly.

== You were scared. ==

++ Lockhart tried to heal me afterwards and ended up removing all of the bones in my left arm. Luckily, I’m right-handed and there’s a potion for that, but. Yeah. ++

== I don’t think you are afraid of him because he is incompetent. ==

++ No, you’re right. There’s something really off about him, Tom. When I asked for the occlumency book, there was a moment where I thought that he thought I knew something, or that I was a threat. He’s incompetent, but I’m twelve. He definitely could have killed me. ++

The black pepper scent returned.

== Tell me everything you can about him. ==

++ He’s very obsessed with his looks. A lot of girls like him. I don’t think he’s that attractive, though. He looks artificial. ++

Whoops. Not the point. Jasmine amusement filled the air.

++ Anyway, he’s written, or had someone else write, tons of books about travelling all over the world to slay dark creatures. He claims to have stopped a banshee, a yeti, several ghouls, and both dated and killed a vampire, among other things. His classes consist of forcing me or other students to act out scenes from his books. I have never seen him cast a spell, and I heard that the class before my first one (where I killed the pixies) he actually let them out and they trashed the room before some sixth years passed by and rescued him. ++

== You don’t think he really did what he says he did in the books. ==

++ Not really. There’s one issue, though: the details of the books are, as far as I can tell from checking with other sources, really accurate. I think he or his ghostwriter at least went to every place he described. Though I’m not sure how he could claim to have done the things he did, when they’re so public and consequential, without having actually done them. ++

== I have a feeling—I will think more about it. You should rest, Harry. I am glad that you are alright. ==

++ So that I can get you a body? ++

== Sure, let’s go with that. ==

Harry grinned at the smell of cinnamon in the air, which he was starting to think was Tom’s fond feeling, to the extent that he had one. He slipped the diary into his pajama shirt and fell asleep at once.

Harry woke up in agony, and not as alone as he would have liked. Harry gasped as he realized that a small creature with a large head was standing on his bed.

Dang, I totally forgot about the elf, Harry thought regretfully.

Funnily enough, Harry only recognized the elf because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. When he slipped them on, he was greeted by two massive, orb-like eyes, even larger ears, and a dirty looking pillowcase, which made Harry immediately concerned for the house-elf’s wellbeing. The pillowcase reminded him of the set of pajamas he had been wearing at the Dursleys all summer.

“Harry Potter came back to school,” the elf said, sounding sad. Harry could smell tomatoes beneath the sandalwood of the diary.

“You saw where I was, Dobby,” Harry said. “Madame Pomfrey literally said I was malnourished. You can’t tell me starving to death is better than whatever danger is here.”

“But you left, sir,” Dobby squeaked. “You went somewhere else.”

“To Hermione’s place? Yeah, but I couldn’t stay there forever, Dobby. I’m not their child.”

“You and the girl should have been going back when you missed the train,” Dobby frowned.

“Ah. So, the train was you,” Harry said. “Dobby, wix can apparate, too.”

“It is my fault,” Dobby said. “I did not know what Harry Potter’s owl looked like, or I would have stopped it.”

“Dobby, the only danger I’ve been in was from the bludger that decided to attack me yesterday. Otherwise, this year has been way less scary than last. What are you talking about?”

Dobby looked stricken.

“The bludger would not have killed you, sir,” Dobby moaned.

“You did it,” Harry said flatly. “Dobby, tell me why. Who put you up to this?”

“No one, sir,” Dobby whispered. “If only Harry Potter knew what he means to us—the lowly, the enslaved—”

“Wait, what?” Harry asked, running a hand through his hair. “You’re enslaved? How are you here, then, and how can I free you?”

The elf’s eyes widened with tears, and he twisted his fingers in his pillowcase.

“Harry Potter cannot help,” he said. “Dobby’s master must be giving him clothes, sir. It is a magical contract.”

Harry grimaced.

“But why? Were you born into this?”

“No, sir. Dobby is being born of a beloved hearth, like all house elves. We is needing to eat, but the old agreement is not holding, so we is binding ourselves to the wizards.”

“I see,” Harry said, not understanding anything at all. He determined to ask Tom or his Slytherin friends about it later. “Why am I in danger?”

“The Chamber of Secrets,” Dobby whispered. “It will be opened again. It is only a matter of time.”

Harry sucked in a breath. He could recall the passage in Hogwarts: A History word-for-word, thanks to his rosemary memory.

“Are you serious, Dobby?”

“Dobby can be saying no more, sir,” Dobby squeaked. “Go home, sir, go home!”

Then he popped out of being.

“Elves are a massive security flaw,” Harry growled, his arm aching. It was only with Dobby gone that he noticed the flaring orange and black pepper of the diary: Tom was curious, and angry. Was it on Harry’s behalf, or could Tom feel the pain, too? He hoped it was the former; he wouldn’t want to subject his new—friend?—to the rather unpleasant sensations of being Harry Potter.

Harry ran a hand over the book’s cover, breathing as a spasm of pain passed. Slowly, the scent of pepper faded, and Harry fell asleep.

On Sunday morning, Harry woke up with a working arm and quickly fled the hospital wing for breakfast. He found Hermione, Neville, Theo and Daphne immediately, all sitting at the Ravenclaw table. They grinned at him as he dashed up to them, and Hermione nearly jumped out of her seat with excitement to see him. He flexed his healed arm for them.

“Good as new,” Harry said, smiling softly.

“Lockhart is awful,” Hermione said, shivering. “We all told him not to, but he just wouldn’t listen.”

Something about that made Harry very uncomfortable, but he moved it to the back of his mind.

“Hermione, do you remember that house elf I told you about? Well, two things. One, they’re all enslaved—or, at least, he is. But I can’t free him; they need to be given clothes by whoever…Owns them,” he spat.

Hermione put a hand over her mouth. Theo, Daphne, and Neville, however, nodded.

“That’s how elves work,” Theo said, frowning. “Though now that you say it like that—anyway, what was the second thing, Harry?”

“It was him that closed the barrier and jinxed the bludger. He was trying to stop me from coming to school this year.” Harry glanced around, seeing no one nearby besides their little group, and continued: “He said the Chamber of Secrets would be opened. Do you remember? It was a paragraph in Hogwarts: A History, about how Slytherin had built a secret chamber with some sort of monster to kill…”

All of the muggleborns, Harry thought, putting a hand over his own mouth as Hermione shuddered.

Hermione took a deep breath and frowned.

“But why now? And it’s almost December. Surely something would have happened by now?”

“I know. Honestly, I have two other theories. Maybe he’s delusional from mistreatment, or maybe whoever, uh, owns him—Merlin, I hate saying that—is putting him up to it. To scare me.”

“But who would do that?” Neville asked.

Voldemort or Dumbledore. It’s always Voldemort or Dumbledore. Or both.

But what if it has something to do with…

“I don’t know,” Harry said, suddenly regretting bringing his friends into this. His hand drifted to the diary in his pocket. “But keep an eye out, right?”

“We will,” Neville said emphatically, as Theo and Daphne nodded.

“I haven’t heard of any such Chamber,” Daphne said, frowning. “But I’ll keep my ears open.”

“I will, too,” Hermione said. “Come on, let’s go to the library. I need to figure out what’s going on with the elves.”

Harry nodded, suppressing a sigh. Asking Tom would just have to wait.

Chapter Text

++ Tom, is now a good time? ++

== Of course, Harry. What happened last night? The pain was expected, I suppose, but you were quite agitated. ==

Harry smiled in spite of himself, then rolled his eyes.

++ Mother hen, much? I’m not going to drop dead before you come to life. I promise. I’m hard to kill. ++

== That you would know that just makes me more worried, Harry. ==

++ I’m fine. I never mentioned this, but a house elf visited me over the summer and warned me not to come back to Hogwarts. He visited me again last night, and apparently the train barrier and the bludger were his fault. He wanted me to stay away from Hogwarts, because he said the Chamber of Secrets would be opened. I assume you know what that is? ++

== Yes, but why would he think that? It’s a legend. ==

++ I have no idea. I honestly was hoping you would. ++

== I don’t know why a house elf would have any knowledge of the chamber. ==

Harry bit his lip. Tom wasn’t lying to him. In fact, he just smelled curious, which is exactly what Harry would have expected if he really didn’t know anything.

++ I don’t think anyone’s going to actually open it. But I have a few theories about who might want to trick a house elf into messing with me. ++

== Oh? ==

++ Dumbledore is the first one. I think he thinks suffering is good for me, or something. ++

Tom’s black pepper anger flared at once.

== What has he done to you? ==

++ It’s a long story. ++

== I happen to have a bit of free time on my hands. ==

Harry laughed and burrowed deeper into his pillows.

++ Good, though I suspect it will make you more mad. ++

== At you? I doubt it. At Dumbledore, certainly. ==

++ Well, there are two parts. Last year, at Christmas, Dumbledore gave me my father’s old invisibility cloak, which he’d apparently had for mysterious reasons. Naturally, I used it to sneak into the restricted section. ++

== Naturally. ==

++ I nearly got caught because I’m not very good at thinking things through (obviously) and I ran. I ended up in a classroom with a mirror in it. Do you know about the Mirror of Erised? It shows your deepest desire. It was there, and so was Dumbledore—hidden, of course. ++

== You sensed him. ==

++ Yes. He has the worst smelling magic, Tom, I swear. It’s like cheap fast-food lemonade and bleach being poured down your throat. ++

Harry smiled at the jasmine smell rolling off Tom in waves.

== Ah. All of my suspicions have been confirmed. ==

++ And those were? ++

== Not for your delicate eyes. What happened with the mirror? ==

Harry smiled.

++ I saw myself using my magic to help people—openly. I didn’t have to hide who I was. ++

Warm sandalwood and cinnamon flowed over him.

++ And Dumbledore sneezed, and I managed to get him to out himself. We talked—he made me tell him what I saw, but I lied—and he sent me off to bed. I realized later that he had probably manipulated me into coming there. Hence my fear of him reading my mind. ++

== The headmaster of the school has some mastery over it. He probably used that to steer you. Legilimency at that level without eye contact is almost impossible, unless he hit you with an imperius curse—a more direct form of control. That, you probably would have noticed—did you feel any euphoria at the time, or hear a voice in your mind? ==

++ No—I think he must have just manipulated the corridors, then. But he wanted me there for a reason. In the spring I started having these weird dreams and waking up in a corridor. It turned out that Dumbledore had the Philosopher’s Stone hidden in the castle. ++

Harry paused.

++ Hang on, when you said alchemy generally couldn’t create life, did you mean the philosopher’s stone was the exception? ++

== Yes, I did. Of course, no one I am aware of had managed to make one before Flamel, or since, so I wasn’t about to put that on you. ==

++ Olivander said I was like Flamel. Maybe I could. ++

Orange and sandalwood bloomed even stronger.

== If you could—I’m sure we could find a way to make me a body with such an object. I will think about it. ==

++ I wish Dumbledore hadn’t taken it from me. I was going to give it to Flamel, but he’s probably dead now. Although— ++

== You had the stone? ==

++ The corridor I kept waking up in led to some sort of obstacle course. I think it was a trap for both me and Voldemort, set by Dumbledore. I think he was directing me to the corridor in my sleepwalking, hoping I would kill him, or something. ++

== What? ==

++ Okay, backing up. When I was a baby, a dark lord known as Voldemort murdered my parents. In the process of trying to kill me, he was turned into a wraith. I can’t remember anything about it, of course. I didn’t actually do anything to him. It just happened. But I think Dumbledore thinks I have power over him, somehow. ++

Tom took a very long time to reply, his scent swirling with so many emotions that Harry could hardly tell what he was thinking at all.

== And because he was a wraith, he wanted the stone. ==

++ Yes. There was a stupid obstacle course set by Dumbledore, which I got through fairly easily—though I think Dumbledore assumed all of the damage I did to it was actually because of Voldemort—and the mirror was at the end. So was my defense professor, who Voldemort was possessing. I used some lavender on him to put him to sleep and accidentally got the stone— ++

== Accidentally? ==

++ Dumbledore put a spell on the mirror so that only someone who wanted to find the stone but not use it could get it. Voldemort told me to get a red rock from the mirror. I would have wanted to use the stone—I wouldn’t mind living a few hundred years, and I knew it was connected to Flamel and rituals, so I’d want to study it—but I didn’t know it was the stone, so I got it. Kind of a stupid loophole. ++

Jasmine amusement peeked out of the whirl of Tom’s magic, and Harry smiled.

== And Voldemort? ==

++ He ran when he realized he wasn’t going to be able to get control of his body back before Dumbledore arrived. My sleeping magic is really strong. Then since he was gone and I didn’t want to be there when Dumbledore arrived, I flew away. ++

== You…Flew? On a broom? ==

++ With an owl feather! It’s even better. ++

Orange bloomed in the mess of emotions.

== There are so many things I want to see you do. ==

++ You will. ++

== And how did Dumbledore get the stone? ==

++ I think he knew where I was the whole time, though not what magic I was doing, thankfully. I ended up in front of the headmaster’s office because I wasn’t watching where I was going—of course—and there he was. I had no choice but to give it to him. I knew he knew I had it, and I wasn’t about to duel him or something. ++

== What did he do with the stone? ==

++ He says he destroyed it. I’m pretty sure he was lying, but my emotion senses weren’t as well-developed then, and it’s harder with people I don’t know well. ++

== So, you think Dumbledore might be manipulating you again. And who is the second? Voldemort? ==

++ Yeah. I assume he’d want revenge for me stopping him from getting the stone, or for my, uh, existence. ++

== Why did you stop him? ==

Harry frowned.

++ Besides him having killed my parents and left me with my horrible relatives? He’s mad, Tom. He used to have good ideas when he was younger—smart ones, I’ve listened to my Slytherin friends talk about them—but then he went crazy and started murdering people left and right, sometimes people who didn’t even disagree with him. He was mad in the mirror room; I could smell it in his magic. Like something rotten. ++

Tom’s magic went oddly flat. The diary was blank for a long time.

== You said he had good ideas? ==

++ Yeah, like improving secrecy protections, and actually teaching Dark magic, and helping muggleborns get better integrated into wixen culture, and improving wix-goblin relations. Good ideas. Of course, I can’t actually tell anyone I think that. Cause, you know, he’s a Dark Lord. ++

Harry bit his lip.

++ You don’t think I’m a bad person, do you? Merlin, I’m a bad person. ++

A sprinkle of cinnamon in the air made Harry smile.

== Harry, I promise, you are not. Do you know why he went…Mad? ==

++ Not a clue. It happened before he tried to kill me as a baby, though. ++

== Of course it did. He would have to have been mad to kill you. ==

The smell of cinnamon grew stronger, and Harry decided not to remind Tom of how they had met.

++ Thanks, Tom. ++

== Thank you, Harry. May I ask you a question? ==

++ Sure. ++

== How do you feel about muggleborns? ==

++ Are you worried I’m a blood purist? My mom and my best friend are muggleborns, and I’m a half-blood. I think we should be teaching muggleborns and muggle-raised wix wixen customs, and contacting them earlier, but blood purity is mental. The two weakest wizards I know are purebloods, and the smartest people I know are you, me, and my best friend. I’m not a pureblood and neither is she. Wix need the genetic diversity. ++

== And how would you counter the argument that muggleborns pose a threat to wixen security? ==

++ Via their parents? Honestly, it’s a good point. It’s part of the reason why I think we should contact muggleborns earlier, so we can get the ones who have bad parents away and raise them in the wixen world. But for kids with good muggle parents, it’d be wrong to take their kids from them. I know what it’s like to grow up without parents, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. My friend Theo told me about secrecy contracts, which I think would be a very reasonable solution. They were developed in the 70s—they basically prevent anyone from doing things outlined in the contract. They work on muggles, too. ++

== I see. ==

++ Why did you ask? Are you worried about wixen security? ++

== It is always a concern of mine. I grew up in the bombing of London. Muggles had destructive power to rival wix even fifty years ago; I can’t imagine what it’s like now. But your solution sounds promising. Especially if we don’t need to waste wixen talent. ==

++ You don’t care about blood, right, Tom? ++

== As long as the muggles don’t start hunting us, no—any random magical person is of equal worth to me. I am a half-blood too, Harry. ==

Harry smiled, feeling oddly relieved.

++ That makes sense. Well—I should go to bed. Goodnight, Tom. ++

== Sleep well, Harry. ==

Midway through December, the heads of houses took names of those staying at Hogwarts over Christmas. Harry, Hermione, Theo, Neville and Daphne were all going to stay: Neville, because he’d gotten in a fight with his Grandmother over his secret purchase of a new wand; Theo, because his father was being more of a bastard than usual; Daphne, because her least favorite cousins were coming from France; and Hermione, because she wanted to stay if everyone else was. Harry was both sad and thrilled: he wished that all of his friends had family they felt comfortable going to. And yet, he’d always wanted to spend Christmas with friends, and Theo and Daphne had promised to teach him some Yule traditions, too. He had even thought up a Christmas gift for Tom, though he wasn’t going to mention it yet, as he was still working out a few kinks.

The five second years left the great hall after sign ups together, intending to head to their classroom for some chess. Before they could take more than a few steps, Theo’s eyes went wide and he sprinted toward the notice board in the entrance hall.

“A dueling club!” He exclaimed, beckoning them over. “Come on, we have to go. It’s tonight!”

“That sounds fun, actually,” Hermione said. “It’d be nice to learn some practical defense.”

“I want to try out my new wand,” Neville said, grinning.

Daphne sighed. “Would you like to watch them make fools of themselves with me, Harry?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Harry said, giggling at his friends’ scowls.

That evening, the quintet ventured into the great hall, along with the rest of the school as far as they could tell. All of the tables had been moved to the sides of the room, and the place was packed with students ranging from jumpy to viciously excited. A stage had been erected in the center, long and covered in a star-patterned carpet.

I’d like to see Tom duel, Harry thought. He seems like he’d be good at it.

Harry himself had finally managed a good mimicry of a shield charm, and his lavender was pretty much a guaranteed end to any duel if he could work the spell quickly enough. The only problem was that the sleeping charm was a sixth-year spell and would also be blocked by a protego. Harry’s lavender would not be blocked, which would immediately out him.

Harry sometimes thought back to when he had told Neville on the train in first year that he knew a sleeping spell and kicked himself. With a sigh, he reminded himself that it didn’t matter, as he wasn’t intending on dueling at all today. He stood with Daphne at the back of the group, looking around.

“Who do you think will be teaching us?” Theo asked Hermione.

“Maybe Flitwick,” she said. “He was a dueling champion.”

“As long as it’s not—” Harry said, then cut off as none other than Gilderoy Lockhart mounted the table. He was followed at a safe distance by a sneering professor Snape.

“Oh, I hope they do a demonstration. I hope Snape kills him,” Daphne whispered to him. Harry couldn’t help but nod, horrified at the fact that he kind of really meant it.

Something just felt wrong about the man.

Lockhart rambled through an introduction and turned to Snape. They took five paces from each other and bowed, though Snape’s bow was more of a suggestion of the movement, and Lockhart’s more of a mockery of the concept. They raised their wands in front of them.

Snape flicked his wand. A jet of red light shot out and hit Lockhart square in the chest before he could move, sending him and his wand in opposite directions.

Several people cheered, including Daphne, who winked at Harry, as Lockhart rose to his feet and smiled surprisingly graciously. After Lockhart had dusted himself off, he and Snape came around, pairing up students. Daphne and Harry hung back as Theo and Hermione paired and Neville went with Hannah Abbott of Hufflepuff.

“And who are you paired with, Harry?” Lockhart asked as he walked past them. Harry flinched.

“Harry and I are just watching, sir,” Daphne said.

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you? You absolutely must learn! Mister Malfoy—why don’t you duel Harry?” Lockhart pulled the blonde boy seemingly out of nowhere.

Malfoy blinked and shrugged, looking very uncomfortable.

“I’d really rather not, Professor,” Harry said, trying not to sound desperate. He was probably going to have to just lose, and that would probably hurt.

“Nonsense! You’ll be fine.” Lockhart walked away, hopping onto the stage. “Alright, everyone, face your partners. On my mark—one, two, three!”

Harry raised his wand and curled his left hand in his sleeve, where he had started hiding a bit of gingko and tea tree. As Malfoy yelled rictusempra, Harry said a quiet protego for show and let his magic flow into the leaves.

The shield blossomed in front of him like an unfurling fern, green and impenetrable. Malfoy’s jinx bounced off and hit a wall, vanishing.

Malfoy’s mouth fell open and his face went pink. Several people around them were staring at him.

Oh no—I forgot this was such a high-level spell. I looked it up after the aconite shield and just…Didn’t think about it.

Why am I incapable of thinking things through?

“That’s a sixth-year spell, Harry!” Hermione cried beside him. “How did you learn that?”

“Library book,” Harry mumbled, letting the shield drop.

“Very impressive, mister Potter,” Snape said, sounding only half sarcastic. “If only the rest of your year had such prudence.”

Now that Harry looked around, a lot of their year was slightly singed.

“Excellent, Harry! Why don’t you give us all another demonstration?” Lockhart said. “You too, mister Malfoy. Though, this time, please use a disarming spell!”

Harry swallowed.

He hadn’t been intending to duel tonight. He was out of tea tree. All he had on him were his ever-present vials of lavender and owl feather, both of which he knew so familiarly at this point that he didn’t even need to touch them to activate them, as long as they were close to his skin.

Tom must have felt his anxiety, because the scent of black pepper filled the air. Oddly, it made Harry feel a little less terrified.

Well, if I’m going to do this…

“Alright, professor,” Harry said, forcing down a grimace as he and Malfoy mounted the stage.

Harry and Malfoy stared at each other, and Malfoy cocked his head, like he was trying to figure Harry out.

“It’s alright, Malfoy,” Harry said softly to the other boy. “Do what you need to do.”

Malfoy gave him a brief half-smile and nodded. Harry assumed there were some sort of Slytherin politics at play, and Malfoy couldn’t give in too easily. Or something. Harry didn’t like politics.

They faced each other, wands raised.

“One, two, three!” Lockhart yelled.

Harry readied himself to dodge.

“Serpentsortia!” Malfoy yelled. A four-foot-long black snake sprang from Malfoy’s wand, hissing its confusion as it slithered toward Harry.

"Master, why am I here?" It asked, swinging its head nervously as it looked at the crowd and at Harry.

Harry beamed at it. This was something he could handle without issue.

“Winguardium Leviosa!” Harry said, waving his wand stupidly and offering an owl feather. The snake rose smoothly into the air and drifted gently toward Malfoy, who—to Harry’s surprise—reached out and let the snake land on him. It curled over his shoulders familiarly.

“Is that your pet?” Harry asked, surprised. “She’s pretty.”

“Thanks, Potter,” Malfoy said. “Are we done now?” He snapped at Lockhart.

A shadow of something flashed over Lockhart’s face, and then he grinned.

“You were supposed to disarm…But…Excellent job, yes, both of you. Can you vanish the snake, or…”

“Revertetur,” Malfoy said, and the snake vanished.

Harry sighed in relief and fled the stage, where his friends grouped around him, all glaring daggers at Lockhart.

Harry loved his friends.

== You just levitated the snake away? That’s very clever. ==

++ Everyone knows I’m good at hover charms. It was perfect, because they all forgot that I did a “protego” right in front of them just before. ++

== See? You do have some Slytherin in you. ==

++ If I’d really been a Slytherin, I would have brought more than one tea tree leaf to a dueling club. ++

Jasmine filled Harry’s lungs.

== That is a fair point. Goodnight, Harry. ==

++ Goodnight, Tom. ++

Chapter Text

Tom said goodnight to Harry.

Tom said goodnight to Harry.

Tom said goodnight to Harry Potter, vanquisher of the dark lord Voldemort.

Who, Tom knew, had been—was still—his older self. His physical self.

But Harry had been just a baby. It wasn’t his fault. If anything, it was Voldemort’s fault for being foolish enough to try to kill Harry, rather than recruiting the boy.

And then, with the stone—Voldemort was mad. Tom had guessed as much, even when he had had no information whatsoever, trapped alone in the diary for nigh on fifty years if Harry’s dates were right. The unstable number of Horcruxes and Voldemort’s apparent lack of belief in or concern for Tom’s own sentience proved that much.

But still, still, Tom should hate Harry for defying his other self. Tom should be eager to consume him. He’d been close enough to the boy for almost a month, now. He could have begun the process of stealing his magic at any time.

But then—then he’d have to walk into the world knowing he had removed Harry from it to get there. Harry, who might be the key to making a philosopher’s stone of his own. Harry, who was an enigma Tom could study for years without getting bored. Harry, who was smarter and stronger than all of his Knights had been, combined.

Harry, who made him laugh—really, actually laugh.

Tom Riddle had never had a friend before.

He pulled at his unreal hair in his unreal hell.

Tom Riddle had never had a friend, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Friendship was weakness. Caring was weakness. Anything that you cared about could be—would be—used against you.

But Tom was more than a mere man. He was a pinnacle of logic. And, logically, he knew that he was already in too deep: he did care about the boy, in a sense. Like…a prized possession. He’d had those before. They hadn’t broken him.

Yes, that was it. Harry was his, plain and simple, to mold into a perfect right hand. Tom didn’t care like that. They weren’t friends. Harry was just…Useful. Much more useful alive than dead. So, Tom wouldn’t kill him. He’d find a way to get his body back, with Harry’s help, that didn’t see the boy dead.

And then, maybe, Tom would find his mad other self. He’d either bring him to heel or finish the job that Harry had apparently started. Tom was quite certain that he was the one true Tom Marvolo Riddle, now. The shade living on the surface that Harry had described couldn’t be him. What had happened to his dreams of power, of wealth, of eternal youth? Where was the pleasure in a life without a body, without any say in the way of the world, without goals except base survival?

The thing that his older self had become would bow.

The world would bow.

(And Harry would be there to see it).

Winter break was everything Harry had hoped it would be. Their quintet had held a small Yule bonfire, and Hermione and Neville had been delighted to be included in the rite (toned down from tradition as it was—none of them wanted to be arrested). Harry spent his days reading with Hermione and throwing snowballs at Theo and exclaiming over new prints of Clothspell with Daphne and poking at professor Sprout’s new frostbite irises with Neville.

He spent his nights in the empty Ravenclaw dormitory, writing to Tom and catching up on all of the experiments that they had wanted to run. He was also making some progress with occlumency, though Tom had been right: it was hard without a real teacher. So far, he’d just managed to make his showers—the only time he was away from the diary—a little more bearable.

Christmas proper arrived, and Harry was ecstatic. Not so much for his own presents—beautiful copies of books on plants from Hermione, Neville and Theo and a set of elegant snake-themed hairpins from Daphne, all of which he loved—but for his presents to others. For Hermione, he’d gotten a self-updating copy of the Wizengamot agenda. For Theo, he’d gotten a wand holster with a subtle jinx misdirection charm applied (he’d seen how interested the other boy was in dueling). For Daphne, a set of single-use needles charmed to embroider any image onto a piece of cloth. For Neville, talking clay mushrooms that described soil water levels.

And for Tom…

++ Good morning, Tom. Merry Christmas! I have a present for you. ++

Cinnamon and jasmine filled the air, with a healthy undertone of orange.

== Merry Christmas, Harry. I confess I’m not sure if I can open it. ==

++ You don’t need to—hold on just a moment. ++

Harry flipped to the next page of the diary and pulled his copy of Modern Magical History toward him, then placed a leaf from a haworthia succulent—they were notorious propagators—on the cover. Then, with one hand on the blank page of the diary and one on the book, he pressed his magic into the haworthia.

At once, ink appeared in the diary, filling the page with neatly typeset words and spilling onto the next. When he was done, the text of the book slowly faded into blankness. Harry grinned and turned back to the page he had been writing on.

++ Can you read it? ++

The diary’s emotions hit him like a wave—a remarkably pleasant one, warm and cinnamon-orange, perfect for Christmas morning.

== I can—how? It’s incredible, it’s like I actually have a book in my hands. I can even turn the pages. ==

++ Haworthia can duplicate books (or anything). I think it’s like the geminio spell. I figured out how to use it to duplicate ink and direct it onto multiple pages. I’m not sure why you’re experiencing it as a real book, but that’s even more than I’d hoped for! It’s a little tiring, but I could probably do a new one every day or two, if you like? ++

== I would love that, Harry. Thank you. ==

A hint of woodsmoke.

== I am afraid I didn’t get you anything. ==

Harry laughed.

++ You can get me presents when you get your body back. ++

The cinnamon flared again, with jasmine undertones.

== I will absolutely do so. This is modern history? ==

++ Yeah. You can read about Voldemort and my parents if you like, or Dumbledore’s defeat of Grindelwald, which I think happened after you were trapped. ++

== I most certainly will. Merry Christmas, Harry. ==

++ Merry Christmas, Tom! I’m so glad you like it. ++

Harry closed the diary, grinning, and slipped it into his pocket to go and find his friends.

Christmas dinner was even more incredible this year than last (and not just because Roger Davies was even better looking this year). Harry and his friends all sat at the nearly empty Ravenclaw table, popping crackers and singing carols and enjoying the feast. Harry’s appetite was, finally, beginning to become a little more normal, and just in time in his opinion.

Near the end of dinner, Draco Malfoy stood and came over to their group, trailed by his friends Parkinson and Zabini. Harry resisted the urge to glare at Parkinson; he’d never forgiven her for being so rude to Daphne in their first year. Now that he knew how much his friend loved clothes, Parkinson’s very public comments about Daphne’s skirt seemed designed to cut.

“Harry, can I talk to you for a minute?” Malfoy asked.

Harry cocked his head at him. Sure, they were on speaking terms, but they’d still never really spoken. Malfoy was still a bit of a ponce, after all, and he still wasn’t as nice to Hermione or Theo as Harry thought he should be. But Harry was not in Ravenclaw for nothing, and curiosity got the better of him.

“Sure,” he said. “I’m done eating, anyway. Merry Christmas, guys—Hermione, I’ll see you later?”

“I’ll wait for you in the common room,” Hermione said pointedly, glaring at Malfoy, who smiled back mildly. Harry followed Malfoy out of the great hall, feeling nervous.

There’s no way this is about Tom. He would have said something sooner.

Harry pointedly kept his hands away from the pocket where he kept the diary. He thought Tom might have picked up on his agitation, because fresh-cracked black pepper and orange suffused the air. Malfoy led them both to an empty classroom on the third floor and left his friends at the door. Inside, Draco turned to Harry, his face oddly serious.

“I saw you writing in a diary in the library, Potter,” he said.

Harry willed his face to stillness, though his heart was racing.

“And?”

“Where did you get it?”

“I bought it at Flourish and Blotts,” Harry said, which happened to be completely true. He’d just bought it off of Ginny Weasley after it had been foisted on her by Lucius, that was all. “What’s this about?”

“I went home for Yule, and my father told me to watch out for a diary. He mentioned something about a girl dying here in the 40’s because of whatever was in it.”

Harry blinked at him.

“Did he say anything else? How did the girl die?”

“Why does it matter to you anyway? You said you didn’t have a weird book,” Draco said, his eyes narrowed.

“I did hear something, but I don’t want to mention it if we aren’t talking about the same thing,” Harry lied easily.

Malfoy’s eyes glinted with curiosity.

“Fine. He said she had stayed as a ghost, but not to go looking for her. I don’t know anything else. Now what did you hear?”

It couldn’t be—Myrtle?

“Nothing to do with that, sorry—well, Hermione will be missing me. See you, Malfoy,” Harry said, rushing from the room before Draco could stop him.

He forced himself not to run on his way to the second-floor bathroom where he had met Myrtle, opening the door and slipping inside once he was sure that the corridor was empty and Draco had not followed.

“Myrtle?” Harry asked.

“Harry? Oh, hello,” she said, drifting through one of the stalls toward him. “It’s nice of you to come and see me.”

Harry swallowed.

I should probably visit her when I don’t have burning questions about whether one of my…Friends is a murderer.

“Merry Christmas, Myrtle,” Harry said softly, sitting down on one of the sinks. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she said. “Oh, and merry Christmas to you too, Harry.”

Harry took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry if this is insensitive, but…How did you die?”

Myrtle’s eyes went wide. Harry thought for a moment that she was going to yell at him, but then her face split in a broad grin.

“Oh, it was dreadful. It happened right in here, in this bathroom. I remember it so well. I’d hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then—I died.”

“A different language? What did it sound like?”

“Hissing,” she said. “And I saw a huge pair of eyes—just there, by that sink you’re sitting on.”

Slytherin’s monster. Slytherin’s symbol was a snake. Slytherin was a parselmouth, too.

Harry stood up, looking at the sink. It seemed unremarkable—except that there was, on the tap, a tiny, carved snake.

This is the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.

“Myrtle, what year did you die?”

“June of 1943,” she said. “I know because I never turned fifteen.”

Okay. Did Tom getting stuck in the book have something to do with Myrtle’s death? If I go in the Chamber, will I die? Probably? I want to ask Tom but that is obviously a terrible idea—

Did Tom kill her?

“Did you know Tom Riddle, Myrtle?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He was in my year. So handsome and good at everything and nice, but everyone was afraid of him, too—”

She paused, and Harry turned back to see her mouth was open.

“The voice. It was him.”

Harry’s heart sank. He’d wanted so badly to believe that it was all just a mad coincidence. To give himself something to do, he reached out and touched the little snake on the sink.

There was a familiar bite at his magic, and he blacked out.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Tom thought, suddenly in possession of Harry’s body.

Oh, wow, he’s small.

He looked around at the familiar bathroom, catching sight of himself in the mirror. It was, he thought, just a little glorious to have sight and sound and smell all properly returned to him. Especially as he now knew what Harry looked like.

Harry’s eyes were the precise shade and shine of the killing curse.

Tom looked away, staring at his hands—not his. Harry’s hands.

How did this happen? Something triggered by being too close to the chamber? How do I give him his body back? Why didn’t I leave fucking instructions for—myself—damn.

“Are you okay?” A girl’s voice asked. Tom glanced over and was startled to see Myrtle Warren, pearlescent and frowning.

“I have to go,” Tom said with Harry’s mouth, and ran from the room. He could feel Harry in the back of his head, asleep.

Not dead, not dead, Tom breathed. He put Harry’s hand on the book as he walked towards the Ravenclaw common room, trying to will himself back into the diary. It was not something he had ever thought he would try to do; he wanted to stay here, alive, in a world where he could touch and move and breathe.

But even if he would rather bear his own crucio than return to the diary, it wasn’t as though he could just take Harry’s body in his current condition. He wasn’t strong enough to perform a possession like this for long, and he couldn’t make his own body yet. He hadn’t been absorbing the boy’s magic, and he couldn’t do that from inside of Harry.

If only I had been draining him!

But—he would have noticed. He would have stopped me.

And then where would I be?

In his chest, Harry’s Core felt like a small furnace: strong like Tom’s magic, but warm, almost like fire.

He didn’t really want to experience what he knew would happen when the timer on his possession ran out. If he couldn’t go back in the diary—well, Voldemort’s current form was about the best he could hope for.

Tom stopped in an empty classroom and leaned forward on a desk, feeling sick. Harry really ought to eat more.

“Oh, he’s going to kill me,” he whispered.

“No, he’ll hear me out. I’ll say it was an accident. It was, so he’ll know I mean it.”

“Fuck, but how do I get back in the fucking diary,” he scowled. Tom pulled the book from his pocket, opened it, and—

Harry was Harry again, standing in a room with no idea how he got there, for what was—unfortunately—not the first time in his life.

His hand was pressed against the diary. It was radiating woodsmoke and pepper like a furnace.

“Tom. Why?” He asked the book, holding it gently. He wasn’t sure if he was talking about Myrtle or about the possession.

Shaking slightly, Harry walked to Ravenclaw tower.

“Harry, are you okay?” Hermione asked as he entered.

“Yeah, Malfoy just wanted to ask about shield charms in private. I’m not feeling great, though—I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Okay, Harry,” Hermione said, frowning but not stopping him.

Harry went up to the empty boy’s dorm, picked out a leaf of tea tree, and—with a heavy heart—shielded Tom. Then he opened the book.

== Harry, I did not mean to possess you. I truly had no control over that. ==

The cedar smoke desperation in Tom’s magic was very convincing, which did take the edge off of Harry’s horror. Still, Harry’s biggest concern was Myrtle.

++ Did you open the Chamber of Secrets and use it to kill Myrtle Warren? ++

Another spike of black pepper anger and cedar smoke anxiety.

== It was an accident. ==

Harry blinked. The diary still felt honest.

++ How so? ++

== I opened the Chamber, intending to scare some of the muggleborns away from school so that they would renounce their magic and live muggle lives, and then our secrecy wouldn’t be threatened. I didn’t mean to kill anyone. ==

Renounce their magic?

++ So I should be accusing you of reckless endangerment, manslaughter and bigotry, not murder. I see. What were you saying about everyone with magic being equal, again? ++

== I wasn’t going to open the Chamber this time. I have thought about things more, with your help, and I see that there are—better ways of handling secrecy. It was a mistake. I never thought muggleborns were lesser. I just thought they were dangerous. ==

++ So, you regret opening the Chamber? You regret killing Myrtle? ++

The diary was a very confusing mass of scents.

== It was not the best choice I could have made. ==

++ Not good enough, Tom. ++

== What do you want me to say? That I feel bad for killing her? You know I can’t lie to you. I feel like a fool, but no, I’m not broken up about it. She shouldn’t have died. Is that not enough? ==

Harry gripped his quill so hard that it creaked under his fingers.

++ How did you get trapped in the diary, Tom? You’re on thin ice, here. ++

== When Myrtle died, I used her death to bind part of my soul to this diary. ==

++ Why? ++

== So that I wouldn’t die. As long as part of my soul is in the mortal plane, all of it will be. I did not intend to kill her for that purpose. ==

++ What is in the Chamber? ++

== Only a parselmouth is capable of opening it. It’s not a danger to you or anyone. ==

++ You’re a parselmouth, then. What is in the Chamber, Tom? ++

Harry felt the diary almost quake with—fear? Was Tom afraid of him?

== A basilisk. But you won’t be able to get to her, and she can’t get out. There’s no danger. ==

Harry realized that Tom was doing something very close to pleading. His sandalwood magic had been almost entirely drowned by woodsmoke.

++ Why didn’t you die when you opened it? Basilisks kill with sight. ++

== Parselmouths are immune. It’s a part of the ritual that gave Slytherin’s line the power millennia ago. ==

Harry tucked that fact away for later reckless endeavors, like going to meet a basilisk himself.

He felt a pang of longing for that morning, when he hadn’t known what Tom had done.

My parseltongue was another thing he could have understood about me.

++ You are Slytherin’s Heir? ++

== Yes. ==

Harry sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.

One of his friends, one of his best friends, was—not quite a murderer, but responsible for someone’s death, and while he regretted the act, he didn’t feel bad about her dying. The possession Harry could forgive—it made sense that there would be some sort of defense mechanism tied to the Chamber. But Myrtle?

Although…

Tom had been trapped in solitary confinement for fifty years. That was more than enough of a punishment for manslaughter, according to wizarding law.

“I’m a terrible person,” Harry said, giggling hysterically, as he watched himself try to find reasons to forgive Tom. Tom, the only person in the entire world who knew him.

But what if it had been Hermione dead in the bathroom, Harry thought. Would I want to forgive him then?

“No, I wouldn’t,” Harry said, gritting his teeth.

Should I treat Myrtle any differently?

It is different, though. For me.

I guess I really am a bad person.

Harry stood up, looking at the diary on his bed. Slowly, carefully, he cleared his mind as the occlumency book had instructed him.

Then he went to the bathroom and took a shower.

With the occlumency, the overwhelming smell of Hogwarts’ magic was almost bearable. 

When he was dry and in his pajamas, he returned to the book, still open on the bed.

== Harry? ==

++ I can’t make a choice about you right now. I’m putting you in my trunk. I’m sorry. ++

Harry got up once more, shoved the book under his folded robes and crawled into bed, feeling like something had been carved out of his chest with rusty shears.

“I’m going down there,” he said softly, thinking of the Chamber. He had to see what Tom was hiding from him.

Where are you now, Tom?

Chapter Text

Harry woke up early and stuffed his pockets full of owl feathers, lavender and tea tree and walked to Myrtle’s bathroom. He couldn’t stomach food, much less other people, especially without the diary. Even the ambient magic of Hogwarts had him feeling a little woozy behind his nascent occlumency shields.

“Myrtle?” Harry asked as he entered the room. “Can I talk to you?”

“Oh, hi, Harry,” she said, appearing from the floor. “Who possessed you last night?”

Harry stared at her.

“Ghosts are good at noticing possessions,” Myrtle supplied.

“Oh,” Harry said. “I actually want to talk to you about him. If that’s okay.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? I can’t help, you know, but I like gossip.”

“It’s Tom Riddle.”

Myrtle started cackling.

“He’s dead! Oh, that serves him right, to end up just like me. It’s a pity about his face, though. He was so pretty.”

“He’s not dead, exactly,” Harry said, and Myrtle frowned. “He’s trapped inside of a diary.”

“That’s even better!” Myrtle said, zooming around in a little circle. “I assume he can’t feel anything in there, right? Or see? Or smell? At least I can smell. You smell nice, Harry. Like flowers. Lavender, usually.”

“Er, thanks,” Harry said. “And yeah. He’s been stuck in the book for fifty years.”

“Wow,” Myrtle said. “I guess that’s as long as I’ve been dead.”

“Yeah, he put himself in the book right after you died. I think he regrets being a diary, though.”

“I bet,” Myrtle said, sniffing haughtily. “Why are you carrying him around, then?”

“Well, I only found out what he did last night,” Harry said. “But before that…”

Harry sighed.

“I was trying to help him get his body back.”

Myrtle looked at him with surprising intensity.

“And now?”

“He’s not here, I left him in my dorm. I don’t know. I thought he was my friend. He hasn’t tried to hurt me. But he hurt you, Myrtle. Even though he said it was an accident. He still hurt you.”

“He did,” she said evenly.

They looked at each other for a while.

“It’s been fifty years,” Myrtle said, shrugging. “I’d be dead anyway at this point. My family has a chronic liver condition and I never had money for Mungo’s. Honestly, I don’t even hate him as much as I hate Olive Hornby. She was the reason I was in the bathroom to begin with. But I got my revenge…I fucked up her marriage, exposed her brother cheating on his fiancé and eventually I got the bitch to jump off a roof—no one knows that I did that last bit, though. I would have stopped if she’d just apologized, but she never did.”

Harry stared, frozen in shock.

“Oh, yes. I had a long time to think about just how to get back at her, and it was very satisfying. The ministry tried to stop me, of course, but…They couldn’t watch me all the time.”

She winked at him.

“So…What do you think I should do about Tom?” Harry asked slowly.

“Whatever you like,” Myrtle said, waving a hand. “I don’t particularly care. I don’t forgive him for killing me—obviously—but I honestly can’t think of anything worse than being trapped in an object for fifty years. Bring him back for all I care. Hell, bring him around so I can look at his pretty face a bit. If you want to make yourself feel better, could you figure out how to exorcise me? I’m tired, and none of the professors will talk to me long enough for me to ask.”

Harry sat down on the sink again.

“Oh, did I break you?” She sighed. “Yes, I wish I’d lived. But I was a muggleborn at Hogwarts in the 1940s with a lot of acne and very little magic. At least this way, I got a little power. Not that I’m thanking him! It’s just not so bad as you think.”

“I guess I don’t know how to feel about the fact that Tom probably wouldn’t care that you don’t care,” Harry said. “And I know what it’s like to have someone try to kill me, and I definitely care about that. I mean, I’m mad about it.”

“Yes, well, you’re still alive, and I assume so are they, so I can see why you’d be mad,” Myrtle said. “Because you assume they’ll try again. Riddle can’t do anything to me now, and he’s in a diary. Everyone who ever cared about me is dead. The relevant players have moved on.”

“I just wish he cared,” Harry said. “It makes me feel like a bad person for liking him.”

“So…You care that you don’t care that he doesn’t care? My god, Harry, that sounds confusing.”

“Pretty much.”

“You know, there’s not so much you can do about a person’s feelings. I’m not sure if you can argue him into caring about me, in particular. You might be able to argue him into being more careful not to accidentally kill people, though. Is that enough for you?”

“It just seems like a lonely way to live, not caring about anyone,” Harry said.

“He obviously cares about you,” Myrtle said, sounding slightly bitter.

“What do you mean?”

“I was in Ravenclaw, Harry. I’m not totally dumb. First of all, he was very excited to be able to see you, staring in the mirror like a ponce. Second of all, you’re still here, and your main problem appears to be that he got me killed, rather than that he possessed you, so I assume he took good care of your body while he was in it. Third, I don’t think Riddle would have gotten himself permanently stuck in a diary, and I assume the way out has to do with eating your magic or your soul or something. If you’re here, completely unharmed, even after getting in a fight with him, he definitely cares about you.”

“Oh,” Harry said.

“Oh is right,” Myrtle said. “Everyone thought I was dumb because I’m bad at magic. Well, I’m not dumb.”

“You’re really clever, Myrtle,” Harry said. “I’ll find a way to exorcise you. Promise.”

“Thanks, Harry. If it helps, I don’t think you’re a bad person. Come visit, will you? Now I have a hot date with a merman. I mean, I just chase him around, but—it’s fun. Bye!”

She vanished into one of the sinks.

Harry stood and looked at the snake on the tap. He couldn’t tell if he felt better or worse after his conversation with Myrtle, but he really wanted to be doing something.

“Am I doing this? Really?” He asked himself. “Yeah, I’m doing this.”

“Open,” he hissed at the tap.

At once, the sink slid back, revealing a very dark pipe.

How is this the second year in a row I’m jumping into a dark hole, Harry wondered, offering a bit of owl feather to his magic and stepping into the abyss. He looked up to see the sink sliding closed above him and filled his hand with flame to light the way. The fire shone green against the tube’s wet walls.

Eventually, Harry landed gently on the also-slightly-damp floor of a stone tunnel. With his ears peeled, he started forward into the dark.

Oddly enough, he was experiencing two different kinds of smells. One, in his nose, was the rank scent of stale water and corpses. He felt a little bad for the basilisk, that it had to live here, in a home it could not clean. The other—his magic sense—was communicating something almost as wonderful as the diary. The tunnel carried a faint smell of crushed pine needles and fresh-fallen snow and the breeze coming over the black lake. It was a distinctly aquatic smell, but not fishy—just fresh, and pleasant.

Harry jumped as a vast snake rose out of the gloom—but he quickly realized it was just a shed skin.

A massive shed skin.

Harry walked up to it, running his fingers over the decayed old scales. It felt as tough as armor even though rot had already set in. He tried to tug off a piece, but no matter how his fingers strained, he couldn’t quite get it to rip. Harry sighed, wishing he had thought to bring a knife.

If I live, I can always come back here.

Hang on.

Tom once lied about not knowing anywhere beyond Dumbledore’s eye.

Was he thinking of here? Could I finally have somewhere to do experiments?

Harry grinned, then looked at the skin again and shivered.

Oh, yeah. Basilisk first.

Harry walked on and reached a door covered in carved stone snakes. It opened at his word just as the sink had, the snakes sliding over each other as though they were alive.

He stepped through into an immense chamber. As he did, red fire flared in torches scattered along the walls. The light revealed columns carved with more serpents. At the far end of the space, a vast statue stood, looking quite like the paintings of Salazar Slytherin he had seen in history books. Except—well, the statue was significantly better looking. He supposed Slytherin probably had been the subject of some negative propaganda.

“Hello,” Harry hissed into the dim air. His fingers wound tightly around another owl feather as he readied himself to flee.

For a long moment, nothing stirred.

Then, a creaking noise came, and something heavy thudded to the floor behind the statue.

It was a snake—but the word didn’t do it justice. As thick as a tree and easily thirty feet long, it gleamed dull silver in the firelight—but its eyes were molten yellow. Harry stared at them, transfixed, uncertain if he should flee or not, as the serpent approached.

“My name is Harry Potter. It’s nice to meet you.”

The basilisk stopped dead, staring at him with its head cocked.

“Speaker. Do you know Tom?”

Harry blinked, mouth opening slightly in surprise.

“I do. We are…Friends.”

“He did not return to see me after he came to request his teaching job. Does he teach here, now? I assume not, or he would have come to see me. Is he well?”

“He is…Not well,” Harry confessed.

The smell of pine grew stronger, and Harry realized that he was smelling the basilisk’s own powerful magic.

“Are you helping him?”

“I’m trying to. He is stuck in the diary. Do you know about the diary?”

The basilisk slithered closer to him, massive tongue flicking in and out. Harry took deep breaths, trying not to flinch.

“I do. Young Tom is in the Diary. My Tom. Older Tom is…Less mine.” The serpent turned into a coiled pile and rested its head on its body, looking at him. “My name is Euryale. My first friend gave it to me.”

“Salazar Slytherin?”

“Yes,” Euryale said. “He was the first. Tom was the second. Will you be the third? I am tired now, and I don’t want to eat men. But I will talk, and give you venom if you need it, or scales.”

“I—thank you,” Harry said, stunned. “I would be honored if I could spend some time here. I’ve needed a place to practice my magic.”

“You cannot practice in the school? Is that not the point of a school?”

“The kind of magic I do is banned. Ritual magic,” he added, trying not to sound like he was doing torture for fun.

“This is wrong,” Euryale said. “My first friend invented many rituals and taught them to his pupils. Why would they not be taught in his school?”

“I agree,” Harry said. “I’m trying to think of ways to fix this.”

“I see now why Tom did not get his teaching job. Of course, they would not want a brilliant man if they do not want brilliant magic. You are welcome to practice here, Harry Potter. I will keep you safe.”

“I—thank you,” Harry said, entirely floored. “Euryale, do you know—is there a place in here for research? I was wondering if there might be some notes Tom left behind. I’m trying to get him out of the diary.”

Was he trying to get Tom out of the diary?

It wouldn’t hurt to have the option, he supposed. Harry still hadn’t decided if he would forgive Tom—or if he could imagine trying to change Tom—or if Tom needed changing.

But even if he didn’t forgive him, it seemed cruel to say the least to leave him in the diary forever. Fifty years was enough punishment, Harry thought. If he could be convinced that Tom wouldn’t be so reckless again—

There he had it. He was still trying to get Tom out of the diary.

“Slytherin’s library and study are here,” Euryale said, uncoiling herself. Harry watched her in awe; she was more than beautiful.

“You are incredible,” Harry said, smiling at her. “I’m glad we met.”

“I am also glad we met, Harry Potter. Here, the library is just beyond the statue; tell the door behind it to open, and it will. It has been a pleasure to speak with you. Come visit whenever you like. I may be asleep, but I will talk to you if I feel up to it.”

“Can I bring you anything?”

“The chamber keeps me fed, and I sleep,” she said. “Though I love salmon.”

Harry smiled as she slid back into the opening of the statue and was gone. Eagerly, he trotted to an iron door behind the statue and bid the snake doorknocker to open. The iron snake swirled, and the hinges slid smoothly back.

Harry stepped inside a room about the size of the Ravenclaw common room, with dark hardwood floors and green and silver tapestries hanging from the ceiling to the floor. The ceiling was tapered and ran to a point, with thousands of tiny silver globes suspended above making up what Harry realized was an accurate star chart of the current sky. Half of the room was taken up by rows of neat bookshelves that stretched halfway to the starry ceiling. The other half had a circular stone dais set into the floor—a purpose-built place for rituals, Harry thought—a potions lab, and in the far corner, a desk with several cabinets and two large, perfectly-preserved armchairs.

The whole place was as clean as a whistle, and Harry thought he might have to wipe the drool from his mouth. He ran to the bookshelves first, his eyes as wide as saucers as he took in the titles.

Natural Magic: Rituals for Lasting Power.

Of Serpent Tongues.

Necromancy for the Flesh and Spirit.

He kept his fingers to himself by an act of will and made his way to the desk. If he was going to find out anything about Tom—and who he had become—it would be here.

Although, I suppose it doesn’t matter who he became, Harry thought. Seeing as he’s already a different person.

Fifty years in a diary has to change you at least a little.

Harry started with the drawers of the desk itself, all filled with extensive notes on experiments in everything from necromancy to alchemy, though most of it was beyond Harry’s understanding, as he hadn’t done any work with runes or arithmancy yet. He read the titles of the pages, and the dates.

Most of this is from after he was sealed, Harry thought. Maybe the older stuff is in a different shelf.

He poked around the shelves on either side of the desk. One held what seemed like extensive research on people: someone named Abraxas Malfoy apparently loved salted caramel and hated…Having insects under his skin.

Yeesh, Tom.

That is kind of hilarious though.

…I’m a bad person.

Harry supposed that Abraxas was the person who Tom had originally given the diary to; probably, he was Draco’s grandfather.

The notes extended beyond Tom’s classmates as the dates got later, to junior ministry officials and members of the Wizengamot and even professors. Harry found himself once again impressed. Tom clearly was made for politics, which didn’t surprise Harry at all. Even in text, he was incredibly smooth, and if Harry hadn’t been able to feel his emotions or his draining of Harry’s magic, he suspected Tom would have played him like a fiddle.

Well, he didn’t. So, there’s no reason to blame him for something he didn’t do.

Harry sucked in a breath.

Scratch that, I’m not a bad person. I’m a terrible person.

The Dursleys were right.

Freak.

He shuddered.

Trying his best to ignore the consuming thoughts, he moved on to another shelf. This one had the latest dates he had seen, and seemed to involve several sketches of—

Harry dropped the paper and sat down abruptly on the floor.

The page floated down beside him, the snake in the skull still writhing in magical ink.

Harry recognized that symbol.

That was Voldemort’s symbol.

“Hang on,” Harry said, standing up and pulling out a piece of blank paper from a stack at the back of the desk. He grabbed a quill—the ink was emerald green and perfectly preserved—and wrote out:

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Tom Maro Ridl / Vol de

Mao Ridl / Vol de mort

Harry stared at it.

“You wouldn’t have, would you?” He asked. “Didn’t you say he’d be mad to kill me? Didn’t you mean it? I know you meant it,” he said, wrapping his arms around himself and heaving deep, ragged breaths.

Voldemort had good ideas, once. Theo and Daphne had said it. Even Neville had hinted at it. Harry had agreed with many of Voldemort’s old policy proposals; the man had wanted to expand the teaching of ritual magic, after all.

But Voldemort went mad.

Was Tom going to go mad, too? Should Harry not free him from the diary, if that was his fate?

Harry sat in the desk chair, staring at the paper for a long time, until his arms began to feel like rigor mortis was setting in.

Bloody hell, it wasn’t even that much of a shock, given how brilliant Tom was and what his personal beliefs were, which seemed to align very well with Voldemort’s early ideas. Somehow—the fact that Tom was Voldemort didn’t bother him as much as Myrtle’s death did.

He’d smelled Voldemort’s rotten magic. He knew that wasn’t Tom. Whatever he had done so long after he had left Hogwarts, whatever had caused his magic to rot, that wasn’t Harry’s Tom.

But Myrtle was.

“Alright,” he said to himself, his voice echoing just slightly in the chamber. “If I’m going to bring Tom back, I need to know that he won’t go mad, and that he won’t recklessly unleash very sweet but dangerous monsters on unsuspecting school children.”

Harry sucked in a breath.

Tom killed my parents.

Tom got me stuck at the Dursleys.

No, that was Voldemort. Voldemort exists, in the real world, and so does Tom. They are literally in almost all conceivable ways different people. It would be like blaming a twin for their sibling’s mistake.

Wait, that’s it. That’s a perfect analogy. They grew up the same until they were fifteen, and then they diverged. And Voldemort has made his choices, but Tom hasn’t had the chance yet.

Harry nodded and returned to the notes he had started with, focusing on the ones on necromancy.

No matter what he decided, he needed a break from Tom. He was glad he had left the diary behind for this.

An hour later, Harry made a quick trip to the library, where he checked Hogwarts’ records for any other student deaths in Tom’s tenure, just in case, and found none. Then, when his stomach had started protesting more loudly than he could ignore, Harry made his way down to the great hall for lunch and threw himself down beside Hermione, who was sitting alone at the Ravenclaw table. He tried to ignore the way his head swam at the smell of artificial magic around him, focusing instead on Hermione’s familiar grassy scent.

Talking to Dumbledore without the diary might actually kill him.

“Harry! Where’d you run off to?”

“I was talking to a ghost, actually,” Harry said, loading his plate with pasta. “But—can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Hermione said.

“What makes someone a good person? Or a bad one?”

Hermione frowned at him.

“That’s a hard question, Harry. Give me a minute.”

Harry nodded, spearing penne on his fork.

Hermione was silent for almost a full minute before she spoke.

“I think being a good person is about being self-reflective and trying continuously to improve at being happy and making others around you happy. It also means trying to leave the world a better place than when you found it. I think anything further just ends up sounding too holy. Like, I don’t think someone who always puts others first is a good person. That’s just a doormat.”

Harry took a deep breath.

“What if, hypothetically,” Harry said, “you had a friend who had done something bad. And they were punished for it, and they say they won’t do it again. Does it make you a bad person if you still want to be friends with them?”

“No, definitely not—wait, how bad?”

“Bad.”

“Well,” Hermione said, tugging on her bushy hair, “I don’t believe in infinite punishment. Did the punishment fit the crime?”

“Yes,” Harry said emphatically. “Maybe more than fit.”

“And do they feel bad about having done it?”

“Sort of?” Harry realized they had abandoned the pretense of hypothetical altogether, but the feeling of getting this off his chest to his oldest friend was too good to pass up. “They say they won’t do it again and that it was wrong to do, but they don’t really feel bad about it. It was an accident, but a bad one, for context.”

“I see. Do they not feel bad because they don’t feel responsible, or because they just lack empathy for the person they presumably hurt?”

“…The second one.”

“Was this the first time they’d done something like this?”

“Yes,” Harry said. Tom might have done other things, but he hadn’t committed murder prior to Myrtle. And Myrtle had called him nice, so Harry highly doubted he was a massive bully. As far as Harry knew, opening the Chamber was the extent of his crimes when he was trapped in the book. A major one, to be sure, but—just that.

“And what would you do if they did it again?”

“If it was the same sort of thing, I would stop being friends with them,” Harry said, knowing as he said it that it was true. He believed Tom had learned sense, if not empathy. Heck, Voldemort’s early rise proved that any Tom was capable of using standard politics to achieve his goals.

“I stand by what I said before. No one deserves infinite punishment. If you feel like you still want to be their friend, I don’t think that makes you a bad person. I’m not sure how I feel about the empathy thing, but—if you really think they won’t do it again, and this was the first time…I think it’s alright.”

Harry took a deep breath.

“Hermione,” he said. “You’re my oldest friend. Do you think I’m a good person?”

“Harry, how could you ask that?” She said, looking stunned. “Do you remember when we first met? You picked me up and healed my knee. And in first year, when I went ballistic on you, you apologized to me. And did you forget how you saved Daphne? Or stood up to Malfoy for Neville? Please, don’t tell me you think you’re a bad person, Harry. Who told you that?”

Harry blinked at her, his eyes suddenly very wet.

Were the Dursleys—

Wrong?

Am I…Not a bad person?

Dark magic isn’t evil.

I was just protecting myself.

Harry smiled wetly at her.

“No one, I just—I really needed to hear that, Hermione,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Alright, Harry, but—I mean it. You of all people should never think that. What about your friend?”

“Well—I think I need a break from my…friend…but you’re right. No one deserves infinite punishment.”

“Can I know who this is about?” Hermione asked. “I assume not one of our friends, right?”

“No, you don’t know them,” Harry said. “It’s a pen pal of mine.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you had a pen pal! You must…Really like them, Harry,” she said pointedly.

Harry blushed and shoved more pasta into his mouth.

Tom felt the moment Harry shut the trunk like a physical pain, even the sensation of the shield’s membrane between them vanishing to be replaced with a return to emptiness.

Oh, he had become weak, hadn’t he?

He’d said he wanted to own Harry. Like a toy, like a pet, like a tool—and he did. Wanted to keep him safe, watch him work, watch him fly—his clever boy.

And somewhere along the line—

He cared. Tom cared. He wanted Harry to be happy, just…Because. Was that friendship?

Fuck.

He knew it in his desperation to return to the diary, his terror over Harry never writing to him again, a horrible twin to his fear of death. Indeed, it felt rather similar to his feelings about Euryale—

His first friend.

He supposed he had had some practice at this friendship thing, then. But he’d never had to worry about Euryale in the same way. She was all but immortal, more of a big sister than anything, indulgent and kind, like no one had ever been for him. No one—until Harry, of course. Fragile, compassionate Harry. Hell, he liked Harry’s compassion. It was something Tom would protect, once he was out in the world. Guard it with death, if need be.

He gave me a Christmas present.

Tom had gotten Christmas presents before: favors from his supplicants, starting in his second year, after he’d begun to prove himself. Gifts that were more statements than kindness. Harry’s gift—the book still in his hands, like a blessing in this world of white walls—was so much more than that.

Did he regret killing Myrtle? If he was being honest, he didn’t really care. If he’d been given to some other student, someone less brilliant and curious and powerful, he’d probably have killed them and have his body back already. Yet here he was, caring about the boy who had foiled his other self not once but twice.

For some reason—illogically—he couldn’t bring himself to blame Harry, not for his actions against Voldemort, nor for his senses and shield that had kept Tom from killing him. Was it not better to have met him and to wait to return to a body? Was it not better to return without the baggage of a missing person and with someone on his side who knew what had happened in the decades since he had been trapped? He couldn’t exactly rely on his other self. For all he knew, Voldemort would absorb him, and he would—die, in a sense.

No. Voldemort needed to die. Or be absorbed into Tom. He was the stronger of the two. He had to be.

Tom still didn’t care about anyone else besides himself and his alchemist. He still dreamed of power. But he did care about keeping in Harry’s good graces. And with a philosopher’s stone—from his Harry—he could have everything.

Or he could have, if he hadn’t fucked it up by killing Myrtle. Though he supposed that if he hadn’t done that, he never would have met Harry.

He’d just have to throw himself on Harry’s stupid, foolish, wonderful mercy and wait.

At least he had something to read in the meantime.

Chapter Text

Life without Tom was not exactly unbearable.

It was close, though.

Once term resumed and all of the students came back, merely existing somehow became even more torturous. Lockhart continued to force Harry to enact scenes from his book during his classes. He would pull Harry up to the front of the room, his hairspray-magic so deep in Harry’s nose that Harry thought it might have addled his brains, and force Harry to growl like a werewolf or perform some similarly humiliating task. With his head swimming from the overwhelming magic around him, Harry managed to be even less enthusiastic about Lockhart’s little plays than usual, which just seemed to make him want to use Harry more.

Harry was pretty sure the man was a sadist.

Even walking the halls was overwhelming, with the press of students all around him, their magics blending like a nightmare feast of candy and perfume and bleach. His friends had taken to practically shoving food in his mouth at mealtimes, because Harry had completely lost all appetite. It was hard to eat when everything tasted like chemicals. His grades were suffering a little, too, because his head would swim in class until he couldn’t so much as turn a mushroom into a toadstool.

He spent more time in the Chamber, sometimes sneaking away on weekend mornings or late at night under the cloak when he couldn’t take the pressure of the overwhelming ambient magic anymore. He’d found another book on occlumency in the Chamber, and the mind-clearing exercises it had contained were helping, but it was still slow going. Besides, having his mental shields up constantly was exhausting. So exhausting, in fact, that by the time February arrived, he had started spending full nights curled in one of Salazar Slytherin’s—or Tom’s, he supposed—armchairs. The Chamber was the only place he could get a decent night’s sleep.

Going to the Chamber had the added benefit of him seeing Myrtle with some frequency. If he was going to be friends with one murderer, he supposed, why not two? And Myrtle did have the best gossip, which Daphne and Theo both appreciated him passing on. Harry had avoided telling them anything really personal that Myrtle had picked up, though he kept reaching for a non-present diary to tell Tom. Now that he knew how much Tom appreciated gossip, it was hard to resist.

“How do you know this stuff?” Daphne asked, after Harry told them that Cassius Warrington had a secret firewhiskey stash in their common room.

“I’m friends with some ghosts,” Harry said simply.

The other benefit of spending time in the Chamber was, of course, Euryale. The basilisk had taken to him quite strongly, and he to her, especially after he had spent one very memorable Friday evening scrubbing her scales until they gleamed. They talked about history through the eyes of a basilisk, and their friends, and Tom—rather a lot about Tom, actually. How funny he was, and sweet, and overprotective. It gratified Harry that someone else had been on the receiving end of Tom’s kindness, especially someone as wonderful as Euryale.

Harry thought about Tom every day, but he still couldn’t bring himself to pull the diary from his trunk.

Eventually, the end of February arrived, and with it Ravenclaw’s match against Slytherin. Harry was terrified that his magic sense would send him off his broom, but fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case: as soon as he was in the air, he lost himself in the sensation of flying, and his occulmency shields seemed to click into place like iron. He was so overjoyed to be clear-headed that he caught the snitch a mere two minutes into the game, right under Draco Malfoy’s nose. To make things even better, Malfoy hadn’t even shouted at him about it.

The following week, at the beginning of March, Harry had his usual meeting with Madame Promfrey. At this point, her fears about his ability to handle quidditch had been assuaged, and he largely spent his time asking her everything he could think to about healing. His curiosity ranged from how nerves worked to if the magical Core could be healed to how wixen vaccines worked. He’d prepared a list of questions as usual for this meeting; some were inspired by his reading in the Chamber, though he wasn’t going to tell her that.

“Hello, Madame Pomfrey!” Harry said, bouncing into the hospital wing and trying not to wince at the smell. His occulmency was getting better—slowly.

“Oh, hello, Harry,” Pomfrey said, looking unusually grim despite the empty hospital wing. “How did your progress with the last book I gave you go?”

Harry felt his grin falter.

He hadn’t found a ritual for any of the spells in that book—they dealt with particular bones, all of which he could fix with calendula (he knew from experience), but all of the charms had very different visual and auditory effects, none of which he’d managed to emulate.

“It was very interesting,” he said softly.

“Did you manage to fix a twig with munitum?”

“Uh, no,” Harry said sadly. That spell had a distinctive purple sheen that he couldn’t replicate.

“I see,” Pomfrey said. “I know you struggle a bit in charms, Harry. You’re very bright, but the practical applications give you trouble.”

“Uh, yeah,” Harry said, not liking where this was going.

“What I’m trying to say is…Harry, I truly don’t mean to be cruel. It’s been lovely having you visit me. But I don’t think you need regular check-ups anymore. And I think…You may want to consider other career paths.”

Harry’s mouth fell open.

“But I’m—I still have five more years at Hogwarts,” he said weakly.

“And if you were showing any signs of improvement, I would agree,” Pomfrey said. “But I’m afraid most students are recommended for medical apprenticeships in their post-OWL summer, and unless something major changes, you just aren’t on track for that. There’s no shame in being a potioneer or a botanist, Harry. I know you’re very talented in both subjects. I’d be happy to talk to some of the medical brewers I know.”

Harry nodded softly. “I’ll head to dinner, then,” he said.

“Good luck, mister Potter,” Pomfrey said, her head slightly bowed.

Harry walked to dinner like an inferius and ate mechanically, alone at the Ravenclaw table, the food tasting of bland nothing in his mouth. It was too early for any of his other friends to be in the great hall, and he was almost grateful. He wanted—needed—to talk to someone who understood him.

He needed to talk to Tom.

Somewhere in the middle of failing to enjoy a treacle tart, he decided he couldn’t wait any longer. If he was still going to help Tom, he couldn’t just let him rot in the trunk. In a way, he was almost grateful to the matron. She had given him the kick he needed.

Harry took a deep breath and walked to the dormitory. It was time for a hard conversation.

He opened his trunk gingerly and smelled the sandalwood at once, mixed with a thick current of cedar smoke that had been there since he put the book away. As soon as his fingers found the leather, a thread of orange swam into the mix.

As a show of good faith—and perhaps out of a desire to feel the full force of Tom’s sandalwood magic—he didn’t shield the diary. Harry realized he was inhaling more deeply than he had in weeks and smiled slightly. Then, steeling himself, he walked to his bed, drew the curtains, and opened the book.

Time to be brave.

++ Hi, Tom. Are you free? ++

 == I am. ==

Harry took another deep breath.

++ I’m sorry I left you alone for so long. We have a lot to talk about. ++

== I understand. I know you are a very compassionate person, and I…Like that about you. I imagine finding out about Myrtle was difficult. ==

++ I talked to her afterwards. She doesn’t forgive you, but she says she doesn’t really care and doesn’t mind if I help you get your body back. ++

The smell of sandalwood surged, and the woodsmoke fell away.

== You’re still willing to help me? ==

++ We need to establish two things, first. ++

Woodsmoke crept back into Tom’s magic.

== What are those things? ==

++ I need you to promise me that if you ever hurt anyone again, you’ll have a reason that you can say to my face and not be ashamed of. ++

== You’re not asking me not to hurt anyone. You’re just asking me to justify it. ==

++ Justify it to me, Tom, not to yourself. Or someone else, if you want to be friends with someone else too. Someone who also has a moral compass. ++

== I don’t particularly want to be friends with anyone else. Are we friends? ==

++ Of course, Tom. Aren’t we? ++

Cinnamon surged, followed by black pepper, followed by an even stronger wave of cinnamon, which made Harry’s heart ache.

A muggle orphanage in the 1940s was probably not kind to a magical child. Tom had probably never had a friend before, except maybe Euryale, and wonderful as she was, she was still a millennia old giant snake. That was no substitute for a human friendship.

== Yes, then. We are friends, Harry. ==

Harry beamed at the diary, and knew Tom could feel his joy.

++ Anyway, if you ever hurt anyone, you need to be able to justify it. No accidents or reckless endangerment. If you need to defend yourself or someone else, I wouldn’t expect you to take it lying down, or if you know someone is planning something awful you should of course stop it. But no more fatal accidents, okay? Can you promise that? ++

== I promise that any violence I commit will have a good reason that I would not be ashamed to tell you. ==

Harry sighed.

++ Good. That was the hard one. I think. Anyway. This requires a lot of background. ++

== My time is yours, as always. ==

++ First off, you should know that I am a parselmouth. ++

Harry had thought the cinnamon was strong earlier.

Now it felt like someone had shoved an entire tree’s worth of bark up his nose.

== You are? I thought I was the only one in Britain. ==

++ Well, you were in your time, but not now. ++

Suddenly woodsmoke cut sharp and heavy through the cinnamon.

== You went to the Chamber. ==

++ I met Euryale. She’s wonderful, and she cares very much for you. We’ve been trying to work on a way to get you back to your body. ++

== I see. ==

Harry paused again, his hand shaking slightly.

++ Did you know that your older self is Voldemort? ++

The woodsmoke grew stronger.

The diary was blank for a long moment.

When Tom’s handwriting blossomed, it was even more perfect than usual.

== I did. It was a name I had imagined for myself already when I was sealed in here, and I made the connections. But—believe me—I would never attack you or your family now. I promise. ==

++ I know, Tom. I’m not mad. I’m not even mad that you didn’t tell me. ++

The diary’s magic swirled with orange.

== Why aren’t you mad? ==

++ Two reasons. First, it’s not you, is it? As far as I’m concerned, you and Voldemort are like twins who grew up together until the age of fifteen and then were separated. Voldemort made his choices, but you haven’t had that chance yet. ++

Cinnamon crept into the smoke again.

== That is a very kind analogy. ==

++ It’s accurate. The second reason is that Voldemort is mad, as you know, but you are not. Do you know why he lost his mind? ++

Tom paused for a long time.

== I do. ==

Black pepper curled in the air.

== My, as you say, twin brother split his soul again after making me. He did it six more times, so there are eight pieces. I have re-done some of the arithmancy from memory, and I suspect that having so little soul induces some…irrationality, to say the least. In fact, I suspect that I suffer from a very mild version of this problem. Voldemort, who has less than one-sixty-fourth of a human soul, would be nothing short of mad. ==

++ Tom, I’m sorry, but I have to ask. If I bring you back, will you go mad in the same way? ++

== I will not split my soul again. I will not get any less rational than I am now. If I could find some of my other pieces, there is a possibility I could absorb them. It would be potentially difficult, however. ==

++ Why is that? ++

== To re-absorb a soul piece—they are called horcruxes—into the main soul, one must regret what one did to make them. Leaving aside my personal feelings, I find it difficult to imagine regretting in the correct manner acts which I did not and would not commit. ==

++ That is a weird thing to think about. We’ll find another way. ++

Harry sighed.

++ But it’s good news that you won’t go mad, then. I think you’re plenty rational enough for a body, Tom. ++

== Thank you, Harry. I’ll take that as a compliment. ==

++ It was meant as one. Also, the Chamber is magnificent. It’s been the only place I could really breathe without you around. The occlumency helped some, but things have been hard. ++

Woodsmoke and cinnamon curled around him.

== I am glad that I can help you now. ==

Harry smiled.

He had missed Tom.

== You were upset when you picked me up. Was this conversation why, or was something else bothering you? ==

Harry flushed, suddenly remembering why he had worked up the courage to talk to Tom again in the first place.

++ Talking to you was more important, but yeah, I was upset. Pomfrey told me I should consider other career paths. As in, she told me I shouldn’t be a healer. Because I can’t do a lot of charms. ++

Harry felt a little bad for how much he enjoyed the rush of Tom’s black pepper anger.

== She is a fool, then. ==

++ From her perspective, it makes sense, I suppose. ++

== She must surely know about your performance in the dueling club, though. Or the event that you mentioned from your first year, when you saved Neville Longbottom from falling off a broom? No, she is just impatient and blind. I am sorry, Harry. ==

++ I have no idea what I’d want to do if I don’t become a healer. I mostly just want to keep doing experiments. But most of my magic is illegal. I suppose I could apply for my alchemy license, but that’d take years. She said I could be a medical brewer, but I don’t really want to brew the same three potions every day. ++

== It would be a waste of your talents. When I get a body, I can find people who would pay you for your work as an independent scientist and could be trusted to keep quiet about your abilities. ==

Harry stared at the diary.

++ I mean, I do have money, I just want something to do with myself. And I wouldn’t want to put that much pressure on you. ++

== Nonsense. It would be the least I could do, if you get me out of this book. ==

++ You don’t owe me anything for that. I mean, I could always give you to someone else, and you’d get your body back that way—if anything, I’m standing in your way. ++

Harry was not expecting the anger that statement elicited.

== Do not give me to anyone else, Harry. ==

++ I won’t! ++

== You are not standing in my way. If you can get me my body back in a more humane way, not only will I not have to cover up a murder immediately upon my return to life, but it would also be almost certain proof that you can make a philosopher’s stone. Logically, this is the best choice. ==

Harry raised an eyebrow at the book.

++ Logically. ++

Tom’s reply was written in oddly small handwriting, though it was still as neat as ever.

== I may also not want to alienate you. Because we are friends. ==

Harry laughed.

++ That’s good, Tom. I like you too. ++

Jasmine joined the scent of Tom’s magic.

== How have you been since we spoke? Discovering my “brother’s” misdeeds aside, of course. ==

++ Besides the constant crippling nausea, alright. Ravenclaw is in the lead for the quidditch cup, I’ve started reading some of the texts about runes in the Chamber, and I gave Euryale a bath. ++

== I doubt my mad self is coming to see her often. ==

++ He is not. Which is fortunate for me, as I don’t really want to meet him again for a while. Both Euryale and I prefer you. ++

Tom’s joy was lovely in Harry’s head.

++ Oh, and Lockhart is getting worse, somehow. I have no idea why he hates me so much—I think he might just be a sadist, honestly. ++

Black pepper joined Tom’s magic.

== If you want, I have a theory about how we might get rid of him. ==

++Does it involve feeding him to Euryale? I might be down for that, but she says she doesn’t like the way people taste. ++

Jasmine laughter filled his nose, and Harry smiled.

== Have I corrupted you, Harry? No, it doesn’t involve feeding him to Euryale. ==

++ I only have a few more months of term. I think I can just wait for the curse to get him. ++

== Curse? ==

++ At some point, the defense position was cursed. No teacher has lasted more than a year in nearly two decades. ++

== By who? ==

++ I have no idea. ++

Something Euryale had said tickled in the back of his mind.

++ Wait—I think it was Voldemort. Euryale said he applied for a position here and was turned down. ++

== That does seem…Like something I might do, if my logic was inhibited. ==

++ You think the curse is illogical? ++

== Of course. It’s punishing my potential future allies for something I presume Dumbledore did. Much better to find a way to ruin the old fool without hurting the minds of the youth. ==

Harry smiled.

++ Are you sure it’s not me who’s corrupted you? ++

== Pure logic, my dear. ==

Harry blushed slightly at the endearment.

== If you decide you do want to get rid of Lockhart, just let me know. And don’t be alone with him. ==

++ Why? ++

== I don’t want to frighten you. I’ll tell you if you decide to do something about him. ==

++ Alright then, mister mysterious. I need to get some sleep—I haven’t had a decent night in two months, though I suppose that’s my fault. Can I give you something to read? ++

== It was my fault far more than yours, Harry. I would love something to read. Do you have any books on recently passed laws? ==

Harry laughed.

++ Just a bit of light reading? Sure. Just a moment. ++

Harry went to his trunk and pulled out one of his books on recent Wizengamot rulings, then pulled a leaf from the haworthia he kept by his bed. Flipping to a new page in the diary, he transferred the entire very thick book in a few moments.

++ Goodnight, Tom. ++

== Goodnight, Harry. Thank you. ==

Chapter Text

++ Good morning, Tom! Can I ask you something? ++

== Good morning, Harry. Of course. ==

++ I was talking to Hermione yesterday, and she seemed a bit down, so I asked her what was wrong. It turned out Pansy was being rude to her in the bathroom. Anyway, that’s not relevant. The point is, are you okay? ++

== What do you mean? I haven’t noticed any changes to my functioning. Did something happen to the diary? ==

++ No, nothing like that. I mean, you’re stuck in a diary. I realize I’ve been sending you books and talking to you, but I want to know if there’s anything else I can do. You know. To make it more bearable. ++

Cinnamon filled Harry’s head.

== You can always talk to me more often. Otherwise, I enjoy it when you are happy, or when you are flying. ==

Harry blushed.

++ Tom, you can’t feel my pain, can you? I hope I’m not hurting you every time I bang my foot on something. ++

== I do not experience your pain, no. It does upset me, though. I know when you are hurt, and I wish you weren’t. ==

++ You’re sweet. ++

== I am not sweet. I will have to restrain myself if I get to see you play quidditch, as I may kill the beaters. ==

Harry grinned, then frowned at himself for grinning, then grinned again.

He knew Tom wasn’t joking. He also knew that if he asked Tom not to kill the beaters, he wouldn’t.

He was also a little flattered—just a little—that he would have to ask. No one had ever looked out for him—protected him—before. Not even his friends, as wonderful as they were.

++ Like I said, sweet. Please don’t kill the beaters, though. ++

== The offer stands. You need only ask. ==

++ Well, you can ask me if you need anything. That was the point of this conversation, not quidditch-motivated-murder. ++

== Hm. May I have your potions textbook? I would like to see if there have been any innovations in brewing in the last fifty years. ==

++ I’ll go get it. ++

== Thank you, Harry. I hope you have a good day. ==

++ Thanks, Tom. ++

The rest of the term was much improved in Harry’s opinion. Thanks to Tom’s presence, Harry’s appetite returned, which made his friends very happy. Harry continued to perform poorly in charms and defense (the former of which was in spite of his and Tom’s best efforts, while the latter was something of an intentional protest), but Harry didn’t mind so much, as everything else was going so well.

Professor Sprout had finally made good on her promise to let him into the fifth-year greenhouses, and Harry had adopted a whole brood of chomping cabbages, who now refused to be fed by anyone else. Thanks to the sky-ceiling in the Chamber, Harry finished his astronomy homework in record time, and he’d started experimenting with planetary influences on his rituals. He, Hermione, and Theo were constantly battling for top spot in potions, which Harry found quite fun, and he listened to Tom rant about history so much that Harry had gotten outstandings on every assignment in the class that year. History was much more fun when Tom was making all of the players into heroes and villains.

Harry had also officially achieved “transfiguration prodigy” status in McGonagall’s eyes. To prevent a repeat of her talk with him at the start of the year, he always made sure to set a timed transfiguration spell (hourglass sand and butterfly chrysalis) to turn things back, unless it was originally alive—in which case, Harry just stole the former animal with the help of a dash of glass rose to turn it invisible and ‘forgot’ to turn it in at the end of class. He felt a little bad about how many small animals he had killed in the course of doing transfiguration, but not enough to want to fail the class. He was also a little concerned about fourth year, when they would start turning objects into animals, but that was a long way off.

Ravenclaw’s last quidditch match arrived in mid-May, when they would be facing Gryffindor. The lions were the other team in the running for the cup after Ravenclaw’s defeat of Slytherin in February, as the Gryffindors had beaten Hufflepuff quite handily and lost to Slytherin by only a narrow margin thanks to excellent chaser work. If Ravenclaw won, however, the eagles would take the cup.

The morning of the match, Jenks gave the team her usual pep talk over breakfast.

“Towler’s a shit seeker. Harry, catch that thing. Inglebee, Zhao, keep an eye on Harry. Let’s go.”

Harry beamed at her.

An hour later, he was tucking the diary into his robe and heading out onto the pitch. It was a cloudy day—threatening rain—but that was all the more reason to catch the snitch quickly. Jenks shook hands with Oliver Wood, and then they were off.

Harry whipped around the pitch as fast as he could, scanning the area quickly, carefully not thinking about how long it might be until he was next on a broom. Kenneth Towler, the Gryffindor seeker, shadowed him as closely as he could, but Harry was smaller, lighter, and on a better broom, so Towler wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping up.

Gryffindor scored twice in the first five minutes, but Wood managed to keep out Ravenclaw’s shots. Harry let it flow over him like water, breathing in the fresh spring air and Tom’s sandalwood magic.

Then Harry saw it: a golden flash hovering over Lee Jordan’s head.

He grinned and flew straight at the announcer.

“Katie Bell racing down the pitch—Potter, what are you—”

Harry pulled up at the last second, snatching the snitch with his arm hanging down off of his broom. He flew up and did a few loops for fun, the golden ball held aloft in his hand.

“While recklessly endangering the announcer, it seems that the Ravenclaw seeker has gotten the snitch,” Jordan grumbled.

The two-thirds of the stands in blue erupted in cheers. Harry landed in a huddle with his teammates, who were all cheering (except Jenks, who was smiling mildly, which was as good as a manic episode from her). Madame Hooch carried out the quidditch cup to them.

Jenks took it and passed it to Harry, who held it reverently as it started to rain.

“I told Angela when you tried out that we would win, and we did,” Jenks said, looking immensely proud. “Fuck those protagonists in Gryffindor. Today is for the eagles.”

Harry grinned, and all he could smell was cinnamon.

As much as Harry enjoyed the party that they threw in the common room that afternoon, it soon became a little too much noise. Even now—eight months later—he was still struggling with crowds after his long summer in total solitude and silence. After an hour, he snuck out, intending to head for the Chamber to do a little studying for exams the following week.

As he walked, he came to the corridor where Lockhart had his private offices. There was a noise inside, and the door opened. A sixth-year Hufflepuff girl stepped out, her expression oddly blank, her footsteps shaky.

That’s not good.

Harry waited for the door to close, then quickly followed her until she rounded a corner into a different hallway.

“Excuse me?” Harry called after her.

“Hm? Yes?” She said, turning back to him. Her eyes were glassy; she seemed to not quite see him.

“Why were you in Lockhart’s office?”

“I wasn’t in Lockhart’s office, silly,” she said, blinking slowly. “Why would I go there? I was just in the library.”

“I saw you come out of his office, just now,” Harry said.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “I remember perfectly well that I just came here from the library.”

“But the library is on the other side of the castle. Where are you going?”

“…To the library,” she said, her mouth dripping down into a frown. “I’m going back to the library.”

“Why did you leave in the first place, then?”

“I…don’t know,” she said. “I need to go, okay? Bye,” she said, hurrying away.

The smell of cedar smoke was a mirror to his racing heart and churning stomach.

That’s not right. That’s definitely not right. Did Lockhart—

Oh, Merlin.

Harry looked around and then hurried into the nearest closet, setting a small fire above his head so that he could see and pulling out a quill and ink from his bag.

++ Tom. ++

== Harry, what’s wrong? ==

++ What was your theory about Lockhart? ++

== I will kill him if he touched you. ==

++ I’m fine. He didn’t. I’m fine. ++

== Take your time, darling. It’s okay. ==

Harry took a deep breath.

++ I was heading to the Chamber and I saw a girl coming out of his office. She looked really out of it and she didn’t seem to realize she had even been in there. ++

Tom’s black pepper anger surged.

== I had hoped it wasn’t so bad. I shouldn’t have been so optimistic. It would be just like Dumbledore to hire a predator. ==

++ How is he doing it? ++

== I suspected that Lockhart is using memory charms to write his books, by interviewing real people and erasing their memories before taking credit for their work. One of the clues was how he reacted to you asking for an occlumency book—it’s one of the only ways to protect yourself against a memory charm. Anyone who can perform a memory charm like that can almost certainly perform an imperius curse—they are closely related. From what you’ve described, I suspect Lockhart is using the curse to get what he wants. ==

Harry shuddered, curling further into the wall of the broom closet.

++ We need to do something, Tom. ++

== I agree. However, you cannot be alone with him, Harry. Don’t confront him by yourself. If you see him while you are alone, you must run. ==

++ I…Okay. ++

== Good. Now, here’s what you’re going to do… ==

Fifteen minutes later, Harry was standing in front of the door to Snape’s office. He took a deep breath and knocked softly.

“Come in,” a voice drawled from the other side. Harry steeled himself and opened the door, revealing Snape seated behind his desk, reading an essay. The walls of the room were covered with endless shelves of dead things, which didn’t bother Harry nearly as much as he thought it might. In fact, part of him wondered just what those floating eyeballs or mysterious talons could do if offered to his magic.

“Mister Potter,” Snape said, raising an eyebrow. “What are you doing here? I cannot give you any hints for the exam, no matter how much you may care about your grade.”

Harry took a deep breath and ignored Snape’s jibe.

“It’s about Lockhart, sir. I think that he’s hurting students.”

Snape stood and walked around to the front of his desk, his face suddenly very serious.

“Do you have proof?”

“I can get it, sir, if you’d be willing to come with me. While disillusioned.”

Snape raised an eyebrow at him.

“And why would this not be entrapment, mister Potter?”

“If he does something bad to me, does it matter if you’re there or not, or why you’re there?”

For the first time Harry had ever seen, Snape’s lips curled up in a slight smile.

“Very well, mister Potter. Lead on.”

Harry nodded and left the dungeons. Behind him, Snape vanished, though Harry could still smell his rosemary and ocean spray magic under Tom’s cedar anxiety. He pressed on until he reached Lockhart’s office, raised a hand, and knocked.

“Enter,” came Lockhart’s voice. Harry opened the door, leaving it hanging wide, and stepped through with the invisible Snape on his heels. Then he shut it softly.

Lockhart was reclining in a large desk chair, looking utterly unbothered. From the walls, several dozen other versions of him stared down at Harry. It took all of his willpower not to shudder.

“I saw you with the Hufflepuff girl,” Harry said as soon as the door was closed.

Lockhart’s face assumed a mask of mild amusement.

“I don’t know what you are talking about—maybe one of the many students I’ve tutored? I assure you, mister Potter, I am a fair grader, regardless of who I assist.”

“I know about the memory charms,” Harry said, more firmly. “I know you faked everything in your books. And I know you’ve been using the imperius curse to take advantage of students.”

Lockhart’s smile froze.

“I never touched that girl.”

“Then why did you make her forget she was ever in here? I’ll give my memories for testimony, I’ll tell the Ministry under veritaserum—”

“Enough,” Lockhart snapped. “If you must know, kid, her family happens to be the owners of several unique treasure maps which they refuse to make use of. Honestly, if they weren’t going to find Morgana’s belt, someone ought to. Is that really so bad?”

Harry blinked at him. He couldn’t tell if Lockhart was lying under the overwhelming hairspray scent of his magic. Even if he was telling the truth, Harry couldn’t just let him rob the student body blind.

“Yes! You can’t seriously think—she’s going to think she’s been going mad! How many times did you do this to her? Or other students?”

Lockhart grinned. There were so many teeth.

“A few times. There’s really no harm in it, Harry, you see. Now—I wonder what family secrets you might have? Imperio,” Lockhart said. “Or maybe I’ll just make you jump off the astronomy tower,” he added idly.

For a moment, Harry was floating in euphoria.

Then:

“Stupefy!”

Harry came back to earth. Snape was standing over Lockhart’s prone body, his face in a mask of fury such as Harry had never seen.

“Three hundred points to Ravenclaw,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Now go eat some chocolate. You may be called to testify later.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, and promptly left the office, breathing so hard he thought he might faint.

He sprinted for the Chamber.

He needed somewhere to feel safe.

Harry didn’t stop running until he was safely in one of Slytherin’s massive armchairs and as tightly curled into a ball as he could be. Then, he pulled the diary from his robes.

++ I’m alright. He tried to imperius me, but Snape stopped him right away. He said he’s been mentally manipulating students to steal their family secrets for his books—and probably because he enjoyed it. I don't know if that was all he did, but... That's what he said. ++

== Is he dead? ==

++ No, Snape stunned him. But the imperius is a mandatory sentence to Azkaban, and I know what he did to the other students will come out. He’ll be there for the rest of his life, if we’re lucky, and I’m pretty sure that’s worse than death. ++

== No more than he deserves. ==

++ I agree. ++

== I should have told you sooner what I suspected. ==

++ No, I should have asked. I told you not to tell me. I thought I was being paranoid. ++

== It’s alright, Harry. You shouldn’t have to be responsible for protecting yourself from your teachers. This is on Dumbledore. ==

Harry pressed his forehead to the book, feeling sick.

++ Tom, can we talk about something else? Could you tell me a story, or—anything. Please? ++

== Of course, darling. What would you like to hear about? I once met the centaur herd in the forbidden forest, or I could tell you about the time a griffin took up residence in the astronomy tower for a week in my second year. ==

Harry blushed.

++ Why do you call me that? ++

== Call you what, Harry? ==

++ You know. ++

== Does it bother you? ==

Harry felt the blush creep up his forehead and hesitated over his reply.

Eventually, he decided on honesty.

++ No, it doesn’t. ++

== Alright, then. How about the centaurs? ==

++ Yeah. That sounds good. Thank you, Tom. ++

== Always, Harry. The head of a centaur herd is known as the herd’s diviner… ==

Lockhart vanished the next day. That—combined with Ravenclaw’s suddenly unbelievably high point advantage—had the whole school buzzing with rumors and speculation. Unlike last year, however, Harry told his friends exactly what happened. They were almost as murderous as Tom, which was saying something.

“That bastard,” Hermione swore as Harry related the whole sordid tale to them (leaving out Tom’s involvement, of course, and making it sound like Snape just happened to overhear and swept in to rescue him).

“Are you okay, Harry?” Neville asked. “It was brave of you, but you got really lucky.”

“I’m alright,” Harry said. “I was really shaken up, but I spent some time journalling and I’m feeling better. I just feel awful for everyone who he hurt.”

“Well, he can’t do it again,” Theo said.

“I’ll write gran,” Neville said. “She’s on the Wizengamot. She’ll see him in Azkaban for life.”

Harry nodded, and they were all silent for a moment.

“Speaking of awful things,” Hermione said. “Can we talk about the fact that the house elves are enslaved? I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Harry blinked. He’d almost forgotten about Dobby after everything else that had happened—which made him feel suddenly sick. Even if the elf had tried to maim him—

Hang on. How did Dobby know about the Chamber?

The same way Draco did.

Dobby is the Malfoy’s elf.

Oh, that’s awful.

“Our families all have house elves,” Daphne said, pointing at herself, Theo and Neville. “They seem perfectly happy. Well, at least, mine and Neville’s are.”

Theo grimaced.

“Actually—No, Hermione’s right to bring this up. The elf thing has been bothering me for a while. I hate the way my father treats our elves. Do you have an idea of how we could change things?”

Hermione beamed at him, her hair haloing around her in a massive cloud.

“Wait, but they like serving wixen,” Daphne said, confused. “And they need the magic we feed them to survive, since they don’t have Cores.”

“How does that work?” Harry asked.

“No idea,” Daphne said.

Harry made a note to definitely ask Tom later.

“They do like serving. As far as I know, their creation makes it basically part of their nature to keep a house,” Hermione said, nodding. “They’re born from homes with loving families in them. But it is not in their nature to be slaves. They used to be able to leave if they were mistreated, and find a different home. The problem was some families found this too risky. Their house elves would take their family secrets with them if they left. In 1903, a law was passed, requiring elves to be bound to a family. Before that, they served of their own free will.”

“Oh,” Daphne said, looking mildly horrified. “But how would you fix that? Won’t wizards object to having elves that can spill their secrets?”

“Well, I’m still thinking about it,” Hermione said.

“Magical employment contracts,” Harry said at once. “Theo, didn’t you say that’s what is done for human secretaries who work for wixen families? You could establish a bureau of elvish rights in the ministry, staffed by wizards and elves, that would review employment contracts for the elves. If a family and elf agree, the contract could contain secrecy provisions.”

“But wouldn’t all of the families just ask for secrecy then? What if an elf doesn’t want to keep secrets?” Hermione asked.

“Then the elf could go work for a different family,” Harry said. “And families that did want privacy and elvish servants would have to offer more generous contracts, to attract the elves who would be okay with secrecy. The ministry and Hogwarts could also support a lot of elves who don’t find a family they want to work for.”

“You’re suggesting something like an NDA,” Hermione said. “But we have to ensure they’re not sworn to secrecy about their own treatment, so that they can speak out if the family is bad and warn other elves.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, nodding. “I’d imagine there’d have to be a bunch of regulations, like elves being able to speak out against violence done in the household, even if it’s not to them. I’m not saying it’s perfect, but it could be a start.”

“What’s an NDA?” Theo, Daphne and Neville said at once.

“Never mind,” Hermione said, smiling. “This is brilliant! You’re so smart, Harry. Really. Now I just need to go find some elves to try out the idea on.”

“I’ll help,” Theo said at once. “I think this is a great idea.”

“Thanks, Theo,” Hermione said, smiling shyly at him.

Oh-ho, Harry thought, exchanging knowing glances with Daphne. That’s new.

With the combined might of his very intelligent friends and Tom, the quintet sailed through their exams (with the exception of Harry and his nemesis, charms).

Afterwards, Harry was finally forced to confront what was coming: the summer, and a return to the smallest bedroom in the worst house in hell. The morning after their final exam, he mailed out a massive owl order for non-perishable food, then found a nook high in one of Hogwarts’ many towers and pulled out the diary. He looked at the leather cover for several long minutes before opening it.

He needed advice. He needed Tom’s advice.

But he’d never told anyone what the Dursleys were really like. Part of him still thought that their actions were, if anything, reasonable responses to his magic. In some senses, he wasn’t all that different to Lockhart, though his stomach churned at the comparison. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that if he had just been better, somehow, none of the awful things they’d done would have happened to him. In the end, he was ashamed.

Ashamed of what he’d done. Ashamed of what they’d done to him. Ashamed that he’d let it happen, and ashamed for blaming himself.

But Tom would understand, wouldn’t he? Or, at least, he’d try.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, tugging on it just to feel something solid below his hands.

The person who knew him best, cared for him most, was possibly, slowly, becoming his best friend—

Was a mildly murderous sentient diary.

Harry sighed and opened the book.

++ Hi, Tom. How are you? ++

== I’m alright, Harry. What has you so worked up? ==

++ I want to tell you something. ++

== Of course. ==

++ First, why don’t house elves have cores? ++

Jasmine amusement filled the air.

== Feel free to procrastinate all you want if it means that you keep talking to me. House elves simply don’t have Cores; it is a fact of their species. That means, if you remember, that they have no way of converting energy to magic. Instead, they feed on ambient magic produced by the wix they live with and use that to cast their spells. Without such sustenance, they weaken and begin to age. ==

++ House elves are immortal? ++

== Merely ageless. They can die of injuries. ==

++ Still. That’s interesting. ++

== Yes, but they are ageless due to the nature of their binding to magic. To achieve their version of immortality, a wix would have to give up the ability to independently convert energy to magic, through a Core or through rituals. ==

++ Not worth it, then. ++

== Not at all, I agree. ==

++ Is that natural magic, then? I remember you said it was a third category of magic. ++

== No—house elf magic is not in any of the categories, per se, because they don’t have source or conversion components, just will to direct the magic they absorb. Recall that all magic requires a source of energy, a conversion from energy to magic, and something to direct that magic. Natural magic is what happens when a being’s soul itself is a converter.

The types of magic this allows are usually more limited; natural magic is the kind of magic most creatures have, like dragons’ fire. Souls are not as flexible as cores or rituals, but they can be very powerful. This is also how parseltongues are created: a ritual binds the power to the souls of a line. Though the ritual is the initial catalyst, after the soul is modified, the transformation from energy to magic occurs in the soul. ==

++ Oh! This must be what my phoenix fire is. ++

== Harry. What are you talking about? ==

++ Didn’t I tell you? Oh, goodness, you’re right. I didn’t. I can’t use a wand, of course, so it was useless to me to have more than a nice-looking stick. I offered the phoenix feather in my wand to my magic, and I can now create fire at will, and I can’t be burned. It’s green, it’s really pretty. ++

Orange and cinnamon and jasmine mixed beautifully in Harry’s nose.

== Every time I think you’ve reached your peak, Harry, you surprise me yet again. Add this to the list of things you will show me someday. ==

++ Of course. Does house elf magic trigger the trace if used near underage wix? Does natural magic trigger it? ++

== The trace is idiotically imprecise—yes. Any magic done in the presence of underage wix, regardless of source, will trigger the trace, with the sole exception of apparition. The alerts are ignored for people from wixen families, of course. ==

Harry felt his mouth twist in disappointment. He couldn’t apparate—that was Core magic—and apparently there would be no getting out of the summer by burning the Dursley’s house down.

Not that he would have done that, of course.

++ So pure bloods are practicing over the summers. ++

== Of course they are. ==

++ Why is apparition an exception? I know it won’t trigger the trace, though—when Dobby first visited me, he apparated into my room, but the trace wasn’t triggered. ++

== It was apparently easy to make a loophole for, and the ministry was tired of responding to calls of underage magic when an adult wix happened to apparate into the neighborhood of a muggleborn child. ==

++ One more question: can people really renounce their magic? ++

== Yes. If a wix does not use magic for many years, their magical core can begin to atrophy, like a muscle. Eventually, the Core will die. I am not sure if this applies to you, but for any Core wixen, the principle holds. ==

++ You know so much, Tom. It’s one of the many things I like about you. ++

== The hat briefly considered me for Ravenclaw as well, but in the end, it wasn’t a hard choice to send me to the snakes. Many things you like about me, you say? Would you like to list some more? ==

Harry snorted.

++ I like that you’re very humble. ++

== That is widely considered to be one of my virtues by people who do not know me at all. ==

++ Okay, fine. I like your handwriting. ++

== My handwriting? ==

++ I think you can tell a lot about a person from their handwriting. Yours is really neat and beautiful. I like that you appreciate beauty, and that you probably worked hard to make it so nice. I like the way it changes when you feel very strongly, but still maintains the same character. I think it fits you really well, because you’re so good at saying the right thing, and it makes sense that your handwriting should be as pretty as your words. ++

The diary hummed with cinnamon magic.

== I could get used to being complimented so sweetly. ==

Harry grinned and rolled his eyes.

++ Yeah, yeah. You’re ridiculous. ++

== Only for you. Now, what did you really want to talk about, Harry? ==

Harry took a deep breath.

++ I want to talk to you about my relatives. ++

Chapter Text

++ I want to talk to you about my relatives. ++

A hint of woodsmoke crept into the air.

== I remember that you described them as horrible. ==

++ I’m just going to tell you, if that’s okay. I’m sorry if this is a ramble. ++

== Go ahead, Harry. I’m here to listen. ==

++ I know you were raised in an orphanage in a war, so my relatives can’t possibly be worse than that. And it’s my fault, anyway, really, that they’re bad. ++

== I guarantee that it is not your fault, but please continue. ==

++ No, it is. I used lavender on them, like I said, and I…made them do things. I made my aunt give me the spare bedroom so I could stop sleeping in the cupboard and I made her let me grow plants in the backyard, and then I made her take me to Diagon alley so I could get my school things. I’m just like Lockhart, really. ++

The smell of black pepper was like a slap in the face.

== Harry. Please. Tell me you don’t believe that. You are nothing like him. ==

++ But I— ++

== All of the things you asked for sound like things that they should have done. You slept in a cupboard? When they had a spare room? ==

++ They had two spare rooms. ++

A fresh wave of black pepper.

== Harry. ==

++ But I hurt them. ++

== They hurt you first. I told you before, didn’t I? You were just protecting yourself. ==

Harry swallowed.

He hadn’t known how badly he needed to hear that from someone he trusted as much as he now trusted Tom.

++ Do you mean that? ++

== Of course. You did nothing wrong. I promise you. No sane person would see a child in a cupboard and begrudge them finding a way out. ==

Harry shivered slightly.

++ I used to use lavender to make them stop hitting me. ++

He had no idea why he wrote that.

He just needed to say it.

Black pepper and cinnamon rolled from the diary, making Harry feel warm. He could feel Tom’s righteous anger in his bones.

== I hate not having a body. I want to help. ==

++ I just…I have to go back, in the summer. In a few days. Last summer, they locked me in my room for the entire break. I…Went a little insane. They broke my glasses and I couldn’t see anything and they didn’t really feed me. I don’t know if I can do it again. I ordered a bunch of food to hide in my trunk this time, but…I don’t know if I can do it. ++

He hung his head.

++ I’m so sorry, Tom. Here I am, complaining about two months in a room, and you’ve been in there for fifty years. I don’t mean to be such a crybaby. ++

== Harry. Please. I don’t get hungry in here, and I can see, at least. You’re describing torture. You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve that. ==

I didn’t deserve that.

Hermione said I wasn’t a bad person.

Hell, Myrtle said it.

It settled in his bones.

Maybe…I’m not a bad person. Maybe no one is, really.

++ I don’t want to go back. ++

There was a long pause. Waves of black pepper crashed over him.

== You don’t have anywhere else to go, do you? ==

++ No, I don’t. I…Was going to ask Dumbledore if I could stay here, over the summer. Just in case. ++

== I asked my headmaster the very same thing, once. He said no. ==

++ I’m sorry, Tom. He shouldn’t have turned you away. ++

== You shouldn’t be turned away, either, but I doubt Dumbledore cares much for what’s correct. How is your occlumency coming? ==

++ Alright? I doubt I could keep him out if he really tried, but I could probably withstand a cursory attack. ++

== It’s up to you, Harry. If there’s the slightest chance it will get you away from those disgusting muggles, I think you should take it. But be careful. ==

++ I’m going to leave you in my trunk. Just in case. ++

== I should go with you. ==

++ He can’t find you, Tom. I know he’d hurt you, and I can’t deal with that. I can’t. ++

Tom’s black pepper felt more frustrated than angry. Harry could only imagine him itching at his bonds.

== Very well. But you’ll write to me as soon as you get back. ==

++ I will. Thank you for listening to me, Tom. ++

== Always, Harry. Always. And when you get back, we can talk about what you’re going to do. ==

Harry left Tom in the dormitory, locked at the bottom of his trunk and warded with the strongest tea tree shield he could make.

He felt like he was walking to his death.

It was still early enough in the day that most of the students were in their dormitories, lazing in a post exam stupor. Harry was grateful for the clear corridors, as it gave him time to rehearse what he was going to say to Dumbledore. He was so distracted by the conversation in his mind, in fact, that he ran straight into Lucius Malfoy, who was also walking towards Dumbledore’s office.

Harry stumbled back and blinked up at the tall man. His blonde hair looked like sheets of silk—he must be using some sort of potion on it, because no muggle had hair that shiny.

“Mister Potter,” Malfoy said. “How convenient.”

Harry swallowed and didn’t meet Malfoy’s eyes.

“Are you here to see Dumbledore?”

“In part,” Lucius said.

Harry heard a squeak and looked down to see Dobby standing behind Malfoy’s robes, his bulbous eyes extra wide with terror. Harry met Dobby’s gaze and then looked back up at Lucius’ cheekbone.

“Did you want to speak with me?”

“My son seems to be under the impression that you have come into the possession of a diary,” Malfoy said.

“I didn’t think a Lord like you cared about school gossip,” Harry said softly.

“That diary belongs to me, Potter. Where is it?”

“Why would I know? I told your son I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“I know you have it,” Malfoy hissed, leaning over Harry. “I will have it back, Potter. Mark my words.”

“Why did you lose it in the first place, then? If this diary is supposedly so important to you.”

“Don’t play coy with me. I know it is here in the castle. I know you stole it from the Weasley girl. I will ask one more time: what have you done with it?”

Harry glanced at Dobby again, biting his lip. He wasn’t going to give up Tom for anything, obviously. But Malfoy clearly already knew the diary was in the castle. Maybe he could play a little trick and get Dobby free in the process.

“What’s the information worth to you?”

Lucius Malfoy leaned back, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Interesting,” Malfoy said. “But you are not in a position to bargain.”

“Oh, yes, I am,” Harry said, faking confidence he didn’t feel. “You want to know what I know. I could just walk up the hall and get Dumbledore if you bother me. So, what’s it worth to you? How about…You free your house elf? You don’t seem to like him very much anyway. Dobby, would you like to be free?”

“I would be liking that very much, sir,” Dobby squeaked.

“What? I can’t give you Dobby, fool,” Malfoy sneered.

“Because he knows too much. Sure. Did you know he’s been running around behind your back all year, telling people your secrets? He’s come to me with them multiple times.”

Lucius’ eyes bulged. Harry grinned at him.

“Wouldn’t it be better to just bind him not to talk and let him go? Draw up a secrecy contract; I’ll wait.”

Malfoy stared at him, shot a vicious glare at the quivering elf, then laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.

“Why didn’t I think of that before—are you sure you’re not a Slytherin, boy? Very well. Not having the elf would be a blessing.”

He pulled his wand from his pocket and waved it, muttering several complicated phrases. A piece of paper and a quill appeared.

“Let me read it—Dobby, can you read?” Harry asked

“Dobby can be reading, sir,” the elf said. Harry nodded, looking over the contract—it seemed reasonable to him; no sharing the details of the Malfoy’s affairs—and handed it to Dobby, who also read it and nodded, his eyes shining.

“Sign, elf,” Lucius said, handing him a quill. Dobby signed.

“Now free him,” Harry said.

Lucius sneered and conjured a sock, then gave it to Dobby.

“Dobby is a free elf,” the elf gasped. “Thank you, Harry Potter. Thank you.”

Dobby looked at Harry, then at Lucius, then back to Harry.

“Maybe Dobby should stay?”

“I’ll be alright, Dobby,” Harry said, smiling. “Dumbledore is just up the hall. But thank you.”

Dobby nodded slowly and popped away, leaving Harry alone with Malfoy.

“Now, Potter. Where is my diary?”

Harry grinned and met Malfoy’s eyes for the first time, reinforcing his occlumency shields as he did with a giddy blankness.

“I might have seen a diary,” he shrugged. “But I can’t really remember. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with the headmaster.”

And with that, Harry turned on his heel and walked away. He had no patience for anyone who could discard Tom like he didn’t matter.

He was so satisfied with his success that he hardly heard the soft whisper:

“Imperio.”

Oh Merlin, not again, he thought as euphoria and horror flooded him in equal measure. He cannot have Tom.

Retrieve the diary for me, came a thought in his mind. Harry gritted his teeth and focused on his occlumency shields, taking halting steps toward a familiar gargoyle in front of the headmaster’s office. An anchor chain seemed to be pulling him back, towards the dormitory, but he was not going to give in that easily. He could feel Lucius Malfoy standing where he had left him, his eyes burning a hole in the back of Harry’s head.

Nope. I don’t think I will, thanks, he thought back.

You WILL get it for me.

No, I won’t. If it mattered to you, you wouldn’t have lost it, Harry thought back.

He reached the gargoyle.

He had no idea what the bloody password was. Did it even have one?

“Lemon,” he gasped, the first thing that came to his mind when he thought of Dumbledore’s magic.

The stone slid away, and as it did, the euphoric haze dropped from his mind. Harry didn’t bother to think too hard about his success and leapt through the doorway. As the gargoyle slid shut behind him, he collapsed against the stone wall of the stairwell, breathing heavily. It worried him that he wasn’t sure if he was running away from danger or towards it, but he was glad to be alone in his own mind once more.

Harry took several deep, relaxing breaths, inhaling the scent of the lavender he always carried in his pocket. It was, actually, quite calming.

I shouldn’t have been able to do that, he thought numbly. I think I just threw off an imperius curse.

Maybe it wasn’t very strong?

Merlin, I need to be more careful. And I hate being controlled. I’m so sick of it. First Dumbledore, then Voldemort, then Lockhart, then Malfoy—Tom doesn’t count.

The next person who tries to mind control me is getting a face full of lavender and they’ll sleep for a year.

Harry grinned viciously at the thought of Lucius Malfoy as sleeping beauty, his long blonde hair fanned around him on a bed in a high tower, waiting endlessly for a princess who would never come. When his heart had stopped racing, he scrubbed at his slightly wet eyes and walked up the stairs. At the top, he knocked softly.

“Come in,” Dumbledore’s voice replied. Harry pushed open the heavy wooden door to the headmaster’s office.

The office was large and airy and full of objects Harry had never seen before, whirling and puttering about on various tables. It was all a little overwhelming, in Harry’s opinion; it was the kind of place he would never have been able to work in, as he would have been too busy jumping at every odd noise and strange smell.

Dumbledore seemed to have no such trouble. The headmaster was sitting in a large, high-backed chair behind the desk, reading something on a long scroll. On a perch behind the desk was a magnificently red bird with a golden beak and talons, its long tail dripping to the floor like molten metal. As Harry shut the door behind him, the bird fluttered over to land on his shoulder. Harry could feel its warmth like a furnace next to his face, its magic like woodsmoke and cardamom, and he breathed in the scent eagerly. Beneath it, Dumbledore’s lemon-and-bleach magic hovered unpleasantly.

“I have rarely seen Fawkes so taken with someone,” Dumbledore said approvingly, looking up at Harry. “Please, sit, Harry. How can I help you? The password is actually circus peanut, by the way, but you seemed distressed, so I opened the door.”

Harry nodded—that made sense, and of course the bastard had been watching him and hadn’t seen fit to help sooner. He sat in one of the hard chairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk, his fingers running gently over Fawkes’s impossibly soft plumage. The bird had to be a phoenix; nothing else would explain the humming connection Harry seemed to feel to it, as though he was being drawn toward the creature by a magnet.

Harry focused on his occlumency shields, letting his mind go blank of everything but what he was saying.

“Well, sir,” Harry said, studying Dumbledore’s left eyebrow to avoid meeting his blue eyes. “I was wondering if it would be okay for me to stay at Hogwarts for the summer holidays.”

Dumbledore sucked in a sharp breath.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Harry. I placed you with the Dursleys—”

“You gave me to them?” Harry asked, his voice sounding oddly flat behind his occlumency. Beneath the void, anger bubbled up suddenly, white-hot and peppery.

“Of course. As your only living family, staying with them helps to renew the protections of the blood wards that Lily put on you before you died.”

“Blood wards, sir?”

“Ah, yes. A bit of illegal magic, but—we would never presume to speak ill of the dead. Lily’s sacrifice placed a protection on you which saved your life during Voldemort’s attack on your family. It was that magic that stopped the killing curse. While you remain tied to Lily’s blood, you retain a portion of that protection.”

Wait, no. I’ve read all about blood wards, because I want to make some for my trunk—they don’t work like that. The protection is attached to the soul if a living person is the target. It has nothing to do with…Genetics?

Is he that ignorant…Or is he lying?

Harry tried to get a read on Dumbledore’s magic to judge his truthfulness, but he’d been too focused on his occlumency shields, and the moment had passed.

“Isn’t Hogwarts safe, sir?” Harry asked slowly.

“Of course, my boy, but we need to think of your family, too—they might be hurt. No, I’m sorry. I know how much you enjoy the library, but you cannot stay here.”

“Sir—”

“I’m afraid that’s final, Harry. Is there anything else you wish to speak with me about?”

Harry was, at this point, vibrating with anger.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and stood, still stroking Fawkes.

“That’s all, sir. Lucius Malfoy is here to see you. I’ll send him up.”

“Thank you, Harry. I hope you have a good summer.”

Harry turned his back on the headmaster and walked stiffly to the door. Fawkes crooned into his hair before flying back to his perch.

Harry walked down the stairs and found Lucius at the bottom. He grinned broadly at him and was rewarded with a bitter grimace on the man’s face in return.

“Dumbledore will see you now,” Harry said softly. You’d better hope Tom never gets out of that book, Lucius Malfoy, because he’ll probably want to kill you. And I’m not entirely sure if I’ll tell him not to.

Harry winced at his own violent thought.

Okay, I’ll tell him not to. Maybe we can just send Lucius to Azkaban. Though I’m not sure if that’s better than death, really.

Ugh. This is hard.

He was almost grateful for his moral quandary, as it kept him from thinking too deeply about the fact that, first of all, only his odd ability to throw off an imperius curse had saved Tom from being taken back the Malfoys, and second, he was facing two more months locked in a single room. At least this time he would have food.

It was now mid-morning, and as the weather had turned to beautiful spring, the Ravenclaw common room was nearly empty by the time he reached it. The only person remaining was a small blonde first-year girl that he recognized from the Ravenclaw table. Her nose was in a magazine called the Quibbler, which apparently would tell you the six secrets to growing out your earlobes. For all Harry knew, that was a thing one might want to do for some reason—wixen fashion was odd sometimes—so he didn’t think it was too unusual.

Suddenly, he remembered that she always seemed to eat alone.

“Hi,” Harry said, waving at her slightly. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Harry Potter.”

“Luna Lovegood,” the girl said. She didn’t look at his scar once; Harry liked her already. “You’re the one who bought Ginny’s diary.”

Harry blinked at her.

“Yeah. It came in handy,” he said, laughing slightly. “Are you friends with her?”

“She doesn’t insult me,” Luna said. She had magic like a spring breeze with just a hint of geranium perfume.

“Who’s insulting you?” Harry asked, frowning. He didn’t like bullies.

“Oh, people,” Luna said, waving a hand airily. “I don’t pay them much mind. If they’re mean, they aren’t worth my time, you know. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Harry. I can tell you had somewhere you wanted to be. But maybe we can talk again?”

“I’d like that,” Harry said, grinning at her. “See you around, Luna.”

Then he ran toward the dorms, the sound of Luna’s giggles just catching his ears. Oddly, the encounter had left him feeling immensely soothed.

His life had been full of a lot of moral questions this year, most of which he felt unequipped to handle. Whether or not to forgive an unrepentant friend for a horrible accident. Whether or not to be friends with an intentional murderer, ghost though she might be. Whether to act on his feelings about Lockhart. How to help the house elves without leaving them unemployed and starving. What punishment was deserved for the use of the imperius curse.

Whether or not (not, was his newfound answer) he had deserved his relatives’ abuse.

With all of that on his shoulders, it was a relief to be faced with a problem that could be solved by simple kindness.

Harry was smiling as he settled on his bed, curtains drawn, and opened the diary.

== I am glad you are safe. ==

Jasmine and cinnamon together combined to make something Harry suspected was relief.

++ Can you tell that it’s me who’s holding you? ++

== I couldn’t when we first met, but now, yes, I would know the feeling of your magic anywhere. You are happier than I would have expected. Did he say yes? ==

++ No. But I had a chance to be kind to someone, just now, and it reminded me that not everything is hard. ++

The diary’s magic shifted subtly; a new smell, something Harry thought was clove, mixed with cinnamon and a hint of orange. Harry wondered what it meant.

== So he said no. ==

++ Yes. He also… ++

Suddenly, Harry’s rage flared back into being like a physical flame, emerald fire licking at the edges of his vision.

== Harry? Are you alright? ==

++ He left me there. It was Dumbledore that left me at the Dursleys. He gave me some excuse about renewing blood wards, but either he’s stupid or lying, because that’s not how blood wards work. At least, not as far as I know, and I’ve read half of the books in Slytherin’s library about them. ++

== He claims you need to be left with your horrific genetic relatives to renew the blood wards? Does he realize that “blood” refers to the sacrifice needed, not the relationship to the recipient? I assume you are not secretly your aunt’s child, and I have never heard of such a thing as genetic wards that didn’t travel down inheritance lines. I have read all of the books in Slytherin’s library about them, as well as some in the Malfoy library. ==

Harry snapped his quill, spraying ink across the page. Cinnamon and black pepper rose from the drops.

== Harry, what’s wrong? You’re starting to make me concerned. ==

Harry pulled a spare quill from his bedside table.

His hand shook above the page. Did he want to tell Tom this, knowing what he might one day do?

++ I want you to know in advance that I was lying the whole time, and please promise me you’ll at least consider prison. ++

== You are not inspiring confidence. ==

Harry was reminded of what Tom had said earlier: You didn’t deserve that.

He sighed and began to write.

++ I saw Lucius Malfoy on the way to Dumbledore’s office. He demanded to know where you were. He already knew I had you. I figured I could kill two birds with one stone—to get him to stop looking for you and to help Dobby—so I told him I would tell him if he freed his elf. He did. I’m sorry I used you as a bargaining chip—I just figured he already knew, and I wasn’t going to give you to him, obviously. ++

Harry felt the black pepper rise in Tom’s magic.

++ I am really sorry. ++

== I am more annoyed that you would antagonize a dangerous man for other’s benefit. You should have left as soon as he started speaking. Do not do it again. ==

++ I won’t, believe me! It was a stupid idea. I know I didn’t really think it through—but the Malfoys clearly treat Dobby horribly, and I just couldn’t leave him like that. All I told Malfoy was that I might have seen you. I would never let—I mean, you don’t want to go back, do you? ++

== No, Harry. Of course not. But I assume that is not the end of your story. ==

++ He wasn’t very happy, because he already knew you were here, so I obviously hadn’t actually told him anything at all. I tried to walk away, but he put the imperius curse on me and told me to bring you to him. Hence why I now know it was a stupid idea to mess with him. ++

== He what? I will kill him. He cannot be allowed to get away with this. ==

++ I’m not sure that I want him to die. I think prison would be better. I think him dying would be more of a punishment for his family than for him, and Azkaban more of a punishment for him than for his family. His son didn’t do anything to me. He’s my age. ++

== I see. ==

Harry got the distinct impression that Tom still preferred murder.

++ Think about it, Tom. What’s worse? Death, or a lifetime in Azkaban? ++

== I suppose. But—did Dumbledore see? How are you talking to me? You feel like yourself, so I assume you are not still under the curse. ==

Harry recognized the diversion for what it was and let it happen.

++ I think I threw it off? I don’t think it was very strong, though. ++

== Harry. ==

The diary seemed to be giving off every emotion at once, slamming into Harry’s magic sense like the world’s most pleasant tidal wave. He let himself bask in the familiarity of it.

== How many times do I have to say that you are a marvel? But, again, do not antagonize men like that. Even if you do seem to do things anyone else would find impossible with alarming ease. ==

Harry grinned.

++ You can say it again. ++

== Cheeky. ==

Black pepper surged a little above the riot of other emotions.

== I haven’t forgotten this. I won’t. ==

++ I wouldn’t expect you to. I don’t think I will, either. But I don’t like the idea of taking someone’s parent away. ++

== I just want you to be safe, Harry. ==

++ I know, Tom. Thanks. You aren’t mad at me for tricking him with you? ++

The diary gave a very odd impression of orange, somehow different than Tom’s usual curiosity.

He’s curious about…Himself?

== No, I am not. I wish you understood the meaning of the words self-preservation, of course, but I’m beginning to think that cannot be helped. ==

Harry snorted.

++ Hey, I did get Snape for help with Lockhart. ++

== Yes, you did. Now, about this summer. You freed Dobby? ==

++ I did. ++

== Try calling his name. ==

Harry blinked and nodded to himself, then peeked out through the curtains at the empty dormitory. Seeing no one, he called softly:

“Dobby?”

There was a crack as the house elf appeared at the end of Harry’s bed, his eyes wide with worry.

“Harry Potter is okay! Dobby should not have doubted—but Dobby was worried, sir. If you had not thrown off the curse, Dobby would have cursed the bad Malfoy himself,” the elf squeaked.

“Thank you, Dobby,” Harry said, surprised to realize that the elf had been watching him.

Then Tom’s plan clicked in his mind.

“Can you perform side-along apparition, Dobby?” Harry asked.

“Dobby can,” Dobby said. “Is Harry Potter needing Dobby’s help?”

“Not right now,” Harry said. “But maybe this summer—I might—”

“The locked room,” Dobby said softly. “If Harry Potter calls, Dobby will come.”

Harry felt his eyes grow warm and blinked.

“Thank you, Dobby,” Harry said.

“Dobby is a free elf,” Dobby said, and vanished once more.

== I take it he came? ==

++ You’re brilliant, Tom. Thank you. ++

== I am indeed. My first suggestion would have been something quite different, but this works nicely. ==

++ I’m not killing them. I’d have to use magic for it anyway, and that would activate the trace. ++

== There are other ways—but there’s no need for that now, is there? ==

Harry rolled his eyes fondly.

++ Violence isn’t the answer, Tom. ++

== Hm. Regardless, I am glad you have a way out that doesn’t cause you pain. ==

++ Me too. Thank you. ++

== You are welcome. Now go eat something. ==

Harry laughed and tucked the diary into his robes, thinking happily of Hogwarts’ brunch.

Harry tried to make the most of his last week at Hogwarts. He spent every moment that he could with his friends, playing in the shallows of the lake, flying with Theo, or just wandering around the grounds in the spring sunlight. Neville offered to host them all for the last two weeks of summer, and Harry and Hermione eagerly accepted. Neither Theo nor Daphne could come, unfortunately, due to politics or something (Harry really, really didn’t like politics. At this point, he was more than glad to leave that to Hermione and Tom). He visited Euryale several more times, as well, as she would be alone for the summer.

Harry also told his friends about Dobby being freed, though he left out any mention of the imperius curse or Tom. He explained all about convincing Malfoy to free Dobby under contract, which Harry made sound like it was simply Malfoy’s response to the elf going behind his back to try to “help” Harry. Theo and Hermione were ecstatic at someone they could point to as an example of a free elf in their elf rights work.

“I wish we had a way to contact him,” Theo said as Harry finished his rather long explanation. Harry grinned.

“Dobby?” He called.

There was a crack, and the elf appeared suddenly in the middle of their classroom.

“Harry Potter is calling?” Dobby asked. “Hello, Harry Potter’s friends!”

“Hi, Dobby,” Harry said. “Would you be willing to talk to my friends Theo and Hermione about being a free elf? They want to help other elves like you.”

Dobby squealed with delight and clutched at his enormous ears.

“Yes, Dobby would be enjoying that very much,” Dobby said. “Thank you, Harry Potter!”

“Thank you, Dobby,” Harry said, smiling at the elf as Theo and Hermione introduced themselves.

At last, the day of departure arrived.

On a whim, Harry went to the owlry before breakfast, a short letter in hand.

-----

Dear Mr. Flamel,

My name is Harry. I’ve read quite a bit about you, and the wandmaker Ollivander once told me that we are very similar in certain ways. I would love to correspond with you, if possible.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

-----

Dumbledore might have been lying about destroying the stone, and even if he wasn’t, Flamel might still be alive. He and Tom had decided to try for a philosopher’s stone in the coming year; Tom had seemed positively overjoyed at the thought of teaching Harry ancient runes and arithmancy over the summer. If they could get Flamel’s help, they probably stood a chance of creating one.

After he sent Helena off, breakfast and the train ride flew by. All too soon, Harry was stepping down the stairs of the Express.

Vernon was waiting for him alone.

Harry blinked at him, waved to his friends one last time, and followed him out into London.

“We’re going to have a new arrangement, boy,” his uncle said. “It’s irritating to feed and wait on such an ungrateful lout. Instead, here are your rules: you may only leave your room between the hours of nine P.M. and six A.M. If you go outside, you will exit via the back door. You will make no loud noises, you will not speak to us, and you will not enter the kitchen or the rest of the house—buy your own food. Pawn some of your freak books if you need money. If you hold to these rules, we will leave the door of your bedroom unlocked. Do you understand me?”

Harry glowed.

Being nocturnal? Oh, he could handle that. Maybe he wouldn’t need to call Dobby after all.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry said, trying his best to sound defeated.

The smell of orange and cinnamon filled his lungs.

Chapter Text

It was the second day of the summer holidays, and Harry Potter was doing his best to adjust to a nocturnal lifestyle.

Honestly, he couldn’t complain about the situation. Sitting in the Dursley’s back garden in the dead of night, looking up at what stars remained visible after London’s light pollution had its way, breathing in the scent of life around him: it was so much more than he could have ever imagined having this summer.

A shape passed through the starlight, and Harry blinked as his owl, Helena, landed on his knee with a thick letter on her leg. Harry untied it quickly, his heart beating fast. He was expecting mail this early in the holiday from only one person: the famed alchemist Nicholas Flamel, who might or might not be dead.

Considering the return address on the envelope, however, the answer to the question of whether Flamel’s death had occurred was probably not.

Harry opened the letter gently, breathing in the scent of sweet sage, lemongrass and a hint of patchouli. It was the closest thing to Harry’s own magic that he had ever smelled, and even though it was not anywhere near as wonderful as Tom’s, it was better than any other he had encountered besides his own and his dearest friend’s. He lit the miniature flashlight he carried and began to read.

-----

Harry,

It is a delight to meet you. If we are indeed as similar as you say we are, you may find the second piece of paper included in this letter to be of interest. No need to send me further post.

Sincerely,

Nicholas

-----

Harry blinked at the letter, then read it again.

There was indeed another piece of paper in the envelope. Harry pulled it out and watched in awe as ink bloomed on the parchment.

-----

Hello, fellow Alchemist! If you are reading this, Harry, it is truly a delight to meet you. I have been waiting so long for someone else to join me, ever since dear Jabir decided that a millennium and a half was long enough.

I understand that your life may have been difficult up to now, what with your magic being so different from your peers. My wife Perenelle is good with rituals, but she is not an Alchemist per se—not as we are. Rest assured that I am happy to help you however I can. Have no fear, also, of offending me with your topics. I would be delighted to help you achieve immortality as you desire it, or to pursue any other branch of magic. No Alchemist should die before they are ready.

You likely have many questions. I will anticipate a few here, but feel free to ask me anything—I have not yet had the pleasure of taking an Alchemist apprentice, and I am eager to do so now.

First, you may be wondering how common our kind is. It will suffice to say that, to my knowledge, a true Alchemist—defined as a magician who can only practice ritual magic, but who can do so without a circle, and can achieve certain results beyond those any other wix is capable of—is born about once every two centuries or so. Currently the only living Alchemists are myself, Zawgyi of Myanmar (though he doesn’t like to speak with anyone besides his familiars, so you may not want to contact him), Khethiwe of South Africa (she loves to duel, and I’ve never beaten her once), Kuzunoha of Japan (she’s a riot and so sweet; you should try the animagus ritual before you meet her, she’ll adore you if you do), and Nimkii of Canada (she’s always happy to talk, but she works in muggle finance so she’s a little busy making gobs of money). There was one man from Brazil who was younger than me, but he chose to die at the end of his natural life. The five of us all have no plans to die any time soon.

Second, you should know that you must create your own Philosopher’s stone. You will be able to use it for yourself and anyone else who participates in the ritual of its creation with you. This means that you can only maintain the immortality of wix with some ritual ability, so choose your partners wisely if you intend to keep them.

Third, a note on this paper: I’ve used a bit of haworthia to duplicate the ink between my paper and this paper. When I write on my paper, it will appear here. When you write on the back, it will appear on my paper. The keying of the paper to a true Alchemist is a matter of a specially directed blood ward, with a hint of catflower to respond to your touch.

I look forward to speaking with you more, Harry. Take care.

Sincerely,

Nicholas Flamel

-----

Harry’s hands shook on the letter. He read it three more times, then opened the diary that lived eternally in his pocket.

++ Tom! ++

== Harry? ==

++ Tom! Flamel wrote back! ++

Harry was rewarded with the familiar smell of Tom’s orange curiosity and set about transcribing the letter and explaining how the paper worked. Tom was silent for a long time after Harry finished, orange and cinnamon and sandalwood chasing each other in circles in Harry’s nose.

Finally, Tom responded, in slow, careful writing.

== Harry, do you want to be immortal? ==

++ I want to live a long time. I don’t think I want to live forever, or that that’s even feasible, but a life like Flamel’s does appeal to me. I suppose I’d miss my friends, but—I spent so long alone, Tom, and even now you’re the only person who really knows me. That sounds awful, but I don’t want to get my friends hurt, and they might get hurt if I tell them the truth about myself. Anyway, yes, I do want to be immortal. As long as I didn’t get too lonely, I think there’s so much I want to do. I want to travel, and learn everything, and grow every plant there is and maybe invent some new ones, too. I want to learn to make my own brooms, too. ++

Harry paused, blushing.

++ Sorry, I rambled a bit there. ++

Cinnamon rose from the diary in waves.

== You wouldn’t have to be lonely. I could live with you. If you want, of course. ==

Harry blushed. Fortunately, no one could see him.

++ Of course I’d want that, Tom. We can be friends for centuries! That would be fun. Would you come to China with me? Sprout told me that the Summer Palace has a secret hidden magic garden, and I really want to walk the Great Wall! ++

The smell of cinnamon grew so strong, Harry thought he might be a little high on the scent.

== Of course, darling. I’ve always wanted to visit China. ==

++ I suppose you don’t want to die, as that’s why you’re in the diary? I guess I can help with that! In a more sustainable way. With less death. ++

== I much prefer your version of immortality (or eternal youth, more accurately). It is interesting that Flamel said the stone would only work for its creators, and that only a true Alchemist can make one. I suppose that is why he was fine with letting Dumbledore study it. There was no risk of anyone misusing it in the first place. ==

++ I wonder if Dumbledore really did destroy his stone. I assume Flamel has others, as it isn’t really that big of a deal if they get stolen if no one else can use them. ++

== I think that you should ask Flamel. I also think that you should be honest with him about the laws regarding alchemy and ritual magic in the United Kingdom. I get the impression from his letter that he doesn’t know that you are literally hiding your abilities. ==

++ Wow, you’re right, I hadn’t noticed that. I hope Flamel doesn’t like Dumbledore too much. ++

== If he does, I doubt he will after you tell him what the old bastard’s been up to. ==

++ Tom, you swore! ++

== Is that a problem? ==

Harry blushed.

++ No, it’s kind of…Unexpected. ++

Harry paused, face red. Knowing amusement flowed from Tom.

== I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you want a second pair of eyes for drafting a response? ==

++ Yes, please. I have no idea how to tell a centuries-old man that his maybe-friend is outlawing his magic. ++

== I’ll admit, this was not something I expected to come up in my life, but I somehow doubt it will be harder than convincing Slughorn to let an orphan half-blood into his dinner club. ==

++ Oh, I haven’t heard that story. ++

== When we’re done with the letter, I’ll tell you. I’d start with a few more academic questions… ==

As it turned out, Flamel had not been aware of the laws.

His reply, when it came a few days later, was very gratifying to both Harry and Tom.

-----

Dear Harry,

Wonderful to hear from you. I’m so glad that you’ve been able to do so much experimenting on your own.

Yes, Albus is a friend of mine, although perhaps not anymore, I must admit. It has been some decades since we last spoke in person, though we exchange letters frequently. He was my apprentice for a brief time, and though he may be among the most powerful of Core wix, he has no aptitude for ritual magic whatsoever. It saddens me greatly to hear about his spearheading of the restriction of magic in Britain. I will write him about it—have no fear, I will not mention you. Given your need for secrecy, our communication will remain strictly between us as far as I am concerned.

As to your more academic questions: yes, you would certainly be able to use a stone to help your friend get his body back. Don’t worry, I won’t ask why he has a partial soul; believe me, I have seen odder things in my day. Each stone is unique to the Alchemist, so you’ll need to modify the ritual for yourself, but I’ll describe my process here…

-----

With Flamel’s initial direction, Harry and Tom began working in earnest. The first step, of course, was for Harry to learn ancient runes and arithmancy. He had begun some cursory study in the previous year, but making a philosopher’s stone would require a full, custom-made circle, even for Harry.

++ I hope this isn’t a silly question, but what actually are runes? ++

== Not silly at all. Runes are manifestations of intent that help to guide magic. Each rune is one of three things: a representation of the natural shape of some kind of magic, a representation of an element or a being, or a ritual-bound symbol that carries some meaning given to it by ancient rituals, usually involving willing sacrifice. ==

Harry nodded, tapping the end of his quill against the diary. That made so much sense, actually. Runes channeled magic. It made sense for them to represent pathways for that magic to flow or objects and people for the magic to effect. That runes could be given meaning by ritual made sense, too: he had experience with other rituals creating natural magic, like his phoenix fire.

++ I can already tell runes is going to give herbology a run for its money as my favorite subject. ++

== I suspected you would like it. It’s a very practical, creative subject with a lot of odd interactions and nuance. Naturally, someone as brilliant and curious as you would love it. ==

Harry grinned.

++ You’re going to give me a big head. ++

== Look at it this way: I’m working against a decade of your relatives’ conditioning. And you are one of six true Alchemists in the world. Maybe you should have a little pride in yourself. ==

++ I’ll do my best. I was thinking of taking arithmancy as my second elective, of course. ++

== Yes, you’ll need that almost as much. ==

++ I like the practical bits, but the theory gets kind of dull. ++

== I can help with that. Arithmancy is one of my best subjects. ==

++ Aren’t they all your best subjects? ++

== Yes, but that doesn’t make my statement any less true. ==

Harry laughed.

++ I was also thinking of taking a third, but I’m not sure which one. I don’t need muggle studies, of course, but I’m not sure if care of magical creatures or divination would be better. I like animals a lot and I’d prefer that, but if divination is useful… ++

== I think you can take care of magical creatures. Divination is an interesting and worthwhile subject, but it’s closer to ritual magic than core magic, so I somehow doubt Dumbledore is allowing the real thing to be taught. I’ll take it when I get my body back, I think. ==

Harry’s heart sank suddenly.

++ Tom, when you get your body back—won’t Dumbledore recognize you? How on earth are we going to explain this? ++

== I’ve thought a great deal about it. I’m going to pose as my own son: Thomas Peverell. Dumbledore might be suspicious of me, but I doubt he’ll risk revealing all he knows of Tom Riddle just to target his orphan “son.” ==

++ Peverell? ++

== I took my blood test when I turned fifteen. I happen to be the heir to three pure-blood families: the Gaunts, the Peverells, and the house of Slytherin. The Peverells are the least well-known of the three, and the name died out centuries ago, so it would be the least attention-grabbing choice, but would still hold up to scrutiny. It would be a last name that I would give my son, if I had one. Thomas—because I would rather you not call me by a name that wasn’t mine. ==

Harry grinned.

++ Oh. I like your name, Tom. I’m glad I can keep using it. Although I thought that you didn’t like it? ++

== It’s a common muggle name, and when I began at Hogwarts, it felt like an albatross around my neck. And yet, given the political climate you live in and the fact that I am going to need to oppose my “father,” I think such a common muggle name may in fact be an asset. ==

Tom paused.

== You like my name? ==

++ Of course. It’s yours, it’s easy to say and it sounds nice, it’s pretty memorable—though that might just be because you’re so memorable, I suppose—you can dress it up as Thomas for politics and just let me call you Tom, too, if you like. ++

== I would like that, I think. ==

Harry smiled and blinked up at the slowly lightening air.

++ It’s almost dawn. Time for bed for me. ++

== Someday I swear we’ll both be free. ==

++ I know. But not today. ++

July passed in a lovely rush of learning runes and arithmancy with Tom—he was such a patient teacher and somehow seemed to have a perfect memory of everything he’d ever read, just like Harry did thanks to his rosemary experiment—and writing to his friends and to Flamel. Harry owl ordered books on runes and arithmancy and regular shipments of food, and he went days at a time without ever seeing the Dursleys, which he suspected was the point of their arrangement. He did wish that he had something other than wixen snack foods and the occasional fruit to eat, but compared to last summer, he was positively in paradise.

Finally, his birthday arrived. Harry had just sent Neville a subscription to Wix Weeds Weekly for the other boy’s birthday a day earlier. Now, at midnight at the start of July 31^st, Harry was overjoyed to receive several small packages in the Dursley’s pitch-dark backyard. Theo had gotten him a second miniature greenhouse, which Harry was eager to try out, as the lavender bush he was currently keeping in his first was doing so well. Daphne had sent him an extremely elegant scarf in bronze with subtle blue phoenixes on the ends; she knew that he had a special fondness for the birds. Neville had sent him a subscription to Wix Weeds Weekly, which made Harry stuff his fist in his mouth in order to stifle his own laughter. Finally, Hermione had sent him a beautiful set of wood-carved bookmarks that looked like flowers and were charmed to never fall out.

Harry had said it many times, but he loved his friends. Even if they couldn’t know everything about him, they knew his heart, and that was enough.

Harry also received his new booklist, along with a permission slip for Hogsmede, which he ignored with a sigh, as it needed a guardian’s signature. It wasn’t worth risking his delicate peace over that. He gave Helena and the other owls some treats (it was the least he could do for Helena, who’d been sleeping outside all month), then carried his haul up to his bedroom and settled in his bed—still pillow-free and sheetless, but he wasn’t complaining—to talk to Tom.

++ Hi, Tom—are you free? ++

== Of course. Happy birthday, Harry. I’m afraid I still don’t have hands, so presents will have to wait. ==

++ I can be patient, Tom. But I don’t need presents from you. You’re the one person I can be honest with. That’s more than enough. ++

Cinnamon swirled around him.

== I am glad, Harry. Still, I want to see you smile. ==

++ Well, we just need to get you some eyes. You know, it’s weird that I’ve never seen you. You’ve seen me, haven’t you? That one time? ++

== Yes, but I was rather more concerned with getting out of your body. ==

++ That’s fair. Were you reading that book on dragon breeds I sent you? ++

== I was. Do you think you could use part of a dragon in a ritual? To grant yourself more natural magic? ==

++ Maybe. I would really like to be able to fly on my own. Dragons fly with magic, so that might work…But I might also just end up with even more fire. ++

== There’s nothing wrong with a bit of fire. ==

++ Why does it not surprise me that you think that? ++

== Oh, Harry, please don’t call me predictable. You wound me. ==

++ Doesn’t it just mean that I know you well? ++

== I suppose you do. I admit that it feels odd to think that about someone. ==

++ We’re friends, aren’t we? And like I said, you know me better than anyone. I want to return the favor. ++

Harry basked in Tom’s affectionate cinnamon until an idea struck.

++ Do you think the offering for natural magic has to be willingly given? I know phoenixes give their feathers willingly for wands. So, a unicorn hair or dragon heartstring might not have done anything for me. Maybe I’d need to win a boon from a dragon. ++

== That is a good point; the offering might need to be willing for full effect. I suspect dragons are more intelligent than they are given credit for. There are almost no reported cases of dragons attacking humans unprovoked, and I have a suspicion that they might be able to speak parseltongue. ==

++ Maybe I should find a dragon and ask. ++

== Do not find a dragon, Harry. Please. ==

Harry smothered his laughter.

++ Okay, okay. Worrywart. ++

== I’m talking to the boy who baited Lucius Malfoy, known Death Eater. ==

++ Yeah, yeah, okay. What would be something else interesting to win a boon from? I’ve heard that sphynxes are really powerful, but I’m not sure in what way. ++

== They’re interesting; they’re one of the few non-human creatures with magical Cores. I’m not sure how useful they’d be to you, but they can be great allies if they like you. ==

Harry yawned and blinked heavily. It was getting late—or early.

++ What about mermaids? ++

== They too have Cores, as do centaurs, and I think that is the extent of Cored creatures. You might consider a sea serpent, though I’m not sure how much you want to be able to breathe underwater. You know, a scale from Euryale might give you physical armor…You should ask her. It could never hurt to be more protected. ==

++ That’s a good idea. I— ++

== Harry? ==

~~~~~

Harry was very much asleep. It had probably been around six in the morning when he’d accidentally blinked his eyes shut.

He loved talking to Tom. He was so smart and always willing to answer Harry’s questions and he had a lovely, dry and dark sense of humor that Harry adored. Talking to Tom felt safe and stimulating and sweet and refreshing, like—

Like being in a garden.

All at once Harry was sitting in a garden, built of beds of blooming flower bushes arranged in an elegant spiral pattern. The sun was shining overhead in a blue sky, and the breeze carried sweet scents of lilac and rose. The garden was a circle, surrounded on all sides by tall maples with leaves as green as emeralds. He was sitting at the very center of the spiral in a grassy space, his back pressed up against the plinth of a statue. The statue was a muscular serpent with elegant, feathered wings, and the white marble was far softer against his back than stone should have been.

“Ah, I’m dreaming,” Harry said to himself, smiling. It was such a lovely dream, too, with the grass as soft as a cat’s fur under his fingers. He stared up at the sky for a long moment, reveling in daylight.

“Harry?”

Harry jumped and looked around. A tall boy was standing between two rose bushes, his black hair in elegant waves, his large, dark blue eyes wide as they stared at Harry. He had cheekbones like knives, a sharp jaw and very pale skin. Harry thought he looked like a prince.

“Oh, are you my knight?” He asked, leaning his head to the side and smiling at the boy. It had been a while since he’d dreamed of his knight. After all, he had Tom, now.

He wasn’t going to think too hard about that, at the moment.

The boy grinned wolfishly at him, his eyes taking in Harry’s messy bun of curls and lightning bolt scar.

“You’re looking for a knight?” He asked, his voice deep and silky, walking toward Harry with elegant strides. “I’m happy to oblige. I’ve been told I’m an excellent duelist, you know.”

The boy sat down next to Harry, their shoulders pressing.

Harry went very still.

The sensation of someone beside him—like something wonderful, and terrifying, and he’d never really touched anyone before, and—

And then he smelled the sandalwood.

Harry leapt backwards away from the Tom, blushing furiously, but stopped dead at the mixed disappointment and confusion on his friend’s face.

“S-sorry,” Harry stammered, standing a few feet away from Tom. “The knight thing—it was just a daydream I used to have. I didn’t realize—is it really you? Are you in my dreams? How does that work?”

“It’s me,” Tom said, still frowning. “I was in the diary, and then you fell asleep, and then—I was here.”

He paused, looking worried, and Harry found that he rather hated the expression on Tom.

“Does my appearance displease you?”

“No,” Harry said emphatically. “I just—I’m not used to being close to people. When I was growing up, if someone touched me, it hurt.”

Tom’s face twisted into a scowl.

“I…Apologize, Harry. I should have thought of that.”

Tom smoothed his face and looked at Harry intently.

“Would you like to sit?” He asked softly. “I won’t touch you.”

Harry nodded, grateful that Tom didn’t seem offended, and walked back over to him, sitting a foot away from him in the grass.

As much as his body wanted to close the distance, something in his subconscious remained unwilling. He had never really had much physical affection before. He wasn’t sure how it was supposed to be done, and he couldn’t quite shake the memories of his less than pleasant childhood. Even his friends had quickly understood that Harry recoiled from being touched. Hermione had gotten the point midway through their first year—after that very awkward hug following their first fight—and Harry suspected that she had told the rest of their friends.

“I want to be close to you,” Harry admitted slowly. “I just—it’s hard. I guess I’m a little surprised you want to be close to me, actually.”

Tom shrugged, smiling softly.

“I’ve been stuck in a diary for fifty years, and before that, I never met a person I liked. But I like you.”

“Oh,” Harry said, his chest aching at the words.

That’s so awful, I can’t imagine. If I had never found my friends—I guess I understand why he’s so protective of me and Euryale.

I’ll just have to get him more friends, when he’s human again.

They sat in comfortable silence, listening to the wind in the leaves of the dream trees. Harry thought memorizing Tom’s face would be a more than worthwhile use of his rosemary gift.

“Do you think we’ll be able to do this again?” Harry asked softly.

“We’ll find a way,” Tom said.

“You never finished your story about the time Slughorn brought a vampire to dinner. Tell me? I like your voice. And vampires.”

Tom grinned at him and began to speak. Harry closed his eyes and let himself get lost in the feeling of Tom’s voice in his ears and the sunlight on his skin.

~~~~~

When he woke up in the evening, Harry thought that he had never been so well-rested in his life.

Tom finished telling his story just as Harry woke up.

All at once, Harry and the garden vanished, and Tom was in his white room once more. It was full of books, now, small piles of them to keep him company when Harry wasn’t writing to him. Tom could feel the stirring of Harry’s emotions that meant he had returned to the land of daylight—or night, in his case (how it rankled, that the depraved muggles could force his Alchemist into the shadows).

Tom raised a hand to his face, running it over his mouth.

He was smiling.

Merlin, he had gone soft. Worrying about what Harry thought of his face, wanting him to be closer, wanting to pull him into his lap and never let anyone hurt him again—what the hell was wrong with him? Friendship was one thing, but this—no matter how he’d made his peace with caring for Harry, it still felt like a risk. Danger, every one of his well-honed old instincts screamed. Danger. You’ll get hurt.

He'd kissed Orion Black in an empty classroom just to see what it felt like. He’d enjoyed the feeling of making the other boy squirm with something halfway between enjoyment and terror, a bit of pleasure in the heart of pain. He’d never particularly wanted to touch anyone gently. He’d never really felt a need to hold someone softly and to be held in turn. It was a desire weaker people succumbed to, one that left them vulnerable.

So why was he struggling now?

Tom gritted his teeth and began to reason with himself.

It is perfectly natural to want to gain his favor.

(I want to make him happy).

He’s my ticket to immortality. To a whole group of immortals, people who can show me how to become a god.

(He listens to me and makes me smile).

He’s got power beyond anyone I’ve ever heard of and the brains to use it. He’s a good ally to have.

(He comes up with things I never could have imagined, and it makes my mind feel alive to watch him experiment).

He’s a useful path into this new world. He’s the boy who lived; no one would suspect he would have given his friendship to Tom Riddle.

(He trusts me. He makes me feel like (some) people are worth saving).

(Fuck).

To avoid his own warring thoughts over his relationship with Harry, Tom turned his mind to the dream itself. He’d never heard of unintentionally sharing dreams before, much less ones where both parties seemed to be fully lucid. Hadn’t Harry mentioned something about odd dreams once, surrounding the debacle with Flamel’s philosopher’s stone? Perhaps he had some additional power of dream walking. Honestly, Tom wouldn’t be that surprised at this point; the boy seemed to accumulate power like he did near-death experiences. He’d have to ask Harry when he next wrote in the diary.

Tom sank to the ground, his back pressed against the white wall of the room, tilting his head up to stare at the blank ceiling. He felt nothing, though his eyes told him the wall was solid.

The statue he had leaned against in Harry’s dream had felt so real. He’d smelled lilacs and roses and touched the grass beneath his fingers and felt the press of Harry’s shoulder against his. Was that what it was like to have a body? It had been so long.

Some small part of him was nervous, too.

When I’m my own person, he wondered, will Harry still spend so much time with me?

He laughed bitterly at his own neediness. He wanted his Alchemist’s days, and his dreams. He wanted to watch Harry do all of the odd, impossible things that he did, to watch his mind flit through scenarios like only Tom’s could—or, like Tom had thought only his could, before he’d met Harry. But Harry had other friends; he might have a partner at some point. He might have someone who knew him better than Tom (and oh, how he hated that thought). Tom wasn’t foolish enough to believe he could keep Harry caged if he tried, much as he might want to. His older self had fallen prey to one of Harry’s sleeping charms, and the boy only grew in power with each passing day.

Tom knew that Harry would keep his word and give Tom the elixir of life, would probably make him a stone that he could use—

But it didn’t feel like enough, to just be immortal.

How was that not enough?

(He wanted Harry’s attention, not just his magic).

Tom growled and started digging through his pile of books for anything that might be related to dreams. Having a mystery to solve always made things better.

Chapter Text

Harry was sitting in the Dursley’s back garden the night of August first, writing to Tom with a flashlight between his teeth about the importance of dates for the ritual to create their first philosopher’s stone. Harry thought the date wouldn’t matter much, while Tom thought it could be important.

++ Flamel said that he’d made stones on random days, though. ++

== But he made his first one on Yule. ==

++ Yes, but I don’t think we’ll finish this by this Yule, and I don’t want to wait for the next one. I kind of think we should aim for the end of June next year. So that you’re actually the age you claim to be. ++

== That might be a good idea. I will work through the arithmancy again. ==

Harry smiled and left Tom to it for a moment, enjoying the mix of orange and black pepper that was Tom’s working on a thorny problem smell.

Something moved in the bushes across the yard. After a moment, another rustle followed the first.

Harry followed the noises with his eyes, cocking his head. There was a shape in the greenery. It looked like some sort of animal—

But it smelled like a wizard.

The scent was unmistakably magical, licorice and an undertone of something slightly sour, like yogurt: something almost spoiled, but not quite. It reminded him of a certain cat he knew, though McGonagall’s magic never smelled rotten.

++ Tom? ++

== What’s wrong? ==

++ I think there is an animagus watching me. ++

== Do you have lavender? ==

++ Yes, but I don’t want to get expelled for no reason. I’m worried if I get up to go inside, they’ll know I’ve seen them. It’s a big animal, though. ++

== Do you think they’re one of Dumbledore’s? ==

++ …Or Voldemort’s. ++

The diary oozed woodsmoke and pepper.

== Write a note. Tell them you’ve seen them and that you’ll know if they’re here or not in future—keep it vague. Don’t give away your magic sense. Tell them to write down why they’re here, then tell them to leave. ==

Tom paused.

== Can you smell lies through paper? ==

++ Worth a shot. ++

Harry grabbed a spare piece of parchment and wrote down a few lines, then left the paper on the grass where he had been sitting. He then walked quickly inside, his fingers tight on Tom’s cover and his heart racing. He watched through the window as a large, black dog slunk into the yard and delicately picked up the piece of paper in its mouth. Then, it loped off into the night.

Thirty minutes later, it returned, dropping the paper back on the grass and looking at the door of the Dursley’s house with its head cocked.

After a few long minutes, it vanished into the darkness.

Softly, Harry stepped back into the garden. The smell of licorice was gone, so he darted forward and grabbed the paper, then returned to the house.

Morning was coming soon, so Harry used the bathroom and settled into his bed to read the note. It was written in extremely shaky handwriting with a muggle pen.

-----

Harry,

Please don’t be alarmed. I am your godfather, and I’m concerned that you may be in danger from a man named Peter Pettigrew who betrayed your parents to Voldemort. He framed me for murder, and I spent the last thirteen years in prison, but I was able to escape. I’m going to find and kill Pettigrew, but I wanted to make sure that you were alright.

I’ll understand if you don’t want to have contact with me. I’ll leave you alone if you ask. Leave me a note tomorrow night and I’ll get it.

Sirius Black

-----

Godfather?

Harry sat still and stunned for a moment. He ran a hand over the diary’s cover to let Tom know that he was alright, then set the book aside.

He needed to think for a moment.

His godfather—Sirius—had spent thirteen years in prison. No wonder his magic smelled a little sour. The note smelled honest—at least, there wasn’t much change from the dog’s original magic—but Harry didn’t really know the man well enough to tell. For all Harry knew, Sirius had betrayed Harry’s parents and was here to finish the job.

Although, if that were true, why not just do it? Harry had been alone and apparently defenseless in the Dursley’s garden. Harry thought that he probably would have noticed the dog’s magic sooner in human form, so he might have had time enough to put Sirius to sleep, but there’s no way he would know that Harry knew that kind of magic. Besides, he could have just killed Harry as a dog.

An escaped convict might be a good person to have as a godfather. I wonder if he picked up any interesting things in prison. I could probably use him to threaten the Dursleys, too.

Hang on—Black?

Oh Merlin, he’s rich.

Harry bit back a giddy laugh. He had a decent amount in the bank, true, but if Neville, Daphne and Theo’s vague comments were anything to go by, the Black family fortune put anything but Malfoy and Greengrass money to shame. His friends had mentioned the currently claimless Black money only briefly, but even Daphne had sounded impressed. They also had property—

Could he convince Sirius to adopt him?

Figure out if he’s trying to kill you, first, Harry chided himself.

But he must have been friends with my parents. He could tell me more about them.

Harry had given up on the dream of having parents. Especially after this summer—his freedom was too precious to him, now that he was regularly doing highly illegal magic with, effectively, Voldemort’s younger twin brother. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to know more about them. He wondered if Lily or James had been able to sense magic like him, or if they’d played quidditch, too.

If there was even a chance that Sirius was innocent, not a pawn of one of his enemies, and sane, Harry needed to take it.

~~~~~

Harry wasn’t sure when he’d nodded off, but he opened his eyes on a rocky crag on the side of a mountain. He looked down at the clouds swirling below, smiling.

I suppose this is an accurate depiction of my feelings.

Hang on—this feels as weirdly lucid as last night. Does that mean…

Abruptly Tom appeared before him, the smell of sandalwood and woodsmoke strong in Harry’s nose.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked, fixing Harry with an intense stare. Harry grinned back at Tom, raising one eyebrow.

“You knew I was fine. You can literally feel my emotions.”

“They could have hit you with any number of cheering or calming charms.”

“Yes, but why would he do that? He doesn’t know that I always carry around my overprotective friend trapped in a diary.”

“Overprotective?” Tom hissed—apparently so irritated by Harry’s nonchalance that he had slipped into actual parseltongue. “You were hit with the imperius curse no less than twice last term, Dumbledore obviously has it out for you, and let’s not mention the antics of the insane bastard calling himself me. Harry, please.”

Harry blushed, sighing.

Tom did have a point.

“Who was he?” Tom asked, still hissing.

“My godfather,” Harry replied in parseltongue. He could smell Tom’s joy at his use of the language despite the other boy’s worry. “He escaped Azkaban, and he says he wants to kill the man who betrayed my parents to Voldemort. Oh, and he’s probably the heir to the Black fortune.”

“Well. You do attract mystery, darling.”

Harry felt his face heat up.

It was one thing to see it written, and another to hear Tom say it in his smooth, deep voice. Wasn’t he fifteen? Shouldn’t he be in the throes of an awful, vocal-chord-cracking puberty? How on earth was his voice like that?

Tom took a step back, leaning against the rocky cliff face and sinking down, then patting the rock beside him. Harry took the invitation, sitting beside his friend.

After a long moment, Harry moved a little closer, pressing their shoulders together. Tom went very still, as though Harry might startle at the slightest breath.

To be fair, I might freak out, Harry thought, breathing through the contact. But this…This is Tom. Tom would never hurt me. I’ve touched him more than anyone else, in a way, even if the diary is only his shell.

Harry stayed where he was. Something pleasant was bubbling in his mind, a feeling of deep satisfaction, like a song under his skin. Tom smiled softly at him, probably feeling his emotions.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable?” Tom asked.

“Yes,” Harry said softly, startled by how much he meant it. “Are you?”

“Of course,” Tom said.

Harry got the impression that he could climb into Tom’s lap and the other boy wouldn’t mind.

He wasn’t exactly ready for that yet, but this—the pressure of Tom’s arm against his—this, he could do. Baby steps.

“What do you want to do about your godfather?” Tom asked.

“You’re not going to just tell me?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow at Tom.

Tom snorted.

“I am here to help you make correct tactical decisions to achieve your goals. This is a goals question, not a tactics question. So that’s on you, Harry.”

“Oh,” Harry said. That was true, wasn’t it? Tom did constantly ask him what he wanted to be doing, and only then started giving advice.

Harry liked that about him. Very few people had actually asked what Harry wanted.

Harry smiled at him, then began to think aloud.

“If he is who he says he is, he could be my ticket out of the Dursleys’ house until I can move out on my own,” Harry said. “He probably has access to some really great books—a bunch of banned ones, which I really want to get my hands on. He’s an escaped convict, so I doubt he’s going to care too much about what I’m doing most of the time.”

“He could end up being very controlling, though,” Tom cautioned, his voice rumbling through Harry pleasantly where they were touching.

Oh, I guess this fear is worth overcoming, Harry thought, enjoying the feeling of Tom’s words despite their warning tone.

“Because he’s got no one else? Good point,” Harry said.

Harry glanced up at Tom.

“Will you make more friends when you have a body?”

Tom raised an eyebrow at him.

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head emphatically. “Of course not. I just think having more than one person is good. If you need to talk to someone about me, or something.”

“Hm,” Tom said. “I will certainly endeavor to rebuild my circle of allies.”

“Friends, Tom,” Harry chided. “There’s a difference.”

“But I’ve got you.”

“You’re hopeless,” Harry said fondly. Tom chuckled—

Oh, Harry wanted to hear that again. Frequently.

“I think I’ll just try to talk to him via notes. I’m leaving for the Longbottom’s in a few weeks, so unless he tries to murder me—”

“Harry.”

“I mean, it’s true! Unless he wants to act fast, he probably can’t do that much damage.”

“If he truly wanted to hurt you, I doubt a muggle door would stop him,” Tom reluctantly said. “Keep your lavender on you at all times.”

“I always do—I suppose if I get expelled, I could just go start my apprenticeship with Flamel,” Harry said. The older Alchemist had offered to host him in France for a decade whenever he liked, which had made Harry laugh ridiculously at the time, but which was now sounding a little tempting. Flamel had said that Perenelle was eager to meet him, too.

“I speak a little French,” Tom said. “It’d be nice to brush up. Assuming you want me to come, of course.”

“Tom. Yes. Come with me to escape the law and hang out with the second-eldest of the immortals. I’d probably turn myself to stone on the first day without you.”

Tom laughed, then mock-glared at him.

“Don’t do that.”

“I shall endeavor not to,” Harry said, grinning.

Suddenly, Harry felt a little tugging on his brain.

“Oh, I think I’m waking up soon,” he said. “Does that mean time is different in dreams? This felt like half an hour at most.”

“I suppose that doesn’t surprise me. I hope this continues,” Tom said softly. “I’ll try to figure out why it’s happening.”

“It reminds me of the dreams I had in first year of Voldemort. Though I think I was in his dreams in those ones, riding along in his head. These are definitely mine.”

Tom frowned.

“That’s concerning. I suppose I hadn’t fully registered that he might have some access to your mind.”

“But this is nice,” Harry said, leaning against Tom a little more.

“I—”

~~~~~

Harry woke up with a jolt, running a hand over his face and grinning stupidly.

It was, in fact, very nice to have Tom in person. Or, at least, sort of in person.

Harry opened the diary lying beside him.

== I am concerned that Voldemort established a connection between the two of you when he tried to kill you. Give me a couple of weeks to do the arithmancy. I think this is something complex. ==

Harry reached over to his desk and grabbed a quill.

++ Let me know if there are any books I can order for you. ++

Then he got up, stretched, and set about trying to figure out how he could make a cross between chomping cabbages and cobra lilies.

Harry had been a little worried at first that he and Tom would get sick of each other now that they talked for hours every day via the diary and met in their dreams, meetings which had continued nightly since his birthday. Of course, he’d been missing two key facts.

One, their time in dreams together was unfortunately short.

Two, Harry was fairly sure he could never get sick of Tom. Especially now that they could see each other, and now that Harry had learned that touch didn’t have to hurt—that it could even be pleasant. Hell, it could make his brain sing. All they’d done was sit shoulder-to-shoulder, and still, Harry felt better for it. He wasn’t sure that he wanted anyone else to touch him just yet, but Tom was Tom. He was special.

In the waking world, Harry tackled the problem of his Godfather. Each night, Harry would pick up the note Sirius had left him in the garden and pen his own reply. It was fascinating to learn about the man, and a real puzzle to figure out if he was telling the truth. Tom suspected him of being an agent of Dumbledore; Harry thought that Sirius was just a little addled by Azkaban and was indeed who he said he was.

The second note Harry received from Sirius was very enlightening.

-----

Harry!

Thank you for hearing me out.

To your first question, yes, I’m happy to continue to talk like this if it would make you more comfortable.

To your second, Peter Pettigrew was a Death Eater who pretended to be friends with your parents and me. I’m not sure where he is now, although he’s a rat animagus, so he’s somewhat difficult to find. If you happen to notice a human-rat (like you did with me—how did you do that?) maybe break its legs?

I am indeed the heir to that Black family, as it seems my grandfather finally died a few years ago. I can’t access any of it, of course, as I’m currently a fugitive.

Can I ask you some questions about yourself? Like why you’re apparently nocturnal?

Sirius

P.S. Thank you for the snacks. They’re much appreciated.

-----

== Well, he’s a little deranged. ==

++ Because he told me to break the rat’s legs? ++

== Because he’s relying on a thirteen-year-old for food. ==

++ Ah, yes, that too. ++

== Breaking the rat’s legs would be a fairly useful thing to do. Most wizards cannot apparate while in pain or lying down, and it’s harder to fix a leg than break a rope. ==

Harry sighed, grinned, frowned at himself, and grinned again.

++ I hate that I agree with you. ++

Tom’s jasmine amusement filled the air.

++ Should I tell him why I’m nocturnal? ++

== Ignore the question—it’s too soon to know his intent. Ask him about his trial. I want to know how feasible it would be to get him cleared, if we did find Pettigrew. ==

Harry and Tom discovered several disturbing things over the course of their conversations with Sirius, though Tom wasn’t very surprised by any of them.

First, Sirius had not actually had a trial. Given the lionization of the Potters after their deaths, the idea that he had betrayed them made Sirius very much a target of public ire, and therefore easy to lock away without ceremony or due process.

Second, Sirius had been a close associate of Dumbledore, who had at the time of his non-trial already been head of the Wizengamot. Which meant that Dumbledore had done nothing to keep him out of Azkaban. Still, Sirius seemed surprisingly respectful of the headmaster.

Third, Sirius was not the only person to be imprisoned without a trial in the final years of the war against Voldemort. Harry made a note to see if he could access case records somehow; the idea of being imprisoned for a mere suspicion made his skin crawl. If they could get Sirius cleared, maybe they could get other falsely imprisoned people free, as well.

In exchange for the information from Sirius, Harry traded small details of his life. He was a Ravenclaw, his favorite subject was herbology, and he played seeker for his house. All but the last seemed to surprise Sirius a lot, though Harry could tell he was trying not to let it show too much in his letters.

It made Harry feel like something was stuck in his soul.

++ I suppose I wouldn’t have fit in very well in my family. ++

== I wouldn’t have fit in with mine either, I suspect. ==

Harry smiled softly.

++ I think we can choose our own family. ++

== I agree, Harry. ==

Finally, the day arrived for Harry to go to the Longbottoms. He left Sirius a note explaining that he was leaving and telling his godfather to send him mail at Hogwarts, if he wanted.

Then, he had the first conversation he’d had with the Dursleys all summer.

Harry also realized it was the first time he’d talked aloud—excluding dreaming—in nearly two months.

“I’m going,” Harry said, standing in the entrance of the Dursleys’ home and feeling a little tired at nine in the morning.

“Don’t come back for Christmas. Or ever, if you can help it,” Vernon spat, shielding Petunia from view.

Harry shrugged, thinking of Sirius.

“I just might not,” he replied, then opened the door.

“Is that the boy? Hiding in his room like a little lout,” a new voice came. Harry turned back around and looked at a very large woman he remembered to be Vernon’s sister Marge. He hadn’t even noticed her arrive. When had that happened? He normally kept to his room until eleven, so it wouldn’t have been hard to miss.

“Bye,” Harry said, and walked outside.

A tall, thin and bony woman in a dark green dress was walking up the sidewalk toward him. He blinked in surprise—she was so precisely on time that it was almost uncanny. Harry waved at her, recognizing Augusta Longbottom—Neville’s grandmother and guardian—by description.

“Good to meet you, Lady Longbottom,” Harry said, inclining his head.

“Polite!” She grinned at him. “Hello, heir Potter. You need to get new clothes; those are much too small on you. And why is your hair in a bun?”

“I, uh, forgot to cut it?”

“Nonsense. I’ll take you to my barber. Neville needs to go, too. Well—come along, let’s find somewhere to apparate home. I’ve already picked up your friend Hermione.”

Harry grinned.

This really was the best summer of his life.

Chapter Text

Longbottom manor was a sprawling place of near-endless gardens. Harry could see how Neville had fallen for herbology, surrounded since birth by everything from ordinary irises in full bloom to singing and self-shaping topiaries. The manor itself was modern, airy and light, full of cream with dark wood accents; it was pleasant, although Harry was starting to suspect that his tastes leaned more toward the dark and cozy. Maybe it was the lingering agoraphobia from last summer; maybe it was the safety he felt in the Chamber; or maybe it was just a side effect of being, for all intents and purposes, a dark wizard.

Harry had only a moment to look at the manor, however, before his view was obscured by bushy brown hair as Hermione ran toward him, stopping just short of a hug. (Harry loved his friends).

“Harry!” She said, beaming. “It’s good to see you. Hello, Lady Longbottom. Isn’t their house lovely?”

“It’s very nice,” Harry said, deciding to keep his musings about interior design to himself.

“Hi, Harry!” Neville said, appearing at Hermione’s shoulder. “Let me show you to your room. You’re across the hall from me!”

Harry followed Neville up an elegant staircase and down a high-ceilinged hallway. Neville stopped in front of a dark wood door and opened it to reveal a simple but refined bedroom in pale blue with its own bathroom attached. Harry grinned and set his things down on one of the room’s armchairs.

“Helena’s already here, in the gardens,” Neville said, looking at the empty owl cage Harry carried.

“She’s so smart,” Hermione added. “I think I’ll get an owl this year. It’d be nice not to have to wait for Helena to show up to send you letters, Harry. Or maybe I could just finish those two-way mirrors…”

She trailed off, looking wistful.

“I couldn’t quite parse the runes last year, but this year I’m sure I’ll get it,” Hermione said, clapping her hands.

“I bet you will,” Harry said, fully believing in her.

“Do you want to see my favorite greenhouse, Harry?” Neville asked. Harry beamed at him.

“Are you kidding? Yeah! Do you really have constricting aloe?”

“Yeah, but it’s molting this month,” Neville said sadly.

Hermione burst out laughing at the look of disappointment on Harry’s face.

“You can come back next summer,” Neville said, giggling.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Let’s go.”

The three of them marched down the stairs and out into an increasingly warm August morning. Harry found himself blinking furiously in the sun; he wasn’t used to daylight yet.

“I’m glad you didn’t get sick this summer,” Hermione said. “You looked awful when we picked you up last year.”

Harry flinched and tried to pass it off as a sneeze.

“Yeah, me too,” he said.

He loved Hermione, but he still didn’t want her knowing what he’d been through. Tom had finally convinced him that it wasn’t his fault, but…He didn’t want that to be the first thing other people saw when they looked at him. Even if he’d come to terms with the fact that nothing that he could have done would have changed the fact that the Dursleys were awful to him, he didn’t want other people to wonder if he had brought it on himself, or to see him as fragile or broken.

Tom knew what it was like to grow up in hell. Harry trusted him not to see it as a weakness. Other people, though, even his friends? He wasn’t ready for them to know, and he wasn’t sure he would ever be.

“Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention it in my letters! Theo and I have been working on the Center for Elvish Employment,” Hermione said as they walked. “We’ve been talking to a few half-blood solicitors who do pro-bono work, and one of them was pretty interested in our ideas. Plus, we’ve been talking to Dobby! It turns out he works in the Hogwarts kitchens for pay now, and he’s been super helpful in talking to the solicitors. I hope we can get some other elves on board. I told Augusta and she let me talk to the Longbottom elves, but none of them are interested.”

Hermione sighed.

“I knew it might be hard, though. And the Longbottoms treat their elves really well, so of course that’ll be a tough sell. But Dobby says the Hogwarts elves are a lot more progressive, so we might make some headway there.”

“That’s brilliant, Hermione,” Harry said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Honestly, you could go visit Dobby,” Hermione said. “He still feels really bad about last year. I guess the reason why he really did all that stuff to you is a Malfoy secret, because he can’t tell us.”

Harry nodded and touched the diary in his pocket absentmindedly.

Thank goodness for Malfoy secrets.

“Here we are,” Neville said, stopping in front of a greenhouse almost as large as the Hogwarts nurseries and opening the glass doors.

“I’m raising bell lilies here,” Neville said, pointing at some lightly chiming flowers. “Oh, and I’m having a bit of trouble with this jumping thistle. Do you know what’s up with it, Harry?”

They spent the rest of the morning looking at Neville’s many plants, until they returned to the manor for lunch. The tea sandwiches that the house elves delivered were the first fresh food Harry had eaten in months, and they tasted heavenly.

That afternoon, Harry took his nimbus for a spin on the Longbottom manor half-pitch, then he and Neville took turns being trashed by Hermione in chess (Harry couldn’t wait to see Tom play against her). Finally, they ate dinner and settled in one of the manor’s sitting rooms for a few rounds of exploding snap.

“Theo’s going to Diagon next week with Daph,” Hermione said. “Do you think we can meet them?”

“I’m sure gran won’t mind,” Neville said.

“Where is she, by the way? I haven’t seen her all day,” Harry said.

“She’s been at the Wizengamot,” Neville said. “They’re all still yelling at Fudge about Sirius Black. Wait, do you know who that is?”

“The escaped convict? Yeah. I didn’t realize it was that big of a deal,” Harry said, frowning.

“Well, no one’s ever escaped Azkaban before,” Neville said. “No one knows how he did it.”

He’s an unregistered animagus and a great swimmer, Harry supplied in his head, trying not to smile. He really, really hoped Sirius was telling the truth about being innocent.

“Wow,” Hermione said. “Why did he escape?”

Neville swallowed, looking at Harry.

“Harry, do you—”

“He was accused of selling my parents out to Voldemort,” Harry said. “So people probably think he’s after me.”

Hermione gasped.

“Why do you sound so fine with that?” She asked.

“He never got a trial, and he claimed he was innocent,” Harry said. “For all I know, he really was.”

“He never got a trial?” Hermione said, scandalized. Her fingers twitched like she was longing to open a book of laws.

“Yeah, a lot of people didn’t, after the war,” Harry said.

“That’s awful,” Hermione said.

“My gran never mentioned that,” Neville added, frowning. “But some people definitely did the things they were accused of.”

Harry looked at Neville’s sharp, dark expression. It was something Harry had never seen on him before. His magic had taken on an undertone of iron, like a forge—or like fresh blood.

“I’m sure they did,” Harry said, softly.

Neville gave him a sharp nod.

Harry, unable to stop himself, yawned widely. It was only eight o’clock, but he’d been up since eight the previous day.

“I think I’m going to go read for a bit in my room,” he said. “Goodnight!”

He brushed his teeth and put on his pajamas and sat in a bed with real sheets, all of which felt like the height of luxury to Harry. He lay back on the bed’s extensive, plush pillows, the diary and a quill in hand, ready to tell Tom about his day.

His eyes felt so heavy—

~~~~~

Harry was falling through a night sky. The clouds were like brushstrokes, gilded by the light of a full moon and stars that seemed to drift and flicker around him. The dark air was warm, and he felt oddly at peace despite the whooshing sensation in his stomach. Harry flipped over, facing up toward the moon, and watched the clouds drift and swirl.

Abruptly, he landed on something soft.

“There you are,” Tom said, grinning down at Harry, who had—somehow—fallen into Tom’s lap.

Tom was sitting in a wide armchair in a cozy, dimly lit library, with one arm now around Harry’s shoulders while Harry’s feet hung over one of the plush armrests.

Harry’s face felt hotter than the fire burning low in the library’s fireplace. This was nice—so nice he hardly had words to describe it—but he was also very, very overwhelmed.

My stupid subconscious, Harry thought sourly. Wait, does that mean…

“I’m so sorry,” Harry gasped, scrambling out of Tom’s lap.

Harry was sure he didn’t mistake the flash of disappointment in Tom’s eyes as Harry sank into the armchair beside his.

“How is life at the Longbottoms?” Tom asked casually.

“Oh, it’s great,” Harry said at once, eager to distract himself from his simultaneous embarrassment and desire to return to the position he had just fled. “They have three whole greenhouses, and I got Neville’s jumping thistle to perk up. I love plants, they reward you so much for listening to them.”

“I don’t know that I’ve seen a jumping thistle,” Tom said, cocking his head, the firelight casting his cheekbones into sharp relief.

Myrtle was so right. He’s so handsome—

Ah, talk, Harry, talk!

“They’re really neat. They grow little legs on their flowers when they’re mature, and they jump off and walk away to spread pollen! They have to be kept in their own little section of the greenhouse, though, or else you’re going to have nothing but jumping thistles. If you can get the water levels right, though. They’re finicky about that.”

“I’m glad you had fun,” Tom said, sounding warm.

“I got to fly, too,” Harry said. “And I’m really excited to go to Diagon Alley next week, because none of my clothes fit me right, and high necks are in right now and I think they’ll work really well on me.”

Tom raised his eyebrows, his magic warm cinnamon-jasmine.

“I never would have thought you cared about clothes that much, Harry,” he said softly.

Harry flushed again.

“When I was a kid, all I had to wear were my cousin’s hand-me-downs,” he said. “He’s about three times my size in every dimension, and he liked to be rough with his clothes, so I was basically wearing oversized, ripped rags. But when I came to Diagon for the first time, I loved the way robes looked on men, and then I got some nice second-hand pairs, and I felt—well, I felt like I wasn’t ugly for the first time in my life.”

“I can see why you’d like clothes, then,” Tom said. “Though I doubt you could ever be ugly.”

“Anyone can be ugly if you don’t feed them or let them outside,” Harry sighed, and smelled a curl of black pepper in Tom’s cinnamon fondness.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine now,” Harry said, placatingly. He didn’t want Tom to worry over him, though he supposed that was kind of asking for the impossible.

“I know,” Tom replied, sighing. “I was surprised that you have an interest in dressing well, but I’m actually quite pleased. I felt the same way after I came to Diagon. I had to use the school’s student fund to buy my supplies, but I was able to get almost everything second hand, and I bought one pair of cheap new robes for the weekends. It was the first thing I ever owned that wasn’t someone else’s first. And—yes, I felt handsome for the first time.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Harry said, smiling at him. “But I know what you mean. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Tom.”

“You think I’m handsome, then?” Tom asked, grinning toothily.

“Anyone with eyes would think you’re handsome, silly.”

“Hm, but do you? Your eyesight is notorious, after all,” Tom teased.

“You’re just trying to get me to say it.”

“Guilty. Now, do you?”

“Yes, Tom, I think you are probably the best-looking person I have ever met,” Harry said honestly.

Tom’s face went slightly slack.

“Oh,” he said.

“I was just being honest,” Harry said, grinning and leaning his chin on his hand.

“I know,” Tom said. “I can still tell if you’re lying.”

“We should play two truths and a lie some time,” Harry said. “It’d help me work on my lie detection.”

“I assume one just makes three statements, among which one is false?”

“Yup, that. Like this: my favorite desert is treacle tart. I know what my animagus form will be. I’ve already ordered your Christmas present.”

Tom raised an eyebrow at him.

“How on earth do you know what you animagus form will be?”

“Call it intuition,” Harry said, smiling mischievously. “And I do know what you’re getting for Christmas—and for your birthday, which I didn’t know about last year, sorry—I just haven’t ordered them yet. But you’ll have to wait to open them until you get a body.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Tom said softly.

“Your turn,” Harry said.

“Alright,” Tom said, grinning. “Hm. I enjoy dancing and I’m very good at it. I don’t have a favorite color. My favorite tea is rooibos.”

“That’s easy,” Harry said. “I don’t even need to try for that one. Your favorite color is green.”

Tom blinked at him.

“How did you know that?”

“I don’t think I pick your clothes when you come here,” Harry said. “And you’re always wearing either black or green, and if you’re wearing black, it’s usually with a green shirt underneath or a little green snake on the sleeves. Plus, it’s Slytherin’s color. And I’m pretty sure you decorated the study in the Chamber, so you must have liked green.”

Tom grinned at him.

“You are correct, and very observant,” Tom said warmly, his voice vibrating through Harry’s heart.

“Oh, I just realized—would you like me to show you my magic? I assume I can do it here. I told you my fire was green, right? It’s my favorite color, too—though I also really like blue,” Harry said, looking at Tom’s ocean eyes for no reason at all.

“That’s alright,” Tom said.  “I’ll wait until I can see it in reality.”

“Okay,” Harry said, smiling. Tom was staring at his face with an unreadable expression, though his magic was all cinnamon.

He really is the most beautiful, handsome person I’ve ever seen, and so sweet, and smart, and vicious, and cruel, but I like that about him for some reason, and—

“I’m waking up,” Harry said softly, and the library vanished.

~~~~~

Harry rolled over in the comfortable bed, still surrounded by the scent of cinnamon, as the first rays of morning peeked through his window.

“Oh, no,” he said, sitting up and staring at the diary, his heart thudding in his chest. “I have a crush on Tom bloody Riddle.”

As enjoyable as it had been to do research with Tom in the dead of night—and even now, Harry did sort of miss the peaceful closeness of being the only two people in the world—life with the Longbottoms was a nice change of pace.

On Hermione’s suggestion, Harry had started getting the wizarding paper the Daily Prophet. Over breakfast, he and his friends would read the headlines, many of which had to do with one Sirius Black. Having now seen his ragged human visage, Harry thought his godfather had definitely made the right choice to approach him as a dog.

Hermione spent a few days trying to tutor him in charms, which Harry found both amusing and deeply, deeply irritating, though he did manage to come up with two new offerings in the process (charcoal for cancelling spell effects, and puffweed for a very potent engorgement effect), so he supposed it wasn’t all bad. It was true that the trace didn’t apply to magical households. Hermione had been nearly as angry as he was when she found out.

They spent the rest of their time roving around the Longbottom’s extensive grounds, playing board games, and reading through the manor’s library. Harry also spent one afternoon while Neville and Hermione were distracted by Augusta’s Wizengamot discussions copying as many books as he could into the diary for Tom. Harry was proud to say he’d gotten much better at it since his first attempt, and managed to get nearly two dozen before his friends came looking for him.

Finally, the day came to head to Diagon Alley. Augusta simply apparated them each there one by one, then turned them loose to do their shopping while she met with a friend of hers in one of Diagon’s little cafes. The three of them met Theo and Daphne—neither of whom had come with their parents—outside of Gringotts.

The first thing Harry noticed was that Theo had gotten quite a bit taller.

The second thing Harry noticed was that he was still not as tall as Tom, who was only fifteen, so Tom would probably be very tall indeed when he was an adult.

“Hey, Theo,” Harry said. “Hey Daph. It’s good to see you! Thanks again for the presents and the letters.”

“We’re just glad you could write us this summer, Harry!” Daphne exclaimed. “Come on, let’s get money and go. You’re coming with me to my tailor.”

“I am?” Harry asked, amused.

“Oh, yes,” Daphne said. “Nice haircut, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. Augusta had been true to her word and had taken him to her barber, who had worked the miracle of turning his unruly hair into a chin-length halo of wavy curls, along with a bit of product that made it look intentionally messy, rather than just like a bird’s nest.

(Tom had actually put his hand in Harry’s hair when Harry had first gotten it cut, and Harry had freaked out only a little, so he counted that as a definite win).

They got their money and then split up into two groups: Daphne and Harry to buy robes, and Theo, Hermione and Neville to the pet store.

“So, Harry,” Daphne said as they walked to her tailor. “Be honest. Do you like someone?”

“What?” Harry spluttered.

Daphne giggled, then smiled at him.

“Look, you just got a little blushy when you saw Theo—and you really shouldn’t get your hopes up, he really likes Hermione. And not boys in general.”

“Oh, no, I don’t like Theo like that—when I saw him, I was just thinking that he’s still shorter than—”

He clapped a hand over his mouth.

Daphne looked like she a cat that had just caught a mouse.

“Ah,” she said wisely. “Well, I’m glad it’s not Theo. Do I know them?”

“…He doesn’t go to Hogwarts,” Harry said slowly.

“Oh, mysterious. Is he foreign, Harry? Oh, is he French? Please tell me he’s French.”

Harry rolled his eyes at her.

“I think you’ll meet him eventually,” Harry said. “You can find out then.”

“Don’t keep me waiting too long,” Daphne said.

“Please don’t tell anyone, though,” Harry said. “He, uh, doesn’t know I like him. And I’d rather keep it that way for now.”

“My lips are sealed,” she said, opening the door of Gentlewix and Taft, a very modern looking robe shop. Everything inside was in shades of cream and bronze. Gently moving mannequins displayed the robes and managed—somehow—to not be creepy.

“Welcome—oh, Heir Greengrass! Lovely to see you, my dear,” the tailor said, bustling toward Harry and Daphne. They were a tall wix with a smooth face, steel grey hair in a tight bun and pale pink robes that seemed to drift around them like air. “And you brought a guest! I’m Taft. Oh, you are adorable. Yes, I’ll get you sorted. What are your favorite colors and metals, dear?”

The tailor pulled a tape measure from their robes as they talked, and it began flitting around Harry entirely of its own accord.

“Uh, dark blue and green, and bronze,” Harry said. “Slytherin and Ravenclaw colors.”

The tailor raised an eyebrow and grinned.

“Which one is you and which one is your beau? No, don’t tell me—you look like a Ravenclaw.”

Harry stared at them.

“Spot on, aren’t I?”

They winked as the tape measure flew back into their waiting palm.

“I’ll be back with a few samples for each of you. Please, feel free to have a seat. The tea is fresh made; it’s hibiscus and lime.”

Taft floated away, and Harry sat down, feeling a little dazed.

“How much is this going to cost me?” Harry said, laughing.

“Not as much as you’d think,” Daphne said. “It’s probably twice off-the-rack prices, but it’s much better craftsmanship. These robes are spelled to grow with you, so you probably won’t have to buy new ones until fifth year, and they have tons of anti-wear and protection charms. Plus, Taft is sweet.”

“Yeah, they are, though kind of terrifying,” Harry said.

“That too,” Daphne said, laughing.

Daphne ended up with two new sets of black robes for school, some new shirts and skirts for under-robe wear, and a beautiful set of navy and gold robes that Harry told her made her look like a queen. She beamed at him.

Harry got the same for his school wear (with wide wixen pants in place of skirts), and three new sets of weekend robes, to replace all of his ill-fitting old pairs. One was a simple, high-necked dark green set that came to his knees and flared from the waist, which Harry thought made him look a nice medium between dashing and pretty. His second were deep, dark blue belted with bronze, meant to be worn over a white shirt and pants. The third were his favorites: all black, except the sleeves, which were embroidered with snakes in a silver so dark you could barely see it until they caught the light. Harry wished it wasn’t such a warm day, or he would have put them on over the pants and shirt he was already wearing.

“See, now you look like a prince,” Daphne said as Harry tried them on. Harry blushed, trying not to think about his old daydream.

They bagged their purchases—Harry had left half of the contents of his slightly overfull trunk at the Longbottoms for this purpose—and headed to Magical Menagerie to find their friends. They spotted the three of them at once. Hermione and Theo were sitting shoulder to shoulder, both cooing over what looked like the largest, most orange cat Harry had ever seen in his life.

“Harry, look at him, isn’t he cute?” Hermione said.

Harry blinked down at the cat.

“Is that a miniature tiger?” He asked.

“His name is Crookshanks,” Hermione said fondly. “I think he’s meant to be my familiar. He’s very smart, and he was lonely.”

Harry looked at the cat. It made sense as a familiar—a magically bonded animal that had offered its master its loyalty—for Hermione. It smelled like it saw everything around it, and that fit Hermione well. Still, Harry privately thought that snakes were much less mess.

“Er, okay,” Harry said. “I’m glad you got a good familiar, and you know you can always borrow Helena.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione said, smiling at him.

“You can borrow my owl, too,” Theo said.

“Oh,” Hermione said, blinking at him.

Harry exchanged a glance with Daphne, who gave him a like-you’re-better-than-them eyebrow raise.

You have no idea, Daphne, Harry thought, running a finger over the diary’s spine.

With Crookshanks stowed in a basket on Hermione’s arm, they made their way to Flourish and Blotts.

In the window was a massive cage full of books that seemed to be actively trying to tear each other apart. Harry recalled that the title—the Monster Book of Monsters—was his Care of Magical Creatures text.

“Thank goodness I’m not taking that,” Daphne said, grimacing at the books.

“I am,” Theo sighed.

“So am I,” Harry said, looking at the books, and watching a very harried looking attendant try to pull one from the cage. “You know, I think I can probably help them out.”

He pulled the stick he called his wand from his pocket and—for his friend’s benefit—muttered somnus while offering a sprig of lavender to his magic.

The books dropped like flies to the bottom of the cage.

“Damn,” Theo said. “Remind me why you’re failing charms again?”

“Because I can only do, like, ten charms,” Harry said. “I just do them really well.”

“Yeah, that,” Theo said, chuckling. “Alright, come on.”

The attendant was in such a good mood over the sleeping books that he gave them all free bottles of ink, even though he had no way of knowing that Harry had been responsible for his good fortune.

“I wonder how long it’ll last,” Hermione asked, turning the sleeping book over in her hands as they left the store.

“At least a month, given the fact that they’re non-sentient, small, and I put a lot of power into the spell,” Harry said.

The error bounds on the arithmancy are pretty big, though. It could be as long as a year, if the enchantments that animate them are weaker than I judged, or I mucked up my head math just now, which is very possible, Harry thought to himself. He didn’t want to give away how much math he’d put into the spell. The Slytherins, at least, might recognize the thought that went into ritual casting.

His friends stared at him.

“Remind me never to piss you off,” Daphne said softly.

Crookshanks chose that moment to leap from the basket and run for the front of an ice-cream parlor across the street from the bookstore, where Harry saw Ron Weasley was sitting with Gryffindors Harry recognized as Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas. The cat leapt at Ron’s chest, and something grey shot out of his shirt pocket, dashing over the table to try to get away and bolting towards Harry and his friends.

It was a rat.

But it didn’t smell like a rat.

It was another animagus.

No way.

That’s bloody creepy.

Harry drew his wand again and pointed it at the rat, then offered just a bud of lavender as it dashed toward him. The rat skidded to a halt at his feet, asleep. Harry picked it up and sprinted up the street, toward the café where Augusta was having tea.

“What the hell, Potter!” Ron screamed behind him. “Give me back my rat!”

Harry was, however, in very good shape from Quidditch practice and regular meals, and he knew from many years of evading Dudley how to dodge thorough a crowd. He easily outpaced Ron and in moments was skidding to a halt in front of Augusta Longbottom, who was sitting with a square-jawed witch with short grey hair and a monocle.

“Lady Longbottom,” Harry panted, holding out the rat. “Can you do the charm that turns an animagus back into a human?”

“What?” Both women asked, staring at him.

“I think this rat is an animagus,” Harry said. “I learned how to detect them last year, because I was curious, and then I saw it acting weird and my detection spells said it was human. But it was with a boy in my year as a pet, so I thought maybe I should put a sleeping charm on him. Because that’s creepy.”

“You can do a sleeping charm and an animagus detection charm?” The grey-haired witch said.

“…Yes?” Harry said.

“You are how old? I'll forget I heard about any underage magic.”

Harry blinked. He'd forgotten he wasn't supposed to be doing magic, but Augusta was giving him an amused smile, so he wasn't too worried.

“Thirteen,” Harry said. “My birthday was last month.”

The witch looked at him appraisingly, then drew her wand. She waved it in a complicated motion, and Harry got an intense wave of very unpleasant bleach-like wand magic.

Then the rat began to grow.

“Ack!” Harry cried, dropping the rat as it slowly grew into a small—and still very much asleep—man. The man’s magic smelled like mildew and blue raspberry flavoring, making Harry ever more grateful for the diary in his pocket keeping his nose safe.

Maybe Tom really is my knight, he thought, trying not to blush. It was really not the time for that sort of thought.

“Amelia, that is Peter Pettigrew,” Augusta said, her eyes wide and staring at the man on the ground.

“Bloody hell, what is going on?” Ron yelled, having finally caught up with them. “What did you do to my rat, Potter?”

“Uh, your rat was a guy?” Harry said, feeling a little overwhelmed by the entirety of the last hour. He was quickly running out of tolerance for both crowds and loud noises.

“This is Peter Pettigrew,” the grey-haired woman said, waving her wand once more and binding the man in ropes. “He is the supposed victim of Sirius Black’s crimes. Although now that’s all in question.”

“Hang on,” Harry said. “I’m sorry, are you Amelia Bones, Head of Magical Law Enforcement?”

“I am,” she said, smiling at him slightly. “And you are Harry Potter, I presume.”

He swallowed, trying to forget that he had just admitted to minor crimes in front of her.

“Did you know that Sirius Black never had a trial?”

“I did not,” she said, frowning. “And with your little discovery, I daresay I will have to re-open his case. Thank you, mister Potter. I will keep you apprised. Augusta—I’m sorry to have to cut our chat short, but I must take this man into custody.”

Augusta laughed.

“My goodness, if you provide me with this much excitement, you can cut all of our meetings short,” she said.

“What about Scabbers?” Ron asked again.

“Weasley,” Harry sighed. “Your rat was an animagus. He was not a rat. He was a man named Peter Pettigrew.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron said again.

“Would you like to go back to the manor, Harry?” August asked softly.

Harry smiled gratefully at her.

“Yes, please.”

~~~~~

Harry’s subconscious—no doubt tired of people and noisy spaces—dreamed up a cozy meadow surrounded by pine trees, speckled with white and blue flowers that danced in the breeze. Tom was waiting for him when he arrived, his face turned up to catch the sun.

Harry stood and stared at him, too tired to move. He had explained to his friends what had happened, then gone back to the manor, mechanically eaten dinner, bathed, and collapsed on his bed at eight o’clock.

Now he was just done. Diagon alley was already a lot. Add on to that Ron’s yelling, the dash through the crowd, and briefly holding one Peter Pettigrew, who probably had betrayed his parents to Voldemort?

It was all just too much.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked softly.

“Not really,” Harry said. “I’m just tired. People can be a lot, sometimes.”

Tom nodded thoughtfully, watching Harry.

Abruptly, something came over Harry. He wanted to—try something—

Harry walked forward and buried his face in Tom’s chest, wrapping his arms around his friend’s waist.

Tom inhaled sharply.

“Harry?” Tom said questioningly. “Are you alright with this? Don’t push yourself on my behalf.”

“I’ve never really hugged anyone before,” Harry mumbled. “But I think I like it, if it’s you.”

“Can I touch you?”

Harry nodded, and Tom’s arms wrapped gently around his back. Harry could smell his friend’s cinnamon fondness and thought he might die if his heart went any faster.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Harry said into Tom’s robes (they were green, as always).

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Tom asked.

“I dunno,” Harry said.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Tom said. “I can tell if you’re lying, but I can’t read your mind. Or, well, I could, but I won’t.”

Harry laughed weakly.

“I mean…You’re from the forties. Weren’t they like, really against guys having, um, close friendships?”

“Muggle nonsense,” Tom answered firmly.

“You also didn’t strike me as the affectionate type,” Harry said softly.

Tom was silent for a while.

“Maybe you’re different, for me,” Tom said at last.

“Oh,” Harry said, grinning into Tom’s shoulder. “I’m glad. I like this.”

“As do I, Harry,” Tom said softly. “Now, what happened?”

Harry took a deep breath. “I caught Pettigrew.”

“You did what?” Tom said, pulling back slightly to look at him. “How? Tell me you weren’t doing something dangerous,” Tom said, frowning at him.

“I was just walking around Diagon when I saw him and hit him with a bit of lavender. He was a rat—he was posing as a boy’s pet. Like—Merlin, that’s disgusting. I heard Ron yelling about how the rat used to sleep in his bed.”

Tom nodded emphatically, his face twisted in revulsion.

“I would kill a man, but I would not sleep with a child as an adult without their knowledge. That seems like an obvious thing one shouldn’t do.”

“Only kill people with good reason,” Harry said, poking Tom’s chest.

Tom smiled fondly down at him.

“Yes, darling.”

Oh, that hits different like this. Nope, still not thinking about it!

Harry put his face back on Tom’s shoulder to hide his blushing.

“Anyway, I took him to Augusta Longbottom, who happened to be having tea with Amelia Bones, and that was that.”

Tom shook his head disbelievingly.

“If we play this right, you never have to go back to the Dursleys,” he said, smiling.

“How much do you want to bet I can get Sirius to make letting you move in my birthday present?”

Tom laughed. It rolled through Harry like a thunderstorm.

Yes to hugging, Harry thought. I’ll get the Dursleys out of my head yet.

Chapter Text

Both Harry and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as they made it through the barrier the next day without issue. They found Daphne on the platform quickly, who bid her parents and little sister goodbye to join them in an empty compartment. Neville and Harry took one side, Harry tucking himself close to the window, while Daph and Hermione took the other. Trevor was shut away in a nice cage that Daphne had gotten Neville for his birthday, so Hermione let Crookshanks out.

Harry still preferred snakes, but he wasn’t going to complain, given how the cat had possibly rescued Harry from the Dursleys.

“Where’s Theo?” Harry asked Daphne.

Daphne frowned, glancing out the window.

“His father is still here,” Daphne said. “Things are getting…Hard for him. Slytherins usually stick together, so none of our year will rat him out, but I think some of the older years have been spreading rumors.”

“Rat him out?” Hermione asked.

“About being friends with you three,” Daphne said softly. “You’re muggleborn, Hermione, and you’re Harry Potter, and you’re from a prominent Light family, Neville. His father would not be pleased.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. Harry flinched, wondering if Theo might understand Harry’s life a little better than Harry had thought.

“It’s alright,” Daphne said. “Theo’s incredible at occlumency, and his father isn’t…Violent. He just needs to be careful. He’ll join us once we start moving.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Harry asked.

“No,” Daphne said. “Theo can make his own choices. In this case, I think he’s choosing correctly. His father won’t be around forever.”

Harry and Hermione nodded reluctantly. A few minutes later, the train slid into motion, and Theo burst into the compartment, threw his trunk into the racks, and sat down next to Neville and across from Hermione. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen his friend so rattled before.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Daphne asked.

“Nope,” Theo said, a wooden smile pasted on his face. “What electives did everyone decide on? I’m doing arithmancy and runes. It’s a shame half of the practical applications are illegal.”

“Are they really?” Hermione asked, sounding horrified. “I thought the 1981 law only banned Dark circles.”

“Read the list of Dark circles, Hermione,” Harry said dryly. “It’s got everything from necromancy to garden pest removal and cauldron cleaning. The only legal uses of runes are in licensed alchemy, a few types of ward strengtheners, and in cursebreaking.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, looking confused.

“Dumbledore,” Harry growled. “He thinks he knows what’s best for everyone.”

All four of his friends blinked at him. Hermione and Neville looked slightly horrified, while Daphne and Theo were appraising. He’d never talked about Dumbledore with them before.

“But—isn’t Dumbledore a good person?” Hermione asked.

Harry wasn’t sure what to say—no, was his emphatic answer, but he was unsure as always how much he wanted to tell his friends. Fortunately, Daphne came to his rescue.

“Dumbledore is very prejudiced against tradition,” she said. “He spearheaded the laws against ritual casting, removed the formal celebaration of sabbats from Hogwarts, and constantly disfavors Slytherin and Ravenclaw, which is where most purebloods end up. I’m not saying he should favor them,” she added, “or that there’s anything wrong with muggleborns, obviously. But this is our heritage. And we can’t even practice it.”

“I see,” Hermione said slowly.

“When you put it like that, it does sound pretty bad,” Neville said. “Gran’s alright with him, but she’s more concerned with reforming the aurors. They’re awful.”

“Tell me about it,” Daphne said. “My second cousin got beat to a pulp by an auror for having a fanged diary. They aren’t even illegal.”

“Bloody hell,” Hermione swore, and everyone turned to stare at her. “Sorry, it’s just—you know, in the muggle world, the same kind of thing happens to black people, like me, or other people of color,” she said roughly. “With darker skin, you know.”

“That’s insane,” Theo said. “Why would that matter?”

Hermione beamed at him.

“Shall we talk about something happier?” Daphne sighed. “I’m taking runes and divination. The eye runs in my family a little, so I’m hoping I can see if I have any talent.”

“Really?” Neville asked. “That’s really cool. I’m doing divination, too, though mostly just because I heard it was easy, and care of magical creatures. I heard there’s a whole unit on plant pests.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait for that,” Harry agreed. “I’m doing creatures, runes and arithmancy.”

“You’re taking three?” Theo asked. Harry nodded.

“I didn’t know you could,” Daphne said.

“I got special permission from Flitwick,” Harry said. “I was surprised that he let me given my charms grade, but I’m glad. Besides, Hermione’s taking all of mine, plus divination and muggle studies.”

He was almost glad that he was so embarrassingly bad in charms, even if he did well on his essays. He thought it was good for Hermione to have a place to really shine. Charms was her best subject, and she was easily Flitwick’s favorite, which Harry was more than happy for her to have, given how well he did in everything else bar defense. He much preferred Professor Sprout to Flitwick, as he thought she had a very healthy attitude toward a little potential maiming. After all, limbs could be grown back.

“I’m just sitting the exams for muggle studies,” Hermione said, waving a hand and not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I’m not actually going to that one.”

“Wow, Ravenclaws,” Theo said, shaking his head fondly. “Why aren’t you doing that, Harry?”

“To be honest—nothing against muggles personally, your parents are great, Hermione—I would much rather not think about them at all.”

“Fair enough,” Daphne said, giving him a calculating look. “So, Harry, does what happened yesterday mean Sirus Black is innocent?”

“As far as I’m aware, he is innocent, yes,” Harry said. “He’s also my godfather, so he might be adopting me. We’ll see.”

“Is he your Bondparent?” Neville asked.

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

“Godfather is a muggle term. Bondparent means your legal guardian if your parents pass, in wixen law,” Neville said.

“Oh, I dunno,” Harry said, surprised. “I’ll ask him if he gets cleared.”

“You want to live with someone you don’t even know?” Hermione asked, shocked.

“He’s magical,” Harry said. “And I really miss quidditch over the summers, both playing and the leagues. I want to know how the Falcons are doing.”

“Won’t your aunt and uncle miss you?” Hermione asked.

“I can always visit,” Harry lied through his teeth. “Besides, I’ll be moving out in a few years.”

His friends nodded at that and didn’t pry. Harry tried not to sigh to hard in relief.

“I’m personally excited to see the Blacks return,” Daphne said. “They went off the rails near the end. But this will probably mean you’re heir Black, too, Harry. You should be ready to get a wizengamot seat. Or—three, actually, as the Blacks have two—like my family does—and the Potters have one as well, though it’s empty at the moment.”

“What,” Harry said. “I never thought of that.”

I didn’t realize I had a seat. Or that Sirius did. Tom’s going to have a field day, Harry thought. I need to ask Sirius once he’s cleared.

“We can hang out in the Wizengamot together,” Theo said. “We’ll all have seats, and Hermione will be head of magical law enforcement.”

Hermione beamed at him.

“We could get the ritual magic ban repealed,” Harry said, mostly to himself.

“Hermione can proxy for my seat,” Neville said. “I’d much rather not be there. Anyway, are you all looking forward to Hogsmede?”

Harry had forgotten about the little form. But his friends looked like they were having a lovely time discussing the town, so he didn’t mention it. Besides, he was a little tired of talking and was more than happy to listen to their musings.

Maybe Sirius will sign the form, Harry wondered. It’d be nice to go to a bookstore instead of owl ordering everything. And I forgot to buy a new trunk, but I’d rather look at that in person before buying it.

They bought lunch from the trolley and Harry watched the other four play exploding snap as the sky outside grew increasingly dark with rain. Soon enough, fat droplets began to pound on the windows of the train. Something about the weather made Harry shiver with delight and an odd longing.

I wish Tom were here.

Next year.

All at once, the train shuddered and began to slow.

“We’re not there yet,” Hermione said, looking at her watch. Theo, who was closest to the door, peered out into the hallway.

The train stopped suddenly, making Theo fall back into the compartment as all of the lamps in the train went out. With the sky outside now pitch black, it was almost impossible to see much beyond vague shapes.

Harry was very cold. The walls of the compartment seemed to bend down around him; with the blurriness, it was almost like—

Like he was back in his own personal hell.

The Dursley’s distant voices—the only human contact he would ever have—echoed in his mind.

“I don’t like this,” Neville said softly. “Theo, can you lock the door?”

“I’ll—”

Theo cut off abruptly, his outline backing away from the hall and falling onto Neville’s lap.

A tall figure was standing in the doorway, cloaked in black. As Harry watched, numb with terror and a bone-deep exhaustion, it waved a skeletal hand. The door to their compartment began to slide open.

Harry began to shiver.

He was in the smallest bedroom in the most ordinary house in Privet Drive.

He was locked in there, and he would never get out, drinking stale water from a jar that tasted of lavender and hoping for a full can of soup for his aching stomach—

The room blurred—

There were voices in his head—

“You’re a fool—you’re mad, and I will never bow to you!”

“Stand aside, silly girl! Stand aside!”

A flash of green light.

Harry’s world went black.

The first thing Tom noticed was that he was in Harry’s body again.

Fuck.

The second thing he noticed was that he was on the ground and shaking. That, he put an end to immediately, getting to his feet and brushing off his robes.

Fuck.

The third thing he noticed was the dementor opening the door.

FUCK.

Dementors had never bothered Tom. He’d never been happy in his life. Triumphant, or proud, or viciously gleeful, yes. But happy? No.

At least, not until a few months ago. And that still wasn’t enough to make him a meal. He stood and glared at the dementor, which faltered in its slow advance toward him.

It would not take Harry’s soul. If it so much as tried, he would rip its kind from the earth by the undead roots.

The dementor turned toward the girl nearest the door, who cowered—damn, Harry would not be happy if his friends died.

He wasn’t about to risk Harry for her, though, and Tom couldn’t do a patronus, let alone a wandless one.

All he could do was watch her die in his Alchemist’s stead.

He gritted his teeth, feeling close to useless. Yes, Harry was safe because of him, but he should have been able to do more—

What would it take for me to do a patronus?

Is it the happiness, or is it the soul?

“Expecto patronum!” A voice yelled, and a massive silver wolf bounded into the compartment, snapping at the dementor. The creature paused a foot from the girl and retreated down the hall.

Time to go back, then, Tom thought sadly. Soon, I’ll have a body.

I’ll be able to keep him safe, then.

Tom opened the diary in his pocket, pressed his fingers to the page, and vanished.

Harry came to with a start, on his feet and staring into the face of a very tall, very scarred man with brown hair that was going grey in patches and robes that looked like they had seen better days.

“Are you all alright?” the man asked the compartment. Something silver loped behind him and vanished as the train ground back into motion.

They were very much not alright.

Daphne was holding Hermione, who was crying. Theo and Neville were both as white as sheets. And Harry—

If his guess was right, he had passed out. How he was on his feet was a complete mystery.

“We still have our souls,” Theo said woodenly.

“Was that a dementor?” Harry asked. Tom had told him about them, and they’d agreed that Harry’s best chance was to light himself on fire and run. Obviously, they were going to have to rethink that strategy.

“Yes,” the man said, pulling a bar of chocolate from his pocket, breaking it into pieces and handing it around. “Eat, it’ll help. Now, I need to speak to the driver—excuse me,” he said, with a lingering glance at Harry.

Harry sat down on the bench, still shivering slightly.

“What happened to you, Harry?” Neville asked, as Hermione caught her breath. “You—fainted. Then you just stood up and got this look on your face—I swear your eyes were red,” Neville said softly.

Harry blinked.

Oh, Tom. You probably saved my life, didn’t you?

He ran a finger over the diary and was rewarded with the smell of cinnamon and woodsmoke and a thread of black pepper.

“That’s weird,” Harry said. “I was totally out the whole time. It must have been some sort of magical defense mechanism.”

That’s all completely true, he thought, grinning internally.

Neville nodded reluctantly.

“Are you alright, Hermione?” Theo asked softly.

Hermione gave a final sniff and nodded, wiping her face dry.

The train slid into Hogsmede station. They all got out, wrapped in their cloaks, and bundled into one of the horseless carriages.

Except, they weren’t entirely horseless. Harry had smelled whatever it was that pulled them last year, and he was still curious. Now, his sense was even stronger; their magic was like decaying autumn leaves and fresh snow. It was remarkably pleasant.

“What pulls the carriages?” Harry asked his friends.

“Thestrals,” Theo replied, his eyes focusing on something Harry couldn’t see. “They’re winged horses. You can only see them if you’ve seen someone die, though.”

“Oh,” Harry said, considering what that implied about Theo himself.

They passed two more dementors as they crossed through the Hogwarts gates.

“Why are they here?” Hermione moaned.

“Sirius Black,” Daphne answered. “And Ministry incompetence. The minister clearly didn’t get the message about Pettigrew yet. Neville, write your grandmother. She’ll have Fudge strung up for this.”

“I’m going to the Prophet,” Hermione said fiercely. “If Dumbledore and the Ministry think this is how to run a school, well, they’ve got another thing coming.”

Harry beamed at her.

It was a relief to reach the warmth of the entrance hall. Less of a relief, however, was seeing Ron Weasley again, flanked by two other Gryffindor boys. He sneered at Harry and his friends as they entered.

“Potter, is it true? Someone said they saw you faint on the train,” Weasley said. “Are you feeling alright? Big, high-and-mighty rich kid can’t handle a little darkness?”

Harry gritted his teeth, shoving his anger down behind his occlumency shields. Now, more than ever, he had to stay out of trouble. He needed freedom to go to the Chamber, to work on building his stone. To bring Tom to life.

Ha-ha, no, Professor Dumbledore. I’m not trying to resurrect Voldemort. Just his very hot younger version who I might be a little enamored with. That’s all.

Yeah, that’ll go over great.

“Potter, are you listening to me?” Weasley snapped, turning an unpleasant shade of maroon.

“Leave him alone, Weasel,” Daphne said, stepping between him and Harry. “Your voice sounds like a dying cat, so just shut the fuck up.”

Weasley glared at her.

Just then, Malfoy, Parkinson and Zabini appeared, conveniently getting between them and the increasingly red red-head. Harry felt a little jolt at the sight of the blonde boy. The last time he had been this close to a Malfoy, he’d ended up under the imperius curse.

“Hey, Weasel. Go do us all a favor and stick your tongue to a gnome, will you?” Malfoy drawled. Weasley spluttered, but Malfoy turned his back on him.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, inclining his head. “My father would like to speak with you.”

“Tell him to owl me,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

Malfoy nodded tersely and walked away.

“What was that about?” Daphne asked, looking delighted at the prospect of politics.

“No idea,” Harry lied, shrugging. He should maybe feel a little concerned at how good he was getting at lying—but it kept him and Tom safe, and that mattered more than anything.

“Granger!” A squeaky voice yelled. Professor Flitwick appeared and beckoned Hermione over.

“I’ll be right back,” Hermione said, running off to join him.

“What’s that about?” Neville asked, looking after her.

“I don’t know,” Theo said, sounding curious as well.

Hermione reappeared just as the great hall doors opened, grinning, but refused to tell them what Flitwick had asked her about.

“They just wanted to check up on me after the train,” she said, and though Harry could smell the lie in her fresh-grass magic, he decided to give his friend the same courtesy she gave him and didn’t ask further.

They split up to go to their respective house tables. Harry spotted a familiar looking blonde girl at the Ravenclaw table at once and led Hermione over to sit beside her.

“Hello, Luna,” Harry said, grinning at her. “This is my friend Hermione.”

“Good to meet you,” Luna said. “You should drop divination.”

“What?” Hermione said, looking from Luna to Harry. “How did you even know I was taking it?”

Luna just smiled at her.

Just then, Dumbledore stood to begin the year’s announcements. It turned out that the dementors were indeed there for Sirius (which made Hermione glower at Dumbledore fiercely), and that the man who had rescued them from the dementor was their new defense professor, Remus Lupin. Harry stared appraisingly at him. He’d been too shaken to notice on the train, but there was something very odd about the man’s magic, almost like he had two scents warring with each other.

Dumbledore also announced that the gamekeeper who had kept a dragon in his hut in their first year was to be their new care of magical creatures teacher.

Far be it from Dumbledore to maintain any semblance safety standards. Harry and Hermione exchanged dark looks over the table, and he knew she was thinking the same thing.

Then the food appeared, and Harry managed to distract Hermione from further questioning Luna by proclaiming runes better than arithmancy. Hermione took the bait at once, and she and Harry spent a joyful feast talking about the relative merits of the two, interjected with occasionally bizarre, occasionally insightful comments from Luna.

Finally, it was time to go to bed, which was what Harry was craving at the moment more than anything. He and Hermione ducked through several secret passages and reached the tower quickly.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” Harry said, heading up to the dormitory. Hermione smiled at him and nodded, looking about as tired as he felt. It had been a hard day for them both.

Luckily for him, he was dead tired after the dementor (and probable accidental possession), and he fell into sleep as soon as his pajamas were on and his curtains drawn, curled into a ball with the diary tucked under his pillow.

~~~~~

“Harry,” Tom said in relief as Harry dropped into a sea of greens and blues.

Tonight, his mind wanted comfort. Apparently, that meant a cozy room covered in fabric hangings and packed with dozens of massive bean bags and pillows. Tom was, as per usual, standing in the center.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, you know,” Tom said, a little glint of desperation in his eye. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Harry didn’t bother to say anything and threw himself at Tom, wrapping his arms around Tom’s chest. Tom’s arms came up to surround him at once.

“I know,” Harry hissed at him.

“Are you alright?”

“I am now.” Harry pulled back a little and smiled at Tom. “My friends thought you were very scary, and you weren’t even in your body,” he said. “I can’t wait to see you in real life. Merlin, you’re going to be so fun to watch.”

“You want to watch me scare people?” Tom asked, his expression flat but his magic blooming with cinnamon and jasmine.

“Yes, yes, corruption of the youth,” Harry said, waving a hand. “What can I say? I’ve spent my whole life being afraid of nearly everyone around me, either because they could hurt me or because they could reveal my secrets. I like watching them be scared of someone I care for. Though, maybe don’t scare my friends. Just everyone else.”

Tom beamed at him.

“Would you like to sit in one of these…things?” Tom asked carefully.

“You mean the bean bags?”

“That is an interesting name,” Tom said.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Harry said. “Why did you ask like that?”

“Do you want to sit in one of these things…With me?” Tom asked, watching Harry’s face.

Harry blushed.

Merlin, I am so doomed.

I do want to, though.

A month of careful steps, and Harry was getting quite used to touch. That was, to Tom’s touch. Maybe a repeat performance of the library was in order.

Intentionally, this time.

This is definitely how friendships work, Harry thought to himself. Yup. Nothing to see here.

“Harry? We can just—”

Oh, I’ve just been silent for like a minute, oops.

“No,” Harry said. “I mean, yes! I mean, how should I—what do I do?”

Tom chuckled, which happened to be one of Harry’s favorite sounds in the whole world, right beside the roar of a quidditch pitch when he caught the snitch, the sound of wind in leaves, and Tom and Euryale speaking parseltongue.

Tom smirked at him.

“Honestly, you should be telling me,” he said. “I’ve never even seen one of these contraptions before.”

“Just…sit?” Harry said. Tom raised an eyebrow archly, then pulled away and dropped elegantly into the largest of the bean bags, his legs crossed and his arms out as though the squishy thing were a throne.

How does he do that? Harry wondered, staring at him.

Harry blushed, followed Tom, and plopped onto the bean bag beside him. He ended up cradled between Tom’s side and his left arm, his head on Tom’s shoulder, which Harry found that he didn’t mind at all.

“Wow,” he said inadvertently. “You’re incredible. I don’t even feel like screaming at all.”

Tom frowned at him, a little woodsmoke in his magic.

“If you’re uncomfortable—”

“No,” Harry hissed, and threw caution to the winds, curling into Tom’s side. “The dementor was possibly one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. I heard my mom, Tom. I heard her, and I heard Voldemort kill her. And before that, on the train, I was thinking about how much I just wanted to—do this. It was raining, and it was so nice, and I missed you.”

“Oh,” Tom said, letting his arm rest on Harry’s back. “I am sorry, my dear. I…wish I could be there for you. Protect you.”

“You saved my life,” Harry said. “I don’t know what you did, but the dementor was definitely going for me. But you made it change its mind. How?”

“They don’t like me,” Tom replied softly.

“Can I get them to not like me?” Harry asked. He wanted to never, ever feel that again.

“No,” Tom replied. “It requires a certain…Lack of joy. I would not want that for you.”

Harry gasped at the implication and sat up abruptly.

“Tom,” Harry asked. “How can I—How can I help you to be happy?”

To his surprise, Tom grinned lazily at him.

“I’m afraid my protection won’t last the year,” Tom said. “I am happy. I will be much happier, once I get my body back. But I have existed for sixty-some years of alternating anger and blankness. That is not so easily expunged by a few good months.”

Tom raised his hand and gently tugged Harry back down. Harry went willingly, trying not to sigh into Tom’s shoulder. It was something special, to trust and be trusted.

“Okay,” Harry mumbled. “But let me know if I can do anything. Please. It’s not fair that you’re still trapped in here.”

“Did you think you would be saying that when you met me?” Tom asked, his voice rumbling through Harry.

“No,” Harry said, poking him in the side. “I mean, did you think you’d be sitting on a bean bag with me? We all have hidden depths, Tom Riddle. Now explain why there are eight runes for water instead of seven, like all of the other elements? I don’t get it, and I like listening to you when I can feel your voice.”

Whoops, that was a little too far, Harry thought with a spike of panic, but Tom just hummed in delight.

“That is an excellent question. The difficulty you’re having is probably because it’s actually a tricky bit of arithmancy…”

~~~~~

By the time Harry woke up, he understood water runes completely, and his body felt like he had never even heard of a Dementor.

So completely screwed, he hummed to himself as he got dressed. Merlin, he had better never realize how I feel about him.

I suppose it’s a good reason to practice my occlumency.

Chapter Text

Harry and Hermione met up in the common room before the start of the first day of classes, both eager to get their schedules.

“I hope we have electives with all of the houses,” Hermione said. “It’d be so nice to have more classes with our friends.”

“Hm,” Harry said, not really wanting to be in Ron Weasley’s presence any more than he had to. He was a little worried that the boy might try to get back at him for…Outing his rat as a potential murderer? Honestly, it was confusing.

They received their schedules from Professor Flitwick at breakfast and set off for their first class, which this year was care of magical creatures with the Hufflepuffs. Dumbledore had said that the gamekeeper Hagrid was to be their new professor, which struck Harry as a bit odd, as the man didn’t have a mastery in the subject. Also, there was the thing about the dragon.

“Hi, Harry, Hermione!” Justin Finch-Fletchley said, coming to walk beside them under the steel-grey sky. He was trailed by two girls, one of whom had magic that smelled like a grocery store sugar cookie, and the other of whom looked exactly like—

“Sorry, have we met?” Harry asked the girls. “I’m Harry Potter, and this is my friend Hermione Granger.”

“Hannah Abbott,” cookie girl said.

“Susan Bones,” the second girl said, smiling knowingly at him. “My aunt likes you.”

“I like her too,” Harry said, grinning back.

The five of them reached a paddock at the edge of the forest. It was full of creatures Harry recognized immediately as Hippogriffs: beautiful, half-horse, half-eagle hybrids that glittered despite the clouded light. Harry’s mouth watered at the thought of what he might do with one of their feathers.

“Everyone gather 'round the fence here!" A massive man in a brown coat called at them. "If yeh don’ know, I’m yer professor, Rubeus Hagrid. That's it—make sure yeh can see—now, firs' thing yeh'll want ter do is open yer books.”

 “How come yours are all calm?” Justin asked Hermione and Harry, looking at their very normal, unmoving copies of the Monster Book of Monsters with undisguised awe.

“Oh,” Hermione said, grinning. “Harry put a sleeping charm on them.”

“Wait, I thought you were terrible at charms, Potter,” Justin said, grimacing. “No offense.”

Harry shrugged.

“I’m very good at approximately fifteen charms. I’m up from last year, it was only ten then,” he said proudly.

“Oh, can you do mine?” Susan asked.

“Mine too!” Hannah chimed in.

“Count us in,” Michael Corner and Terry Boot added.

“Sure, sure, just put them all in a pile—”

“What are yeh doin’?” Hagrid asked, apparently noticing that most of the class had ceased paying attention to his words.

“Harry’s helping us with the books,” Justin said, putting his own copy on the stack of mildly struggling tomes bound in various ropes and belts.

“What?” Hagrid said, looking between Justin and Harry. “Why would yeh need help?”

“Because the books bite, and I can’t do a sleeping charm?” Hannah added innocently.

“A what charm?”

“That’s how we got our books to be calm, professor,” Hermione said. “Harry’s really good at them. This one has lasted three days so far.”

“Really?” Justin asked. “Wow, you weren’t lying about being good with them!”

“But you just need teh stroke ‘em,” Hagrid said, looking crestfallen.

“I’d prefer the charm,” Justin mumbled to Harry. Harry nodded, pulling out his wand and feeling for his ever-present lavender with his magic.

“Somnus.”

The pile of books went still at once.

“Nice, Harry,” Susan said, grabbing her book.

“Er, right. Hippogriffs,” Hagrid said, giving Harry a very odd, very long look. “Very proud. Never insult one, cause it might be the last thing yeh do. Just walk up to ‘em and give ‘em a bow, and if it bows back, yer allowed teh touch ‘im. Now who wants to go first?”

“Me,” Harry said at once. He had to have a feather.

Tom was probably going to yell at him for this, but Harry had his lavender if anything went wrong.

Hagrid raised bushy eyebrows at him.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “We’ll try you with Oakwing.”

Hagrid climbed into the paddock and led a beautifully bronze hippogriff forward. Harry climbed the railing and stood before Oakwing. Then, he bowed deeply, just like Theo had taught him (“Even if you aren’t sacred twenty-eight, you’re still going to be a lord,” Theo had told him early on in their friendship). The hippogriff eyed him for a moment, then bowed back.

“Ah, right, then,” Hagrid said. “You can touch ‘im, if you like.”

Harry walked up to the creature and lifted a hand for it to smell. Then, gently, he ran his palm over its feathered neck. It was as soft as water beneath his fingers.

“You are beautiful,” Harry murmured to it. The hippogriff leaned down gently, pressing its forehead into Harry’s shoulder as he continued to stroke it. Distantly, he was aware of Hagrid saying something to him, or about him, but he ignored it. The smell of the hippogriff’s magic was light—nothing like the feeling of overwhelming power he got from being around Euryale—but it reminded him of flying, with a hint of spicy ginger.

The rest of the class soon joined him in the pen. There were few enough students here—Michael, Terry, Harry, and Hermione were the only Ravenclaws—that everyone got their own, and by the end of the lesson, everyone had gotten a bow, though no one else had received as enthusiastic of a greeting as Harry.

Finally, it was time to go.

“It was lovely to meet you,” Harry said to Oakwing. He had a feeling he was going to like this class.

The hippogriff trilled and poked its head to its shoulder, plucking a single long feather from its wing and turning back to Harry. Harry held out his hands reverently, and Oakwing dropped the feather into his fingers.

“Thank you,” Harry said, breathless, tucking the feather into his robes alongside the diary. “I’ll use it well, I promise.”

“What’cha got there, Harry?” Hagrid asked, walking over.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked innocently.

“I thought—ne’ermind,” Hagrid said. “Say, why don’t you drop by my ‘ouse for a spot o’ tea, later?”

Harry’s heart stopped.

He ran through the possibilities.

Hagrid knew about the diary—no, Harry wouldn’t be standing here if he did. Hagrid was some sort of predator, like Lockhart—no, that didn’t feel right. Hagrid seemed like a perfectly good person; Harry just didn’t get the same unpleasant vibe from Hagrid’s mild, earthy, pumpkin-sage-soup magic. Hagrid wanted to get information out of him for Dumbledore—now that was depressingly plausible.

“I’m sorry, Professor, but I’m quite busy,” Harry said softly. “Have a good afternoon.”

Harry turned and walked away, feeling the huge man’s eyes boring into the back of his skull as he rejoined Hermione.

The rest of the week passed wonderfully. Harry was still trying to hide his alchemy in Transfiguration and still abysmal at practical charms, but now he had ancient runes in his life. He already knew all of the third-year curriculum, but he delighted in asking Professor Babbling about the origins of various runes and their purely hypothetical applications. If Hermione begrudged him his success, she didn’t show it; she’d mellowed out quite a bit since their first year, actually.

Arithmancy was not quite as much of a success, but thanks to Tom’s excellent tutoring, Harry was still right behind Hermione. She had a flair for the subject that didn’t quite rival Tom’s but was certainly incredibly impressive. She had logic in spades, and a love for fiddly formulas Harry couldn’t understand but certainly admired.

The best part of the week, however, was Professor Sprout bringing him aside after herbology on Thursday morning.

“Mister Potter,” she said seriously. “I have rarely met someone so in tune with nature who also had the wherewithal to memorize what needed memorizing. I would like to offer you an independent study—I know you’re busy, but once a month I would like for you to help me in the seventh-year greenhouses. I am trying to propagate a cloud cactus, and I could use your touch.”

Harry stared at her.

Him? In tune with—

Oh. Well, yes, actually, that did make sense.

He thought back to the wilted St. John’s Wort bush that had saved his life when he was eight years old. It had grown strong for him, hadn’t it? And when he felt what the plants needed—

Was he smelling their magic, too?

He supposed he must be. He took a whiff of the greenhouse.

Yes. That’s it. The plants—even the muggle ones—have magic in them, and I can smell it.

Merlin, I love my nose.

“I would love to,” Harry said.

“Brilliant! We’ll start Sunday afternoon, if that’s alright with you,” Sprout said, handing him a late pass for defense against the dark arts.

Harry walked to class slowly, staring at the pass. Sprout had written out the full name of the class.

Defense against the Dark arts.

Huh.

What an odd name for a class.

Why not just “Defensive Magic?” “Combat Magic?” I could kill anyone with an engorgement charm, and that’s considered Light.

Defense against…Me?

Harry absentmindedly stroked the diary in his pocket as he slipped into the classroom.

It was empty.

Book bags were on chairs, but otherwise, the room seemed entirely unoccupied.

“That’s weird,” Harry said to the empty room, then sat down to wait. It wasn’t like he particularly wanted to do the class anyway. After five minutes of waiting, he pulled out a book on blood runes—with a switched cover, of course, so that it looked like his defense book—and started reading.

The class returned at the end of the hour.

“Mister Potter,” Lupin said, standing in the doorway as the rest of the students gathered their things. “I was wondering where you were.”

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said, handing him the late pass as Hermione came to stand beside him. “Professor Sprout was speaking with me.”

“I see,” Lupin said. “I apologize for the mistake. We took a turn at a Boggart today—read chapter sixteen in the textbook, if you would, and summarize for Monday.”

“Yes, sir. Oh, and—can I ask you something?” Harry asked.

“Please,” Lupin said, walking to his desk. Harry followed.

“I’ll catch you up later, Hermione,” he said to her, and she nodded, shooting a wary glance at Lupin before leaving.

Last year’s defense teacher had traumatized them all.

“I would like to learn how to perform that charm, if that’s alright,” Harry said once they were alone. “The one you used to drive off the dementor.”

Harry knew that he probably wouldn’t be able to do it. But still, maybe knowing more about the charm would give him an idea for a ritual that he could use to mimic it. He never wanted to feel the way the dementor had made him feel again.

Lupin raised his eyebrows.

“It’s a very difficult charm, Harry,” Lupin said. Harry blinked at the use of his first name.

“I can perform several very difficult charms,” Harry said, a little desperately.

“Oh?” Lupin said.

“I am proficient with protego, somnus, glacio, hover charms with up to twenty objects and a total weight of about ten tons, among others.”

The last he knew from the time Euryale had very graciously allowed him to lift her for a few minutes. She had enjoyed it and told him to never, ever do it again.

“That is…Very impressive,” Lupin said. “Although I’ll admit I’ve never heard anyone list off the specific charms that they are able to perform.”

Harry grimaced.

“It’s either hit or miss for me,” Harry said. “I’m either the best at the charm you’ll ever meet, or I can’t do it at all. I’ll probably fail the practical portion of your class, professor.”

“I see,” Lupin said, his magic reacting far more violently than his face. It smelled like someone was mixing a huge cauldron of blood and hot chocolate. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try, although I am surprised—you seemed largely unaffected by the dementor. It was your friend Hermione who bore the brunt of it, no?”

“I fainted, sir,” Harry admitted. “Before you got there. But I woke up.”

“You—Harry, did you see the nurse? I’m sorry that I didn’t ask further,” he said, frowning.

“No, I’m fine now,” Harry smiled, thinking of Tom and a bean bag. “But I’d still like to never feel that again.”

“I still recommend that you see madame Pomfrey.” Harry tried very hard not to flinch; he hadn’t seen the woman since she had crushed his dreams of being a healer. He still hadn’t thought through what exactly he was going to do with his life, other than experimental magic. Maybe Tom was right, and he could get someone to pay for his work.

“I’ll see her if I feel any effects, professor.”

Lupin pursed his lips but nodded.

“I’ll teach you—why don’t we begin in October, after I’ve had a chance to get settled in.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, grinning. “By the way—is there a reason you call me by my first name?”

“Oh,” Lupin said. “My apologies, mister Potter. I knew your parents while they were at school. I was friends with your father.”

“You were?” Harry asked.

Sirius didn’t mention him.

I suppose I wouldn’t be very fond of someone who didn’t bother to help me get a trial, either. Unless Lupin tried and failed?

…Or Dumbledore has something on him?

“Did you know my godfather?” Harry continued.

Lupin paled, looking at Harry with wide eyes.

“I did. He was also our friend,” Lupin said. “Or we thought that he was.”

“He’s innocent,” Harry said softly. “I caught Pettigrew myself last week. He betrayed my parents, and he’d been hiding out as a rat for the last thirteen years.”

Lupin stared at him.

“Are—what?”

“Sirius will be getting a trial soon, I imagine. I hope he shows up for it,” Harry said. He might have to send Helena to convince him. Harry really needed the man free, not to mention that it would be good for his godfather’s mental and physical health to not be on the run.

“You caught Pettigrew?” Lupin asked, sounding hoarse.

“Remember how I said I was really good at sleeping charms?” Harry said, grinning mischievously.

“Alright, I believe you,” Lupin said, running a hand over his face. “You’ll be late for lunch; you should go. But I would be happy to talk more about your parents later, if you would like.”

“Thank you, professor,” Harry said.

“Please, if it’s just us, call me Remus,” Lupin said, smiling. Harry smiled back at him, keeping his occlumency shields up. Lupin seemed nice, but he had also been hired by Dumbledore and from the state of his robes—repaired and transfigured one too many times, leaving the fabric threadbare—he clearly really needed the job. Harry doubted that his desires would come first if Dumbledore needed Lupin to manipulate him, especially if his theory about Dumbledore having dirt on Lupin proved true.

“It was nice to meet you,” Harry said. “Thank you for agreeing to teach me, Remus.”

“Of course, Harry,” Lupin said, his face finally beginning to relax for the first time since Harry’s revelations.

It wasn’t until Saturday evening—after a full day of quidditch practice and running around the castle with his friends, enjoying their low first-week homework load—that Harry was finally able to sneak down to the Chamber to visit his largest friend. Fortunately, his friends were at this point used to his frequent disappearances. He supposed it fit with his generally quiet nature and dislike of physical affection; and it was true, he did seem to need more time to himself than others.

Tom understood, though his own feelings on the matter were somewhat unclear. Harry thought Tom was more of an ambivert—someone who loved both big parties where he could charm the guests and being alone with a book. Harry fell quite hard into the latter camp, though Tom’s presence never went amiss.

Harry flew down into the Chamber, and Euryale came to greet him almost at once, her massive golden eyes glowing.

“Third friend, you’re back,” she hissed. Harry could taste extra snow in her magic, which meant she was feeling fond. Harry flew over to her and landed in front of her nose to stroke it gently.

“Sorry it took me so long,” Harry hissed to her. “Tom and I are still working on getting him a body, but he misses you too.”

“I will be overjoyed to have you both with me. You are my favorite hatchlings. I only ever knew my first friend as an adult; I like that I can see you grow.”

Harry grinned at her fondly.

“Third friend,” Euryale said, and Harry felt a surprising seriousness in her magic, “Would you like a snake?”

Harry hummed.

“Yes, very much, though I already have you,” Harry said. “Why do you ask?”

“What would you name them?” Euryale asked, not answering him.

Harry thought for a minute.

“Stheno for a girl, after you, and Cetus for a boy,” Harry replied.

“These are good names. Thank you. Tell me how your summer was?”

Harry, not one to interrogate a thousand-year-old basilisk, climbed onto her back to scratch her head in the spots that she liked, and began to speak. When he was finished—and Euryale had been thoroughly scratched—the giant snake took her leave, and Harry headed for Slytherin’s study.

He’d been waiting all week for this.

++ Tom, are you free? ++

== Always, for you. ==

Harry blushed.

++ I’m going to try the hippogriff feather now. Also, Euryale says hi and was asking me about baby names, which isn’t concerning at all. For baby snakes, to be clear. ++

== Tell her I say hello as well. I have no idea what the baby names could be about, as she hasn’t exactly had a chance to mate. Do you think the feather will let you fly? ==

Tom’s magic was full of bright orange curiosity.

++ I don’t think so—flight is a strong power, and I don’t think Hippogriffs carry enough magic for that. It reminds me of ginger, which helps with nausea, so we’ll see. ++

== Tell me when you’re finished. ==

++ Of course! ++

Harry left the diary on Slytherin’s desk and walked to the ritual circle, holding the Hippogriff feather in his hands.

If I accumulate powers like this, I’ll be a superhero, Harry laughed to himself. He sometimes wished he could use his fire more without giving away his abilities; he loved the way it felt, to burn and to be warm. It felt almost as good as touching Tom did.

Harry stood in the center of the circle, holding the feather and feeling its magic.

Give me your gift, he willed. Give me your gift.

Give me grace.

“Oh,” he said, gasping as a pleasant, ice-cold needle pierced through his soul. Fire burned in him in response, his hands flaring with green flames. He could almost feel the phoenix feather consuming the hippogriff feather within him, changing it to suit its needs—

That’s fascinating, Harry thought, from where he was suddenly laying on the floor.

He stood, and it was like his body had gained a mind of its own. His limbs moved like his firebolt did; at his will, they executed any motion.

Just to see if he could, Harry did a cartwheel across the circle, then a handstand.

That’s not flight, but it is really cool, Harry thought, grinning as he stepped back to his feet.

Every movement felt like he was floating. He leapt back to the desk, his legs propelling him like he was weightless. Then he grabbed the diary and curled up in one of Slytherin’s plush armchairs.

++ Tom! ++

== Harry? ==

++ I get it now. Ginger can help with motion sickness, so it would make sense that it could help with balance in rituals, and the feather was similar. It gave me grace, Tom. I can’t even explain it. I just did a cartwheel. I feel like I’m floating when I walk. ++

== That’s incredible. ==

++ You’ll have to teach me to dance, now. ++

== You have no idea how much I’ve been hoping you would say that. But let’s wait until I have my body back, alright? ==

++ Alright. I’m not in any rush, after all. We have the rest of our very long lives ahead of us. ++

== That we do. Although you may not want to dance with me when we’re older. ==

A curl of woodsmoke—and a strong hint of clove, which he still didn’t understand—in the diary’s magic made Harry grimace.

++ Why on earth would you think that? You’re my best friend, Tom. I’ll always want to dance with you. Plus, I mostly hate touching people, so you’re probably the only person I’d want to dance with. ++

== Hm. But what if you get married one day? You’ll have to dance with your wife. ==

++ Or husband, Tom. I like both. ++

There was another spark of clove and a rush of cinnamon, and Harry blushed.

++ That’s not—I mean, that doesn’t freak you out, right? I know you said you didn’t mind touching me, that those issues were for muggles, but I’d understand if you didn’t want to now. ++

Woodsmoke flared.

== Please don’t misunderstand me. I only like men, Harry. I don’t have a problem with your desired gender. Or genders, as it were. ==

Tom likes men, Harry thought, his mind going entirely blank with this unexpectedly wonderful piece of information.

++ I think I’ll probably marry a man. ++

== Why do you say that? ==

Because I like tall people, and it’s statistically more likely for men.

…Or, rather, because I like you and I literally cannot imagine liking anyone else.

++ I don’t know. I could definitely fall for the right woman, but I think I’m more likely to fall for a man. I don’t know, I’m thirteen. I could wake up tomorrow and only be attracted to cacti. ++

== Mm, I hope not. That sounds painful, and you know I hate things that cause you pain. ==

Harry grinned.

++ So…This doesn’t change anything? Between us? ++

== Of course not, Harry. Thank you for trusting me. ==

++ Thank you, Tom. ++

Harry blinked heavily. The ritual had taken a lot out of him—

~~~~~

“Oh,” Harry said, suddenly in a vast desert of hard-packed sand, littered with cactuses, with smudges of mountains purple in the distance. “My back is going to hurt when I wake up.”

“Did you fall asleep in the Chamber?” Tom asked, smiling knowingly as he appeared at Harry’s side in light robes of pale green.

“Yeah. I must have been thinking of cacti,” Harry said, laughing. The sun felt good on his skin; the desert was a pleasantly warm place, more cozy than sweltering. He sat down on the sand and grinned up at Tom, who sat beside him, their hands not quite touching. Harry didn’t move to correct that; he was feeling a little unsteady, still. He knew Tom had said he didn’t care—that he himself preferred men—but it was hard to wrap his mind around.

Harry still remembered the Dursleys spitting at the mention of queer people on the news.

That they deserved what they got, the illness that God had sent them.

“Tell me more about the ritual. What does it feel like?” Tom asked, pulling Harry from his thoughts.

“Like something is piercing my soul, but in a good way,” Harry said. “It was less intense than the phoenix feather—a lot less intense. I think the phoenix actually shaped the hippogriff, somehow. If someone else had used the hippogriff feather, they might not have gotten the same effect.”

“Fascinating,” Tom said, his eyes glowing. “Phoenixes are notoriously graceful fliers. I wonder if you can get other Phoenix powers. True immortality, or flight.”

“Hm, I think I’d prefer flight. Do you really think phoenixes are true immortals? That sounds awful,” Harry shuddered.

“What do you mean? I thought you wanted immortality,” Tom asked, frowning, his magic a sudden mass of woodsmoke.

“I do,” Harry said gently. “But only with the possibility of an end. You know the sun will swallow the earth one day, right? I don’t want to float in space alone for all eternity. I’d much rather die.”

“Wait, what?”

“Stellar life cycle? We learned it in muggle science class. In a few billion years, the sun will become a red giant and destroy earth. Plus, I think I’d go mad if I lived for a billion years.”

Tom looked thoughtful.

“I suppose you have a point. I guess I would also rather die than float in space for all eternity, though I’m not sure I wouldn’t like to live for a billion years. Assuming I’m still sane, of course.”

Harry smiled at him.

“I know you want to wait to see my magic, but can I show you this one?”

Tom raised an eyebrow.

“You just want to do another cartwheel.”

“Guilty as charged,” Harry said, grinning and getting to his feet. As he did so, his clothes became gym shorts and a t-shirt.

“Oh, I didn’t know I could do that,” Harry said. “Huh. I guess it is my dream.”

Then he raised his arms and turned three cartwheels on the hard sand, landing in a handstand once more.

“It’s so wonderful,” Harry said, upside down and not even struggling to maintain the pose. “I’ve always had good balance, but this is insane.”

Tom grinned at him.

“Very impressive, darling. Please don’t hurt yourself.”

“I won’t!” Harry said, huffing as he landed back on his feet and plopped down in the sand once more.

Tom was looking at him very fondly, his dark blue eyes sparkling like sapphires and a small smile on his perfect mouth.

“What?”

“I am surprised that you look cute in muggle clothes,” Tom said.

Harry flushed.

“Muggles do some things right. Athletic wear is one of those things.”

“I think that wix in general do less activity, as magic uses so much energy that we hardly have extra.”

“No wonder we’re constantly feasting,” Harry said.

“Hence why you should eat more,” Tom said, frowning at him.

“Look, I think my stomach is permanently messed up. It’s not my fault.”

“I know it isn’t,” Tom said quickly. “But you remember what that bitch of a school nurse said about eating; she was right about that, if nothing else.”

Harry wrapped his arms around his legs and sighed.

“I’m trying,” he said, resting his chin on his knees. “It’s better now than over the summer when I was eating cans of beans and chips.”

“I know,” Tom said.

Slowly, his face twisted. Harry saw his eyes flash like rubies.

“I’m going to kill your relatives.”

“Tom,” Harry said, looking up at him.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t, Harry. Give me one reason.”

“Dudley is just a child,” Harry said. “He was learning from his father. He could learn to be better.”

“Alright, I won’t kill Dudley. Vernon and Petunia are adults. What’s their saving grace?”

Harry opened his mouth and closed it again.

Tom smirked.

“Nothing?”

Harry frowned.

“I wouldn’t mind if you killed them,” he admitted softly. “I don’t want them dead, per se, but I also…Wouldn’t care. It wouldn’t change how I see you. I wouldn’t be grateful, mind, but I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Alright, then,” Tom said, sounding satisfied.

“But if you got caught,” Harry said, his voice turning sharp, “that would mean that I would lose you because of them. And then they would have managed to take yet another thing that matters to me. They’d win, Tom. I just don’t think it’s worth the risk.”

“I wouldn’t get caught.”

“You can’t know that,” Harry hissed. “They aren’t worth it, Tom. They’re dirt. They’re foul. I know…I know now that what they did to me was wrong. I know I didn’t deserve it. I know they deserve to suffer. I know all of that. And it still wouldn’t be worth even a fraction of a fraction of a chance that you could be taken from me or hurt because of them.”

Harry glared at Tom, his arms still locked around his legs.

Tom pursed his lips thoughtfully, his magic all black pepper and cinnamon.

“Alright,” he said finally. “I won’t. But only if you get away from them before I get a body. I will not stand by and let them hurt you.”

“If they are actively hurting me,” Harry said, “you have my express approval to remove them from the mortal plane.”

Tom grinned at him.

“Darling, you spoil me,” he said.

“Spoiling would be telling you to kill them anyway,” Harry mumbled, blushing. “But it won’t matter. Sirius is innocent, and I’m never going back to that place.”

“Good. Have you thought about how to poison Sirius against the old bastard?”

“Start with the trial,” Harry said. “Tell him where Dumbledore sent me, then drop hints about my treatment at the Dursleys. Finish with the fiasco from my first year, if that doesn’t work.”

Tom nodded.

“It’s a start,” Tom said. “Although I wonder if Dumbledore will retaliate for you moving in with Sirius. It would obviously give you more independence, and the trace wouldn’t matter anymore once you were in a magical household.”

“I nearly pulled my hair out when it sank in that Neville could do magic whenever he wants,” Harry hissed.

“When I got the trace and was sent back to the orphanage, I lost every advantage that had kept me sane in there,” Tom agreed. “It’s barbaric.”

Harry nodded.

“You’ll fix it. We’ll fix it. I’ll do anything I can to help you,” Harry said.

“I know people aren’t your thing, Harry. It’s alright. But you can help me come up with better ways of keeping secrecy. And keep me alive, of course,” Tom grinned viciously.

“Of course,” Harry said, grinning back. Then a familiar tug came on his mind.

“I’m waking up soon,” Harry sighed.

“Dream us somewhere cozier next time, please,” Tom said, cocking his head.

“Why?”

“You’ve been distant since the…things. The bean bags,” Tom said, spitting the words.

“Distant?” Harry said, surprised. They’d just been discussing the most intimate details of Harry and Tom’s lives—

Then he realized Tom meant physically.

He had been dreaming them into slightly uncomfortable places for the last week.

“If you’re not comfortable—” Tom began, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

“No,” Harry said. “I am. I…Definitely am.”

He, too, had really wanted a repeat of the bean bags.

“You’re sure you’re still comfortable with that?” Harry asked.

Tom met his eyes firmly, his magic full of cinnamon sincerity.

“Yes, Harry.” Then he smiled, and it was like sunlight. “Have a good day.”

~~~~~

Harry woke up early and scurried back to the dorms before his roommates woke, then met Hermione in the common room to go down to breakfast, somehow successfully hiding both the fact that he had slept somewhere very different, and the fact that he probably could have walked a tightrope blindfolded. He felt a little thrill at the deception; yet another secret he and Tom shared.

Hermione was absolutely grinning as they walked to the great hall.

“What’s got you in a good mood?” Harry asked.

“Oh, you’ll see,” was all she said.

Theo and Daphne were already sitting at the Ravenclaw table with Neville when they arrived. To his surprise, Neville and Luna were deep in conversation about divination, which Neville was taking.

“It’s not correctly done here,” Luna said as Harry sat down beside her. “Trelawny has the eye but not the eye, you know? She’s a sometimes-seer.”

“But if she can see at all—”

Neville was interrupted by the arrival of the post owls, which made Hermione screech in delight. She seized the nearest copy of the Daily Prophet, which happened to be Daphne’s, and unfurled it with a flourish.

“Oh, brilliant. I’m the headline,” she said.

Harry stared at her, unrolling his own copy.

-----

HOGWARTS STUDENT’S NEAR-KISS: DEMENTOR HORROR ON THE EXPRESS

By June Ridan

As Hogwarts students boarded the train last weekend, none could have imagined what awaited them on their journey: no less than three dementors.

Hogwarts has been under increased security due to the escape of one Sirius Black, wanted accused murderer. Despite Black’s escape from Azkaban and the dementors guarding it a mere month ago, Minister of Magic Corneilius Fudge and Headmaster of Hogwarts Albus Dumbledore have chosen to use the same guards to attempt to prevent Black’s entry to the school. Why he would wish to target magical schoolchildren—when the previous crimes he was accused of were committed against muggles—is unknown to the public. In addition, ministry insiders have suggested that there may be more to Black’s case than meets the eye, even going so far as to imply that he may in fact be an innocent man. Rumors abound that one Peter Pettigrew has been taken into custody, despite being believed to be deceased (more on page 6).

While one might assume that the dementors would be kept on a tight leash around children, they are apparently sufficiently independent as to decide when and where they investigate. As a result, the dementor force invaded the Hogwarts Express a few miles from the castle proper, with no adult supervision to speak of. Professor Remus Lupin, who happened to be riding the train at the time, confirmed in a statement that he had no prior knowledge of the dementor’s presence.

Even worse, the dementors themselves were apparently less interested in looking for fugitives than they were in looking for prey.

“One of them entered my compartment, where I was sitting with my friends,” says Hermione Granger, a third-year Ravenclaw. “It went right for me. I saw it lift its hood, and I thought I was going to die, and I just remember thinking that I never got to say goodbye to my parents. I know what dementors do—the kiss. I know what it was going to do to me. I would have been gone if professor Lupin hadn’t been riding the train by chance.”

The Hogwarts Board of Governors expressed extreme disapproval of the Minister and Headmaster’s choices, and said that they had no hand in the presence of the dementors, and would be beginning motions to remove them…

-----

“Wow, Hermione,” Harry said, looking up at the head table. Dumbledore was staring daggers at a very uncomfortable looking Lupin. “Nice one.”

“Well, it was the truth,” Hermione said, smiling slightly.

“Do you think they’ll fire him over it?” Theo asked, nodding at Dumbledore. “The board can.”

“I don’t know,” Daphne said, sighing. “Neville, has your gran heard anything?”

“This is the first I’m hearing of it, but I’ll let you know,” Neville said. “I never thought I’d say it, but this is…Pretty bad. Letting dementors on a train? And Hagrid’s nice, but Malfoy almost got mauled by a Hippogriff in our first lesson. I pulled him back, but—I don’t think Hagrid should have had us start with such dangerous creatures.”

Harry grinned.

Even if they were just kids his age, at least he had four allies against Dumbledore.

And, of course, his most important ally—safe in the inner pocket of his robes.

Soon.

Soon.

Merlin, I can’t wait to watch the bastard have a heart attack when he meets Tom…Peverell.

Harry saw Dumbledore’s gaze flash to him and ignored him carefully. He was going to provoke the man in a big way soon enough. Escaping the Dursleys would see to that.

Chapter Text

September swept by. Sirius agreed to go to his trial with only a little prompting from Harry, which was just the start of his good fortune.

If anything, Harry’s classes were going even better this year than last, as he wasn’t entering the term half-starved and unable to handle crowds or enclosed spaces. He continued quietly being the top of their year in herbology, astronomy, transfiguration, and now runes and care of magical creatures, too (and history, but his rosemary memory and Tom’s stories made that hardly fair). Hermione had the top spot in arithmancy with Harry right behind, and it was a three-way tie with Theo in potions. Of course, Harry was failing both charms and defense spectacularly, but he didn’t particularly care.

In fact, it rather helped with his desire to go under the radar. He didn’t like attention and didn’t need praise from anyone except Tom (who was wonderfully liberal with it), so he rarely asked questions in any classes but runes and herbology. He saw the way other Ravenclaws—and even some Hufflepuffs—would mob Hermione around tests, and Harry wanted no part of it. In fact, because he failed so publicly at charms and never asked questions, no one knew he was top in other subjects. Harry only knew because the professors told him, which he found very flattering, and did not mention to Hermione.

An additional benefit of being content to fail charms and defense was that he simply ignored any non-theoretical homework from the classes in favor of writing letters to Flamel and working on the stone with Tom.

Flamel had been very entertained to hear about his natural magic. He himself had apparently taken a boon from a merman in the 1700s to enable him to breathe underwater, and he confirmed that souls could only take on certain types of natural magic at the same time. That meant Harry himself wouldn’t be breathing underwater without additional help any time soon, but that any other traits compatible with phoenix magic were on the table.

++ I’m going to get flight. ++ Harry told Tom after recounting the letter.

++ I bet it’s a dragon scale. ++

== Harry. ==

He could feel the diary’s jasmine amusement laced with a little smoky concern.

++ I won’t go looking for a dragon, I promise. But if one finds me… ++

== I expect you to run away, darling. ==

++ We’ll see. I am fireproof, you know. ++

== Are you bite-proof? ==

Harry laughed.

++ By the time I meet a dragon? Who knows? ++

Quidditch was going well as well—Harry was flying better than ever with the Hippogriff’s grace, though when Jenks remarked on it, he’d just chalked it up to experience—and Jason Samuels had become an excellent new beater since Angela had graduated.

All in all, by mid-October, Harry wasn’t sure how his life could have gotten much better, save for Dumbledore and Voldemort mutually offing each other.

Then the Friday morning Prophet arrived.

-----

SIRIUS BLACK CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES

By Rita Skeeter

-----

His friends beamed at him.

“You did it, Harry! I’m so happy for you,” Hermione said.

“Remember me when you’re Lord Black, won’t you?” Daphne said, winking. Harry laughed.

“I guess we are—what, seven wizengamot seats between us? Wow,” he chuckled. “But I shouldn’t count my chickens before they hatch. Maybe Sirius will have kids.”

“Do dementors even leave that intact?” Neville wondered. They all stared at him.

“What? It’s a real concern,” he said, going pink.

Harry sent Helena off to find Sirius at once, with a note to suggest they meet in Hogsmede. He didn’t have permission to go unsupervised, but Flitwick confirmed that an allowance would be made for him to meet with his bondparent. Sirius wrote back with a few dates, and Harry chose one in mid-November, after Sirius had spent a month in St. Mungo’s to get some treatment—physical and mental—for dementor exposure.

At last, the week of Halloween arrived. Harry plopped himself down at lunch at the Slytherin table when Hermione was suspiciously absent (she’d been vanishing a lot lately—but who was Harry to judge?) and Neville was eating with Luna. The two had hit it off quite well, and Harry was glad to see it.

“Hey, Daph, Theo,” Harry said, smiling. “Would I be able to invite myself to the Samhain ritual this year? It’s alright if—”

Harry cut off at a warning look from Daphne.

“Later,” she mouthed, and Harry nodded.

Just then, Draco Malfoy dropped into the seat beside him. Harry had completely forgotten about the promised letter from Lucius, but he certainly remembered now.

“Potter,” Malfoy said politely, handing him an envelope. Harry took it, assuming it probably couldn’t be cursed if Draco had touched it, then opened it there. Malfoy looked scandalized.

“Potter, anyone could see—”

“See what, Malfoy?” Harry asked casually, eyes on the letter.

-----

Heir Potter,

We did not finish our previous conversation. Give me a date, and I will meet you in Hogsmede.

Lord Lucius Malfoy,

Wizengamot II Seat

Hogwarts Board of Governors

Order of Merlin, 2^nd Class

-----

Harry resisted the urge to snort; the man’s titles were longer than the letter.

“Please tell your father that I’ll meet him at 3 o’clock on November 13^th in the Three Broomsticks,” Harry said politely to Malfoy. That should give him plenty of time to finish a late lunch with Sirius. He then handed the letter back to the blonde, who looked at him with wide eyes.

“What?” Harry said, blinking at the three staring Slytherins.

“Nothing,” Theo said. “Is this about the elf?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, shrugging. “But I figure it can’t hurt to find out.”

Harry purposefully avoided teasing Malfoy at all. He hadn’t forgotten that the blonde boy had both warned Harry about Tom—which had, in fact, led to their current close relationship—and had stood between him and Weasley. And he hadn’t said an unkind word to Hermione or Neville thus far that year.

All in all, Draco Malfoy was solidly in Harry’s bucket of acceptable acquaintances.

Surprisingly, Malfoy spent the rest of lunch with them.

“I really like your robes this year, Potter,” he said, somehow managing to eat a sandwich with a his nose in the air.

“Thanks. Daphne recommended her tailor to me. Gentlewix and Taft. Daphne’s got the best eye for clothes of anyone I know,” Harry said, smiling at her.

“They’re great. They specialize in more androgynous looks for all genders,” she said. “I think it suits Harry and me perfectly.”

Harry nodded.

Merlin, thank goodness I escaped muggle gender norms.

“Where do you get yours done, Malfoy?” Harry asked.

“Madame Malkin’s, usually,” Draco said. “But mother says I’m old enough to choose my own proper tailor. She just had me in Malkin’s so I didn’t end up snubbing someone when I chose later.”

Daphne nodded sagely.

“Two people you don’t want to snub: your barber and your tailor,” she said.

“Nott, you should learn from Greengrass,” Malfoy said, raising an eyebrow at the boy. “You wear the same thing every day, honestly.”

 “He looks fine, and that’s what matters,” Harry said. “The strength of clothes is in making you feel good. Theo is a utilitarian person—that’s not bad, Theo—and he dresses simply. It’s high-quality stuff, but he doesn’t have to make a lot of choices. It frees up his mind for being brilliant.”

Theo beamed at him.

Malfoy, meanwhile, gave him an appraising look.

“Honestly, Potter, I should have realized that first day on the train—you’ve got a good eye. I’m still going to smash you in quidditch, though,” he said, smirking.

“You wish,” Harry said, smiling back.

After lunch, Theo, Daphne and Harry headed to an empty classroom to finish their Samhain conversation.

“You’re really good with people, Harry,” Theo said as they walked.

Harry blinked.

“What do you mean? Groups larger than five stress me out, and so do crowds,” he said. “I’m a terrible public speaker—do you remember that charms presentation?—and most of Gryffindor hates me for some unfathomable reason.”

“Not like that,” Daphne said. “You’re just really good at giving genuine compliments and being kind, and talking to people about what they’re interested in. You’re a good listener, too, and you remember things. I think what Theo means is that you put people at ease. But at the same time, you never just let people walk over you or your friends, so people trust you to have their backs.”

I had enough of people stepping on me at the Dursleys. I won’t let it happen when I can actually do something about it, Harry thought. And it doesn’t hurt to be kind.

“Thank you, Daphne. That means a lot, coming from you,” Harry said.

She smiled at him and led the way into an empty classroom, then set up a few silencing charms. Harry raised his eyebrows at that.

“We would have told you sooner, but we’re trying not to spread the word too much, in case he retaliates,” Theo said. “Dumbledore banned the celebration of all sabbats at Hogwarts.”

“What?” Harry said. “How can he do that?”

“It’s an obscure rule,” Daphne said. “Unless the board removes him completely, Dumbledore has the right to ban gatherings, which includes sabbat celebrations.”

“And they can’t remove him because he’s head of the Wizengamot, and if they do, he’ll ruin all of their law proposals,” Theo added. “So here we are.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said, genuinely. “I really appreciated the chance to celebrate last year.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Daphne said, sounding sad. “We were going to invite all three of you, actually.”

Harry smiled ruefully.

“Well. That shows what Dumbledore knows, I guess. If he was trying for blood unity, he failed.”

Theo smiled at him.

“At least we have Hogsmede coming up,” he said.

“Oh, no, I forgot to tell you,” Harry said, his heart sinking further. “I can’t go. My aunt and uncle didn’t sign my slip—because of Sirius supposedly being after me,” he lied quickly.

“Oh, no,” Daphne said, looking distraught. “I’m sorry, Harry, we’ve been talking about it constantly!”

“No, it’s fine,” Harry said, waving her off. “I’ll get to go next year, and you know I like a little quiet time.”

“Alright, Harry, but we’ll bring you anything you want from the village,” Theo said.

“Thanks, Theo, Daphne,” Harry said, smiling. “And thanks for telling me about Samhain.”

This time, Harry was determined not to blame himself for something someone else had done. Still, he felt a little prickle of worry that Dumbledore had banned the ritual specifically to prevent him from attending again.

Well.

I’ll just have to hold my own ceremony, then.

Samhain arrived, and the older years poured out into Hogsmede. Harry said goodbye to his friends—all of whom had offered to stay behind with him, but Harry had insisted against it—and headed for the entrance to the Chamber. He knew it was irrational—they dreamed together most nights, when Harry was not too tired to dream at all—but he missed how much time he had spent talking to Tom over the summer. Taking three electives was a lot of work, and he was going to meet Lupin for his first patronus lesson that afternoon, so he wanted to spend the morning talking to Euryale and Tom.

The desire to talk to Tom was especially strong, as Harry had not dreamt with Tom the night before. He had, however, woken up with the smell of woodsmoke strong in his nose. Tom was worried, and Harry hadn’t had the chance to ask why yet. It gave him an unpleasant pit in his stomach.

Before Harry could reach Myrtle’s bathroom, he heard the distinctly unpleasant sound of a jelly-legs jinx being cast. Harry ran toward the noise at once, skidding around a corner to see Cormac McClaggen—a noxious Gryffindor fourth year—laughing at a completely unconcerned but very wobbly looking Luna.

“Hey,” Harry called, making the boy stop laughing. “Undo it.”

McClaggen sneered at him.

“Or what, Potter? Everyone knows you only know one charm.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, drawing his wand and training his magic on one of the owl feathers in his pocket. “But it’s a bloody useful one. Winguardium Leviosa.”

McClaggen’s face abruptly fell as he rose into the air like a balloon, his wand clattering to the floor as he dropped it in surprise.

“Hey! Potter! Stop that, you asshole—”

“Good luck getting down,” Harry said, grinning. He watched McClaggen bobbing along the ceiling for a second with great pleasure.

He hated bullies.

“Luna, are you alright?”

“Oh? Yes,” Luna said, wobbling toward him. Harry reached out a hand, but at the last moment, she pulled away.

“Oh, it’s alright. I know you don’t like being touched very much. Could you float me to the hospital wing, please?” She said, grinning.

Harry beamed at her. He had no idea how she knew that, but he was grateful.

“Thank you, Luna,” he said, focusing on another owl feather. “Winguardium Leviosa.”

Luna rose smoothly into the air and crossed her legs, beaming at him.

“This is the best, Harry,” she said.

“Let me down!” McClaggen screamed overhead. He was turning a rather unpleasant shade of red.

Tom was going to enjoy this story later.

“Okay,” Harry said, reaching out with his mind to end the magic holding McClaggen. The boy settled softly back to the ground—Harry wasn’t going to break his nose, even if he kind of wanted to. The Gryffindor grabbed his wand, shot a vicious glare at Harry, and stalked away.

Harry had finally figured out why some rituals were easy to end, and some weren’t—some required ongoing will to direct, like owl feather flight or ginseng light or his shield charms, or else the magic dispersed. Others maintained a single, unchanging effect until they ran out of power, like lavender or St. John’s Wort. One of his many experiments-in-planning was finding a way to convert one type of ritual into the other.

I’ll have to ask Flamel, he thought, as he began to levitate Luna to the hospital wing.

“How have you been, Luna?” Harry asked. He rarely saw her at mealtimes or in the common room.

“Good,” she said. “Myrtle likes you. She said you have a pen pal, and she hopes you get together with him.”

Harry nearly choked on his spit.

“Pen pal?”

“The person you write letters to?”

Is that what she said?

Merlin, I need to get her a Christmas present.

Exorcism—that’d be a good one.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry said, blushing. “Are you friends with all of the ghosts?”

“I’m trying to be,” Luna said. “The Fat Friar has actually seen a crumple-horned snorkack, which is wonderful.”

“What’s that?” Harry asked, curious.

“It’s a very rare Swedish cryptid-class beast,” Luna whispered, her eyes wide. “I’m going to be the first person to photograph one.”

“Show me when you do, alright?”

“Of course, Harry,” Luna said. “What do you think of Hagrid? I want to take care of magical creatures next year, but I’ve been hearing some odd whispers in the corners about him.”

Harry blinked and tried not to think too hard about what she meant by that.

“He’s nice enough, but I think he’s not a great teacher,” Harry said. “He’s a little too enthusiastic about things that are dangerous.”

“Hm,” Luna said. “That’s a pity. Not everything worth studying is dangerous.”

“I agree,” Harry said, smiling at her. “Though most of my favorite plants do have teeth…”

They reached the hospital wing, and Harry pushed open the door and let Luna back onto her own two feet.

“Madame Pomfrey?” Harry called, trying not to grimace and remembering the last time that he had been here.

“Mister Potter? What are you—oh, miss Lovegood. What happened?”

“Someone hit me with a jelly legs jinx,” Luna said.

“Who?” Pomfrey asked.

“I didn’t see,” Luna said softly.

Harry blinked at her. She was a very, very good liar. He could barely even smell a change in her wildflower and maple magic; just a subtle drop in the sweetness was all the tell he had.

“And why are you here, mister Potter?”

“I was helping Luna to get here,” he said, keeping his occlumency shields up to avoid snapping at her. Just because he was becoming increasingly attracted to the idea of being an experimental ritualist full-time didn’t mean that he wasn’t still angry at her for the way their conversations about healing had ended.

“I see. I’ll have you right in a jiff, dear,” Pomfrey said, waving her wand and muttering at Luna. Her legs stopped wobbling at once.

Why did she even wait to do that? Harry wondered.

“Thank you, madame Pomfrey. Harry, would you like to see something cool that I found?” Luna asked.

Harry ran a finger over the diary in his pocket, feeling a pang in his stomach at the woodsmoke smell that hung around him.

Still, Luna had just been jinxed, on Samhain of all days.

“Sure,” he said, smiling. Luna led him out of the hospital wing, a slight spring in her step.

“Do you celebrate Samhain, Harry?” Luna asked.

“I do,” he said. “I like to remember my parents.”

“I like to remember my mom,” Luna said. “She died when I was little—a charm backfired.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said. “I never got to know my parents, and honestly, sometimes I think that’s not so bad. I don’t really have anyone to miss, you know?”

And I don’t have to care what they think of me or my choice of friends, Harry thought to himself.

“And you like the freedom,” Luna said, echoing his thoughts. Harry nodded.

“You’re very perceptive, Luna,” Harry said.

“You’re the second person to have told me that,” she said. “The first was my mother.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he let a comfortable silence reign. Luna took them to the seventh floor, where a tapestry of a man and several trolls in tutus hung opposite an empty wall. Luna stopped him, then walked up and down the hallway three times.

A door appeared in the empty wall.

“What is this?” Harry asked, stunned.

“The come-and-go room,” Luna said. “Also known as the room of requirement. A house elf showed it to me. I use it sometimes when I need quiet. I think only I know about it. And now you do. It can be whatever you want. You just walk past three times, thinking of what you need, and it will be there.”

Oh, Tom is going to love this.

Luna opened the door and stepped inside, Harry on her heels.

“What is this?” Harry asked, staring at a vast, sunny meadow, surrounded by distant trees. He turned around; the door behind them seemed to be freestanding. In the center of the meadow was a giant trampoline.

“My happy place,” Luna said, grinning at him. “Do you want to try?”

“Hell yes,” Harry said, following Luna to the trampoline.

It had to be one of the most ridiculous, childish things he had ever done. But as he hung suspended ten feet in the air above an endless sea of wildflowers, he understood why Luna enjoyed it.

“How do you even know about trampolines?” Harry called to her as they bounced.

“I saw a muggle on one while I was walking around at home,” Luna called back. “You’re really graceful, Harry,” she added.

Harry blushed, slightly regretting the double backflip he’d just done.

They bounced until they were both starving, then went down for lunch. Finally, Harry realized that it was time for his appointment with Lupin, and he bid his friend farewell with a promise to use her gift wisely.

Harry met Lupin in his office adjacent to the defense room. It was a cozy place, in spite of the grindylow in the corner. Harry liked it much better than Lockhart’s beaming, horrific portrait faces.

“Hello, Harry,” Lupin said. “Are you ready to begin? I can’t bring a dementor here, but we can still practice.”

“I think my boggart might be a dementor, prof—er, Remus,” Harry said. “But that’s alright. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to cast a patronus, anyway. How does the charm work?”

“The Patronus is a positive force, a projection of the very things that the dementor feeds upon, like hope and happiness. It cannot feel despair, as real humans can, so the dementors can't hurt it. The incantation is “expecto patronum,” and there’s no particular wand movement,” Lupin said. “You need to concentrate on a happy memory and channel that into the spell.”

“What does it look like? Are they always wolves?”

“No,” Lupin said, grimacing, his blood and chocolate magic flaring. “Each one is unique to the caster. Now, try to think of a single, specific, happy memory and concentrate as hard as you can. When you’re ready, say the incantation.”

A happy memory?

Hang on, can I offer happiness?

…Would that make me permanently depressed, or just for a short period?

You never know if you don’t try.

“Okay,” Harry said.

Briefly, a part of him wondered if he wanted to stop himself from ever hearing his mother’s voice again.

But—yes, he did. He was grateful to his mother for the blood magic she’d done for him, and he wished she had gotten to live longer, but he wasn’t in love with the idea of her, certainly not to the point of wanting to hear that again. He wanted to know more about her, but not her death—just her life.

Happy memory.

Winning the quidditch cup? Good, but no.

Hermione telling him she thought he was a good person—

That had to be it.

He tried to feel the happiness like a light in his chest, pushing it toward his magic as hard as he could. It felt slippery and confusing, but he pressed on.

“Expecto patronum,” Harry said softly, giving the happiness one last shove.

A silver aura flared around him and was gone. Harry beamed at it; he couldn’t believe he’d actually managed to do something on the first try. His experimental rituals almost never worked this well.

Of course, one question remained:

Can I still feel happy?

He thought of Hermione’s face, her exact words, begging him not to think he was a bad person, and smiled wetly.

Yeah, I’m okay. Thank Merlin, happiness is a renewable resource.

“I have never seen a patronus do that before,” Lupin said, frowning. “But that was very good, regardless. Try again, Harry?”

Harry nodded.

He produced the silvery aura three more times and something almost like a shape that haloed around him once before Lupin called time. Harry, of course, wasn’t even tired. He wasn’t using his own energy, after all.

Infinite magic, Harry thought. This is incredible.

Merlin, another thing I need to tell Tom.

“Excellent work, Harry,” Lupin said, sounding impressed. “I have no idea why it’s behaving like that, but it is certainly a patronus.”

“Thank you, Remus,” Harry said, glancing at the clock. It was almost time for the Hogsmeade students to return.

“Next time, could I ask you some questions about my parents?” Harry asked. “I need to go meet my friends.”

“Of course, Harry,” Lupin said. “Let’s meet again next month, shall we? Say, the twentieth?”

“That sounds good,” Harry replied.

It had been a long day. Harry smiled through the feast, laughing at his friends’ tales of exploration, then excused himself early and headed for the Chamber. His cloak was in his bag; he’d be able to sneak back to the dorm whenever.

Then again, sleeping in the Chamber sounded somewhat attractive tonight. Tom’s magic and Euryale’s blended so beautifully.

Harry chatted with Myrtle for a few minutes, thanking her for keeping his secrets and promising that he was still working on her exorcism, before flinging himself, at last, into the dark.

Tom would have to wait a few more minutes, however. If Harry started writing, he was going to fall asleep, and there was something he had to do first.

In the Chamber, Harry pulled five black candles from his bag, along with a book titled First Bones (though he had long since swapped the cover with a book on South American magical plants). Then, he arranged the candles in a circle before Slytherin’s stature and grabbed one of the many, many rat skeletons in the Chamber’s antechamber to lay in its center. Somehow, it felt more appropriate to do this in the vast darkness of the Chamber than in Slytherin’s study. Finally, Harry stood at the circle’s head, his hands clasped before him.

He breathed in.

The torches in the Chamber dimmed.

He breathed out.

The candles flared to life with forest green fire.

Mom, dad, Harry thought. I know I’m not the son you would have wanted, or at least not what you would have expected. But I know now that I’m not a bad person. I’m not a good one, either. I’m just a person who cares about his friends and enjoys learning and maybe has a crush on someone very special. I hope that if there is anything beyond life, and if you are in any sense aware of me, that you can accept my choices.

I wish you’d gotten to live your lives. I’m glad you died fighting for something that you believed in, though, if you had to go.

Thanks for saving my life, mom.

Harry smiled. The candle wax dripped slowly to the floor, shining like molten emeralds in the candlelight. He could feel it move, feel the heat and life in it.

Wake.

He raised his hands. Drops of candlewax became smoke, and the candle flames flared a little higher. There was no show to it, no noise or light or tremor of the earth. And yet—slowly, unsteadily, inevitably, the skeleton stood.

Harry gasped.

It felt wonderful. He felt like he could run a marathon.

The rat walked slowly around the circle under Harry’s command, then wove out among the candles and scurried over his feet. Harry grinned. Finally, he directed the rat to keep walking toward the antechamber until it ran out of energy. It fell to bones just outside of the main Chamber door.

“Very impressive, hatchling,” a voice said in his ear. Euryale had come to watch him.

“Thank you,” Harry hissed back, flushed with pleasure.

“You will be a very powerful necromancer someday,” she said. “Say hello to my second friend for me, will you?”

“Of course,” Harry said, clearing away his ritual materials and urging the Chamber’s torches back to life. Then—at last—he threw himself into an armchair in Slytherin’s study and pulled out the diary.

The woodsmoke was stronger than ever.

++ Tom? ++

== Harry. I need to speak with you. ==

++ What do you mean? ++

== This is better said in person. Or, in dreams, as it were. ==

++ Tom, you’re scaring me. ++

== Is it nighttime? ==

++ Yes. ++

The smell of cloves dusted the air. Harry still wondered what that one meant.

== Talk to me until you fall asleep. Happy Samhain, Harry. You had a busy day, I take it? ==

Harry blushed.

++ I wanted to write, I just—I saw McClaggen bullying Luna, and then I scared him off and took her to the hospital wing, and then she wanted to show me something, and then I had Lupin, and then my friends came back from Hogsmeade— ++

== It’s alright, Harry. You’re talking to me now, aren’t you? ==

++ Still! I wanted to talk to you all day. ++

The diary flared cinnamon.

== You know I don’t begrudge you your other friendships. But I would always prefer that you be talking to me. ==

Harry flushed again and nearly dropped his quill.

Why do I find that attractive.

Merlin, Tom, you’ve got me so skewed. Occlude! Occlude!

== What did Luna show you? ==

++ Something called the come-and-go room. It’s wonderful! It’s a room on the seventh floor that will become anything you need, though it’s still bound by Gamp’s law, so it must be core magic. I’m going to run a bunch of tests on it when I get a chance. ++

== I would expect nothing less. How did she find it? I thought I had plumbed the depths of Hogwarts, but I never found such a room—though I can’t speak for my older self. ==

++ A house elf told her, apparently. I’d like to hire one. That way I can contribute to the cause of elf freedom and get some of their knowledge. ++

Harry knew Tom didn’t care much about the house elves, but he approved of the endeavor to free them and had no desire to take part in their enslavement, and that was good enough for Harry.

== A good idea. Maybe one of the Black elves, if they still have any? ==

++ I’ll ask Sirius when I see him. We should plan for that meeting. And for Malfoy, too. ++

== You must refuse to leave the public area of the Three Broomsticks with him. Don’t accept any food or drink he offers you, either, even if it came from the bar. ==

Harry sighed fondly. They’d agreed on this the day that he’d accepted Malfoy’s invite. Tom had wanted Harry to rescind, but Harry had successfully argued that it was an excellent chance to glean information on the Dark Lord’s current dealings. Still, Harry knew his friend was worried for good reason.

++ Yes, Tom, I will. ++

== If he hurts you again, I will kill him. How were patronus lessons? ==

Harry sighed.

Do not brush off your own pain, a voice in his head said. It sounded oddly like Tom.

++ If he hurts me again, I won’t stop you. Anyway, the lessons were amazing, Tom! I can offer happiness, and I made something that kind of looks like a patronus, maybe! It’s still a cloud, but I think it got close to a shape at the end. ++

== Harry, you are wonderful. I am impressed, as always. I can’t wait to see it in person. You must tell me what form it takes, when it does. ==

Harry yawned.

++ Of course I will. And I got my necromancy to work, too. ++

== Oh? ==

++ I made a whole rat walk around this time! It was so cute and weird, Tom. I felt amazing doing it, too. It was the same kind of rush I get from healing. ++

== What did I say? You have an affinity for magic of the body. ==

Harry flushed, his eyes drooping.

== Dream us somewhere cozy, Harry. ==

~~~~~

Harry opened his eyes in a cabin.

There was a thick rug on the floor, and two massive, plush loveseats arranged around a low fire in a brick fireplace. Jars full of dried flowers and carved wooden snakes with feathered wings adorned the mantlepiece.

“Harry?” Tom asked, appearing in front of the fire. Harry grinned at him.

They still hadn’t really…cuddled…since the dementor attack. They’d sat shoulder to shoulder, sure, but nothing more.

Harry meant to rectify that.

Alright, give me some Gryffindor courage, he thought. The hat threatened to put me there, after all, the git.

“Tom,” Harry said back, smiling up at him. “Will you sit with me?”

To Harry’s surprise, Tom looked down and shook his head.

“Harry,” he said, his voice flat. “I need to tell you something. It might be hard to hear.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Please don’t tell me you’re dying.”

“No! No,” Tom said, looking at him with wide eyes. “Okay.”

He took a deep breath.

“Harry, remember when I said Voldemort might have established a connection between you? And how we discussed your mother’s blood wards, and how Voldemort probably used the killing curse on you, which would have split his soul?”

“Yes,” Harry said, not sure where Tom was going.

“I did the arithmancy. Five times. And I’m sure I’m right.”

Tom met his eyes, his face grim.

“Harry, you’re a horcrux.”

Chapter Text

“I’m your Horcrux?” Harry asked, staring at Tom. He looked worried. It was Harry’s least favorite expression on him.

“Yes,” Tom said. “It’s still my soul. Voldemort’s Horcruxes are mine. But it’s still his, too.”

Harry couldn’t take the look on Tom’s face anymore.

“Tom, why are you worried?”

“I mean—aren’t you mad? At me?”

Harry would have laughed if he wasn’t afraid of hurting his friend.

“Why on earth would I be mad? This doesn’t seem like a problem at all.”

Tom stared at him for a long moment.

Harry reached out a hand and took Tom’s slack one, leading him to one of the loveseats. They sat down, not touching.

“Why are you never mad at me? There is literally a bit of my soul living as a parasite in yours,” Tom said, wonderingly.

“Several reasons,” Harry began. “First, when we figure out how to absorb horcruxes, this won’t be a problem anymore, because you can presumably absorb Voldemort himself, too. Then I won’t be his horcrux, I’ll just be yours. And you can absorb my bit if you want. Second, I assume this is why we can dream together, and I wouldn’t trade this for anything. Third, I bet this is where I got parseltongue, and I’m very grateful to have it. Fourth, I’m perfectly happy to tether you to the mortal plane. That’s kind of what I’m trying to do anyway. And finally, it’s not like this is your fault, anyway. So why should I be mad at you?”

Tom stared at him.

“You trust me.”

“Of course, Tom. Why on earth wouldn’t I?”

“Because I’m me,” Tom said flatly. “I would kill anyone who slighted me, and I wouldn’t feel bad about it. I don’t feel any compunction to tell the truth to anyone but you. In fact, I enjoy deceiving people who irritate me. Hell, I don’t mind torturing people to get what I want. I don’t understand why you trust me.”

Harry cocked his head at Tom.

“I know all that,” Harry said. “But you do, broadly, want wixen society to improve, and you don’t hurt people for fun. There’s a big difference, to me, between being an…efficient person, and being a cruel one. I don’t think you’re cruel, Tom.”

“When I was a child,” Tom said, his voice flat. “In the orphanage. The other children would call me a freak. I took things from them if they did. Billy Stubbs broke my arms—both of them—so I hung his rabbit from the ceiling. Lucy Thomas shredded all of my clothes, so I had to go to school in a uniform two sizes too small. I stole her marble collection and smashed them and put the glass in all her shoes. I had a snake—my friend, Daisy—Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson killed her, the summer before Hogwarts. They made me watch, because I was too distraught to get my magic to work, as they broke her. Slowly.”

Tom took a deep breath. The smell of woodsmoke was overpowering, like the cabin itself was ablaze.

“I took them to a cave, and I made them feel what Daisy had. Then I let them go. They didn’t speak for a year.”

Tom turned his head slowly to meet Harry’s wide eyes.

“At Hogwarts, I was the only non-pure-blood in Slytherin. The other students broke my things and cursed me. I got good at healing charms, because going to the hospital wing only made it worse. The professors didn’t care; Dumbledore thought I deserved it. Eventually, I learned that a well-placed crucio worked better than a hundred episkeys. I dueled them black and blue and I enjoyed it—I like it when the people who hurt me cower before me and beg for my favor. And then, as you know, I accidentally killed a girl and used her blood to make myself immortal.”

Tom did not blink.

“If I were in your shoes, the Dursleys would be dead, and so would Lucius Malfoy, and Lockhart, too. So, why, Harry Potter, do you trust me?”

Harry’s mind was buzzing.

What would I have done, if my life had been like that?

What would I have done, if my magic caused pain, instead of pleasure?

Merlin, Tom, I already forgave you for Myrtle. The rest doesn’t even signify—the rest, I don’t even mind, I—

Talk, Harry.

He raised a hand to his cheek, which was slightly wet.

“That’s everything, then?” Harry asked softly.

Tom gave a curt nod.

Harry stood up, walked a pace toward Tom, and sat on his lap before he could get cold feet.

Tom froze.

“Harry?” He asked, his voice still in the oddly flat tone of his litany.

“I’ll move if you want me to,” Harry said. “I don’t want to, though. In case you were going to ask.”

“Don’t,” Tom said at once, his strong arms coming up to pull Harry against his chest. Harry grinned, leaning his head on Tom’s shoulder and swinging his legs up onto the couch. Something went pleasantly slack inside of him.

“All you’ve told me is that you responded like I would’ve expected to a childhood that sounds as awful as mine, if not worse. The only thing I would have blamed you for is Myrtle, Tom, and we’ve already worked that out.”

Harry leaned further into Tom’s embrace.

“Tell me, Tom Riddle. Are you ever going to hurt me?”

“I would never,” Tom growled. Harry could feel his bone deep sincerity in his cinnamon magic.

“There, then. I’m happy to be your horcrux.”

Tom chuckled disbelievingly.

“This is not how I expected this conversation to go.”

“Don’t I surprise you often? I thought you liked that about me.”

“You do, and I do like that about you,” Tom said, resting his chin gently on Harry’s head and leaning into the corner of the plush couch. “But won’t other people find it odd, if you’re carrying around a bit of my soul in you?”

“Why would anyone need to know but us?” Harry hissed softly. He felt Tom smile into his hair.

“They would not,” Tom hissed back.

“Can we do this more often?”

“I’m not the one who keeps dreaming us onto glaciers,” Tom said, sounding amused. “Believe me, I am not opposed.”

Harry grinned, pressing gently into Tom’s chest. He really was so lovely and tall and terrifying, which was very, very attractive to Harry for reasons he was entirely aware of.

Sometimes, he worried that once Tom was out of the diary, he’d find someone else to satisfy his apparent need for touch. After all, they were just stuck together for now; it would be much easier for Tom to find a new object of fascination once he was free. And while Harry had a rather hard time seeing beyond Tom, he was fully aware that Tom was something of a catch.

Not that Harry had caught him.

They were just—what they were.

And what they were, right then, was comfortable.

Harry shoved his questioning away.

“I’ll dream us onto a cloud next time, then,” Harry hissed into Tom’s robe.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

~~~~~

November arrived with rain. The dementors were, finally, removed from Hogwarts, which Hermione took great joy in, as did Harry.

Harry continued to do poorly in defense, though Lupin was very kind about his inability to perform any of the suggested counter charms. He could at least deal with the creatures that Lupin showed to them: many of them simply required will or knowledge to overcome, and Harry had that in spades. He was particularly looking forward to the lesson about Hinkypunks, which gave misleading directions to travelers. Harry had a feeling that if he could throw off a Death Eater’s very sincere imperius, a little wisp trying to bamboozle him wouldn’t be much trouble.

The day they were due to start on the creatures, however, Lupin was not in class.

Instead, as Harry took his seat beside Hermione, Snape swept into the room.

“I will be filling in for your wayward Professor today,” Snape said, scowling around at them. “Professor Lupin has not left any record of what you have covered so far—”

Hermione raised her hand, presumably to recite the syllabus, which Snape ignored.

“—And so, we will be discussing werewolves today.”

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other.

Harry happened to know that today was the full moon, as he kept a very close watch on the lunar cycle for ritual purposes. Lupin had been sick on the full moon last month, as well, though it hadn’t coincided with their class.

Harry also happened to be privy to the knowledge that Lupin’s magic was very odd, his patronus was a wolf, and Dumbledore probably had some sort of dirt on him.

Lupin is, Harry wrote to Hermione as Snape began his lecture. Hermione’s eyes went wide, and after a moment she gave a small nod.

Dangerous? She wrote back. Dumbledore wouldn’t care.

Just then, Snape swept toward them, and Harry hid the notes. He didn’t really want detention with the bat, if he could help it.

By the end of the lesson, Harry was entirely certain that Lupin was a werewolf, and not at all certain why Snape wanted them to know.

“You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me, on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves. I want two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want them by Monday morning,” Snape said, putting an odd emphasis on kill.

“He must really hate Lupin,” Harry whispered to Hermione as they left the classroom.

“Or he disagrees with Dumbledore’s choice to hire him,” Hermione supplied.

I wonder if Dumbledore has dirt on Snape, too, Harry wondered. They ate lunch, and then Harry said he was going to go for a walk in the relatively nice weather, which he did—stopping beneath a tree overlooking the lake and pulling out the diary.

++ Tom? ++

== Here, Harry. Why so concerned? ==

++ Professor Lupin is a werewolf. Which makes his name weirdly ironic, but—yeah. ++

Woodsmoke concern filled the air.

== How did you find out? ==

++ Lupin was ill today, and it’s the full moon. Snape filled in and gave us a lesson on werewolves, and I put the dots together. This would explain what dirt Dumbledore has on him, if that really is what’s going on. ++

Harry frowned.

++ I wonder if I should avoid being alone with him. Snape made werewolves seem really dangerous. ++

Tom was silent for a long moment.

== I think you should continue your patronus lessons. But bring your lavender, and owl feathers, and silver. Even if he won’t sleep, if you can lift Euryale, you can lift a werewolf and a silver button. ==

++ I don’t want to hurt him, though. ++

== Harry! Do you think a werewolf will have such compunction? If he shifts—it has been known to happen outside of the full moon—he will be out of his mind. Promise me you won’t hesitate. ==

Harry scowled at the diary.

++ Why tell me to keep going to the lessons, then? I could just tell him I don’t want to learn anymore. Then I wouldn’t be in danger or be at risk of having to kill him. ++

Black pepper and clove and cinnamon mixed in the air.

== You need protection from dementors. I don’t think I will ever achieve a Patronus. ==

Harry frowned, his hands gripping the diary hard.

++ But you said you were happy—Tom, please promise you’ll tell me if you’re not happy. ++

== I am, Harry, as much as I can be in here. The issue isn’t the happy memory; it’s that the Patronus supposedly requires a complete soul. ==

++ You have half of one. If you absorb enough of the horcruxes, maybe eighty percent will be enough? ++

Jasmine cut into the woodsmoke.

== We’ll see, I suppose. But I maintain that at least one of us should be able to cast the charm. ==

Harry blushed.

++ Tom, are you implying we’ll always be together? ++

More jasmine and sandalwood.

== Promise you’ll be ready to defend yourself. ==

++ Dodging questions, now? ++

== Harry, promise me. ==

++ Fine, yes. I promise. One of my new robes has silver buttons. I’ll wear that for our next lesson. And I’ll keep my potions dagger on me. It’s silver. ++

== Good. And I’ve had an idea for how to deal with Malfoy, but I am not sure that you’ll appreciate it. ==

Harry rolled his eyes and sighed.

Tom was lucky that Harry liked him so much.

November 13^th—the day Harry was due to meet with both Sirius and Lucius Malfoy—crept up on Harry like a starving Lethifold. Harry reluctantly left Tom behind in his tea-tree-warded trunk (he didn’t dare use blood wards, lest someone recognize them for what they were), in order to prevent Lucius from outright abducting the diary and met Professor Flitwick in the entrance hall. His magic smelled surprisingly pleasant, like iron and a burning candle. It reminded Harry of goblin magic.

Oh, I suppose Flitwick is part goblin, then, Harry realized. The little professor hadn’t mentioned it, but why would he? Goblin-wix relations weren’t exactly the best.

“I am supposed to escort you to Hogsmeade, mister Potter, but I really don’t see the need,” Flitwick said. “It seems we’ve all been a little overly cautious this year.”

“I can walk, Professor,” Harry said, smiling. Flitwick winked at him.

“Alright, then. Be back by curfew!”

“Of course,” Harry said, starting away from the castle. His bag was full of owl feathers, echinacea, lavender, and—at Tom’s insistence—St. John’s Wort.

He hadn’t used the flower in more than two years. It felt heavy in his bag.

The walk down to Hogsmeade was chill and pleasant as Harry steeled himself for both of his meetings. He hoped they would both go well. If anything, he was more nervous to talk to Sirius than Lucius. Lucius might curse him, but Sirius might refuse to take him in, and that would be far worse than anything the Malfoy could throw at him.

Harry felt a little bad at his intentional manipulation of his bondparent, but only a little. He wasn’t lying to Sirius any more than was necessary to preserve his and Tom’s safety, and it wasn’t as though he wasn’t already lying to literally everyone else that he knew aside from Tom. Besides, Dumbledore was maybe not evil, but certainly not good, and Sirius deserved to be disabused of that notion. Harry was hoping to convince him and everyone else that he cared about that there were actually three sides in this cold war: Voldemort’s, Dumbledore’s, and Harry and Tom’s. His bondparent would be a good ally to have, not only for the money and power he brought, but also as he was Harry’s only hope to escape the Dursleys.

Hogsmeade itself was a cute village, full of cottages and small shops like something out of a fantasy novel, but the smell—just like Diagon alley, all bleach and candy and perfume—made his eyes water.

What am I going to do when Tom gets his body back? Harry wondered, reinforcing his occlumency shields. We can’t literally be together all the time.

The Three Broomsticks wasn’t hard to find, standing at the center of town. It was packed at lunchtime on a Saturday. Sirius was waiting outside, in dark maroon high-necked robes open over a white shirt and black pants. His hair had been cut from the matted tangle in the Prophet’s photos to a neat chin-length wave, and his face, though still gaunt, had some color to it. He beamed as his eyes fell on Harry. His magic, however, was the same licorice and slightly sour yogurt as ever.

“Harry! Great to see you as a human,” Sirius said, opening his arms. Harry took a quick step back, eyes wide.

“Sorry, I’m, uh, not a hugger,” Harry said. “But it’s good to see you too, Sirius. You look good.”

Sirius frowned but nodded.

“I’ve got us a room upstairs,” Sirius said, opening the door for Harry. Harry stuck close to his bondparent as they waded through the overpowering smell of Core wix, so strong it made Harry’s head spin.

Deep breaths. Blank mind, he thought to himself.

Finally, Sirius brought him to a small second-floor sitting room, and they sank into twin armchairs across from each other. Moments later, a woman appeared at the door with a notepad floating beside her.

“What can I get you?” She asked.

“Two butterbeers and a roast beef sandwich for me,” Sirius said. “Harry?”

“Um, do you have soup?”

“Pumpkin, right now,” the woman said.

“That and some bread, please,” Harry said. He’d gotten cold on the walk, and he couldn’t exactly light himself on fire in public to fix it.

The woman nodded and vanished.

“First of all—thank you, Harry,” Sirius said sincerely. “I know I’ve said it in my letters, but—you saved me. I really appreciate that.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Harry said, smiling. “I hate the idea of you being in prison for so long without even a trial. You weren’t the only one, you know—I read the history of the end of the war and compared it to the trial records from the Wizengamot, and a lot of people’s names were missing from the records.”

“So,” Sirius said, smiling. “You really are a Ravenclaw. James and Lily were both in Gryffindor, you know.”

“The lions are too loud for me,” Harry said. “I like the quiet. And books.”

Sirius smiled.

“Well, that’s fine, too—d’you know Remus Lupin? Your professor? He—was a friend of ours. He was a real bookworm, growing up.”

Harry smiled.

“Yeah, he’s nice,” Harry said. “Are you angry at him?”

Sirius blinked, then smiled.

“Okay, yeah, I forget you’re not a normal kid. Reading your little notes was a real trip. Anyway—yes, I am a little angry that he didn’t help me get a trial. But I guess I can’t blame him too much for thinking I was a turncoat. I thought he was, too.”

“Would you know if he had tried to get you a trial?” Harry asked, curious.

“I assume that if he’d tried, it would have happened,” Sirius said.

Harry suppressed a smile. This was going excellently.

“But he’s not really in a position of power,” Harry said. “Wouldn’t Dumbledore have been the one who should have helped you?”

Sirius stared at him in shock.

“I—I mean, I’m sure the headmaster had a lot of things on his plate,” Sirius said.

“But he was head of the Wizengamot, even then,” Harry said. “It would’ve taken just a word from him, right? Honestly, I don’t know why he was so okay with letting so many people get tossed in Azkaban without trial. Did you hear about Barty Crouch Jr.? He was nineteen when they put him in.”

“I remember him,” Sirius shuddered. “The poor kid died soon after he was imprisoned. I’m not saying what he did was right, mind, if he did do it—serving as a lookout for the worst crime I’ve ever heard of—but he should have had a trial. Maybe it would have spared me the screaming.”

Sirius’s eyes went wide.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”

“It’s fine,” Harry said. “I’m really glad you feel like you can be honest with me.”

Sirius smiled. “Damn, you are a lot like Lily. She was smart as hell, even at your age.”

Harry smiled back as the food arrived.

“So,” Sirius said. “How is school going? I know you said you like herbology. How are your friends? What are their names? I’m sorry I’ve been gone from your life for so long, but I’m going to make up for lost time, promise.”

“Classes are great—Professor Sprout has me helping her in the seventh-year greenhouses this year, and I love my electives—I’m taking runes, arithmancy and care of magical creatures. My friends are good. I’m close with a bunch of people, but my best friends are Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Theo Nott and Daphne Greengrass,” Harry said. He and Tom had decided that mentioning Theo and Daph would be a good way to test the waters with Sirius on his level of anti-dark prejudice.

Sirius grimaced.

“Augusta’s kids were friends of mine, and the Greengrasses are…Fine, but Nott’s father is—he’s a Death Eater, Harry. He’s dangerous.”

Harry frowned at him.

“Theo’s my friend,” Harry said softly. “People aren’t their parents. Maybe Theo needs people who won’t treat him like he’s his father.”

Sirius blanched.

“Shit, you’re right. I’m sorry. My family was like that—if he ever needs a place to stay, let him know he can come to me. He’s not like his dad, then?”

“You didn’t hear this from me,” Harry said conspiratorially. “But he’s got a massive crush on my friend Hermione. She’s muggleborn.”

Sirius whistled.

“Alright, then, yeah,” Sirius said. “Sorry for the snap judgement. How about you, Harry? Any ladies or gents catching your eye?”

Harry blushed and spluttered, and Sirius raised his hands.

“Hey, okay, I won’t pry. I did want to ask, though...Are you living with Petunia? I thought I saw her in the house.”

Harry had to stop himself from doing a fist pump.

“Yes,” he said, looking down. “Petunia and her husband Vernon Dursley.”

Sirius hissed. “Merlin, I had hoped I was wrong. How could Remus—damn, I guess he couldn’t have taken you, could he? Harry, are you okay? Were they the reason you only came out at night?”

Harry frowned.

“I would like to live somewhere else,” he admitted. Sirius nodded.

“I’ve been staying at the Black family manor. We’ve got a manor, two cottages, and the blasted townhouse, though I’d prefer to let that thing rot. Anyway, what I mean to say is—I have room, if you want to live with me. I could adopt you formally. I’m in your parent’s will, so it shouldn’t be too hard. I don’t know if you know this, but in Wixen law, godfather is a legal term—it’s actually called a bondparent, but I figured godfather was more recognizable to you. It means I should be your legal guardian right now, but things are a bit complicated with the whole imprisonment thing.”

Harry grinned.

“Can we talk about it more? We have all year before I have to go back to the Dursleys,” Harry said. “But that sounds really fun.”

“I can’t guarantee I really know what I’m doing,” Sirius said. “But I’ve got money and a house elf, so you’ll get food, and you can have your own room and invite your friends over whenever. You didn’t hear it from me, but the trace doesn’t work on magical properties, so you’re welcome to do whatever over the summers. Oh! And I’ll save all of the Black family greenhouses for you. You can clean them out and set them up however you like. Plus we’ve got a full pitch at the manor, so we can play quidditch.”

Harry was fairly sure his eyes were as wide as saucers.

“I feel like there’s gotta be a catch,” he said, laughing nervously.

“Honestly, you don’t seem like the type of kid I’d have to tell not to do dumb shit,” Sirius said, shrugging.

Oh, Merlin, if only you knew, Harry thought, smiling.

“Anyway, I can’t think of many rules I’d even have, besides not burning the house down. And no drugs or cigs, those are bad. My little brother got into them, absolutely wrecked—anyway. No burning the house down, and no drugs. How’s that sound?”

“Very reasonable,” Harry thought. He didn’t have any desire to do either, at the moment.

Harry drained the last of his soup and smiled.

“How are you doing, Sirius?”

“Can’t complain,” his bondparent replied. “The assholes at the ministry paid for my treatment in Mungo’s, and since then I’ve been trying to clean out the manor a bit.”

Harry stomach dropped.

“Save any books, will you?” He asked before he could stop himself.

Sirius raised an eyebrow at him.

“You shouldn’t be touching the Dark arts, Harry.”

“But books shouldn’t be destroyed,” Harry said, thinking quickly. “You never know when you might need the countercurse to an obscure dark spell.”

Sirius looked surprised.

“Alright, that’s a good point,” he said, shrugging. “I haven’t thrown out any books yet. I’ll send them to the library at the townhouse, and you can look at them when you’re of age. Fair?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, grinning. Was everything going to be this easy with Sirius?

He glanced up at the room’s grandfather clock; it was almost three.

“I have another meeting in a minute,” Harry said.

Sirius laughed.

“Busy kid. Alright. Would you be up for with meeting me again? Say, early December?” Sirius asked. Harry could tell that he was trying to sound casual and found it very endearing.

“Absolutely. Were you in Gryffindor like my parents?” He asked, standing up to go.

“I was,” Sirius said. “The only one in my whole family. Come to think of it, you might be the first Ravenclaw Potter. They’ve had all the other houses in spades, but I don’t know of any Ravenclaws.”

“We can be weird together, then,” Harry said, smiling. “It was really good to meet you, Sirius. I’m glad you’re free.”

“Me too, Harry. Me too,” Sirius said, waving at him as Harry left.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Harry ran to the bar’s bathroom. He combed his fingers through his hair and checked his teeth for food, then straightened his spine and walked to the main room. He was going to look that bastard Lucius Malfoy in the eye when he stomped all over his heart.

Yeah, Tom really had gotten to him.

So much the better for Harry, so much the worse for Lucius.

The blonde man was standing by the door of the bar, sneering at everyone around him and looking incredibly out of place in black silk robes dripping with silver embroidery. There was a large silver peacock ring on his hand—the Malfoy Lord ring. Harry walked over to him, inclining his head politely.

“Lord Malfoy.”

Lucius nodded at him.

“Heir Potter. I’m afraid I don’t think much of your choice of establishment.”

“I’ll let you pick the booth, then,” Harry said.

“What I want to say cannot be said in public.”

“It will have to be,” Harry said. “Put up some wards. I’m not going anywhere alone with you.”

Lucius sneered at Harry; Harry gazed back at him evenly.

“Very well,” Lucius growled at last, leading Harry to an empty booth in the corner of the bar. Lucius sat facing the door.

“Nervous?” Harry asked, grinning.

“Prudent,” Lucius snapped, waving his wand for privacy. Quiet fell over them like a blanket, blurring the sounds of the pub to a low hum. The smell of Lucius’s pine and lime magic rose around them, which Harry appreciated, as it wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as the rest of the Core magic filling the bar. Harry added his own echinacea silencing ward last.

Lucius’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as the last of the noise of the bar vanished.

“Nonverbal, wandless magic, Potter?”

Harry shrugged, smiling.

“Someone I respect very much tells me often that I’m full of surprises.”

“Dumbledore?” Lucius sneered.

Harry laughed.

“No. He probably thinks I’m a little too surprising.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. Harry just smiled at him. One negotiation tactic Tom had taught him was to always wait the other party out. Harry had always been good at being quiet.

Lucius stared at him for a long moment, his lips pressed in a grim line.

“I’m sure you know why you’re here,” he said at last. “So what do you want for it? Money? Power? There is very little I cannot offer you, heir Potter.”

Harry laughed again. This was kind of fun, actually.

“Actually, I don’t think there’s much you can offer me, lord Malfoy.”

Lucius glared at him.

“I am not going to extend my hand again,” Lucius said. “You should accept my generosity, before I am forced to turn to less savory methods.”

“I don’t appreciate being threatened,” Harry said. “It’s best that you understand this: you are never getting the diary back. And if you did, you’d regret it.”

“What do you mean by that, boy?” Lucius snapped.

“Do you know what the diary is?” Harry asked.

“Do you?”

“Answer the question, Lucius,” Harry said, still smiling.

“I expect respect, boy,” Lucius said.

“And I expect adults not to throw hissy fits when they don’t get their way, but I guess neither of us are getting what we want,” Harry said in a polite tone.

Tom was going to kill him for baiting the man so much, but Lucius was being a massive bully—and Harry hated bullies.

Lucius’s eyes bulged and his fingers twitched for his wand. Harry offered an owl feather to his magic, and the wand flew into his hand.

It smelled like lime cleaner. Harry did his best not to wince.

“Anyway,” Harry said, twirling the wand between his fingers as Lucius hissed at him. “What’s in the diary, Lucius?”

Lucius licked his lips. Harry could tell he was contemplating lunging for the wand.

“Don’t try to grab it,” Harry said. “I’m a very good seeker.”

Lucius sneered at him.

“It seems I’ve underestimated you twice, mister Potter,” he said. “Very well. I only know that the diary will open the Chamber of Secrets if placed at Hogwarts, and that it is precious to the Dark Lord.”

Harry snorted. Tom? Precious to Voldemort? Who hadn’t even written to him?

“Your knowledge is limited,” Harry said. “I can tell you more, for a price.”

He and Tom had agreed on this. Harry hadn’t wanted to dangle Tom as bait, but Tom wanted answers.

“Information, I assume? An answer for an answer?”

“Very well,” Harry said. “Where is Voldemort now?”

Lucius hissed at the name.

“I don’t know,” he said, and Harry could smell his truthfulness in the way his magic was unchanged. “Is the diary safe?”

“Yes. What knowledge do you have of Voldemort’s plans to regain his body?”

“I have none,” Lucius said.

“Liar,” Harry said as the lime scent of Lucius’s magic surged.

Lucius blinked at him.

“How—”

Harry leaned forward, pouring his fire into his eyes until he could feel them glow.

“I always know when someone lies to me, Lucius. You’re a good occlumens, but not good enough. What knowledge do you have of the Dark lord’s plans to return?”

Lucius swallowed.

“I have none,” he said. “But Nott has been acting oddly.”

Harry grimaced. That was Theo’s dad. If Theo was in danger, he might have to take Sirius up on his offer to take his friend in.

“Why are you keeping the diary without using it to open the Chamber?” Lucius asked.

Harry grinned.

“He wants to stay with me,” Harry said. “And he will kill you if you take him, Lucius.”

Lucius laughed coldly.

“You can’t be serious. It’s sentient? And it wants to stay with you? You’re insane, Potter.”

“I assure you, it’s true,” Harry said. “Why did you get rid of it if it’s so important to you? Did you know it would try to hurt whoever took it?”

“The raids,” Lucius growled. “The ministry could have found it.”

Harry couldn’t stop the growl that rose from his throat at the thought of the ministry getting their hands on Tom. Lucius raised an eyebrow at his reaction.

“Answer the second part,” Harry said.

“Why? That wasn’t the deal.”

“So far, my answers have been more informative. Go on, answer.”

Lucius sneered at him.

“Yes, I knew it would hurt the owner. Why do you think I gave it to the Weasley girl? Why I don’t understand is why it didn’t hurt you. Why would it like you of all people, Potter?”

“Because I’m surprising,” Harry said, watching in pleasure as Lucius realized what that meant.

Someone I respect very much.

Harry smiled.

“Last question, Lucius. Does it bother you that the Dark Lord likes me better than you? Are you scared of what he’ll do when he finds out you lost part of him?”

“I lost—what?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet? Part of your Lord lives in that diary,” Harry said. “And yes, he wants to stay with me. I’ll be the one to give him his body back, Lucius.”

“You’re the boy who lived,” Lucius said, looking wary. “The Dark Lord killed your parents. Why would you want to resurrect him?”

Harry smiled.

“The piece of him in the diary didn’t kill my parents. The piece of him in the diary hasn’t lost his mind, and he won’t. Don’t you want that, Lucius? A sane Lord Voldemort?”

Lucius licked his lips. Harry could tell he was interested, but he also knew it wouldn’t be so easy.

“It doesn’t matter. I need it back, Potter. I don’t care what’s in the diary; the real Dark Lord is out there, not in your book. He’ll kill me. He’ll kill my family.”

Harry sighed.

“Send Draco to America if you’re so worried,” Harry said.

“I don’t want to die, either, boy,” Lucius spat.

“Back to boy, are we?” Harry asked. “Alright, Lucius, I think we’re done. And I want you to know in advance that this wasn’t my idea. But I did agree to it eventually.”

“What—”

Harry pulled a vial stuffed full of yellow flowers from his pocket into his hand, keeping it hidden below the table.

There were a lot of flowers in that little bottle. A whole damn bush worth.

“You’re never going to tell anyone where the diary is. You’re going to accept that it’s mine. Nothing—nothing—would make you happier than holding your tongue, Lucius. Also, you’re not going to think about any part of this conversation ever again. Right?”

The beatific smile spreading over Lucius’s normally cold features was even more terrifying than it had been on Petunia. This time, however, it brought Harry nothing but unadulterated, guilt free joy.

“Yes,” Lucius whispered. “The diary is yours, and we never had this conversation.”

“Great,” Harry said. “I’m so glad we got that figured out, Lucius. I hope we can be a little more cordial to each other from here on out. Have a lovely evening, Lord Malfoy.”

With that, Harry got up from the table, leaving Lucius’s wand behind. He broke his echinacea wards and walked to the door, glancing behind himself once to see Lucius Malfoy smiling softly at the empty chair in front of him.

Chapter Text

++ Tom! ++

Cinnamon overflowed from the diary, finally making Harry’s head stop spinning. He’d returned to the castle around dinner time (after a quick trip to the Hogsmeade bookstore) and hadn’t had time to get Tom before dinner, so he’d just had to suffer through the evening meal and his friends’ well-meaning questioning. 

Now, however, he was back in his own bed and very, very sleepy.

== Harry. Are you alright? ==

++ Yes! Everything went perfectly. Better than I expected, even. I laid the groundwork with Sirius and managed to convince him not to throw out any books when he’s cleaning house. I think he’ll be a good person to live with, and I’m pretty sure I can get him to let you stay with us. He seemed pretty open to taking in Theo, actually, if his dad goes bad. ++

A sudden burst of woodsmoke hit Harry. 

== Harry—do you think the Blacks would have one of my Horcruxes? ==

++ Oh no. ++

== I might have left one with Orion. ==

Harry felt an unexpected surge of jealousy. 

== You’re mad? ==

Harry blushed. He sometimes forgot that the diary could sense his emotions, too. This Orion was surely dead, anyway. 

++ Ignore me. I’m not mad. Should I write Sirius? What would I even say? ++

== Let me think about it. My horcruxes are not so easily destroyed, and I can only imagine that they have plenty of protection. The concern would be that either Sirius takes it to Dumbledore, or he disposes of it in such a way that we cannot find it again. ==

++ Alright. Let me know how I can help. ++

Harry felt his eyelids droop.

== Also, see you shortly. ==

~~~~~

Harry opened his eyes in a nighttime sitting room full of dark wood and green-upholstered furniture. Moonlight streamed in through three large windows, falling in beams onto Tom, who was laying on one of the room’s long couches with his back propped on the arm.

“Hello, Harry,” he said, reaching out a hand. Harry grinned and took it, letting himself be pulled down and adjusted until he was laying on Tom’s chest, Tom’s hand in his hair. Harry closed his eyes and smiled. He wasn’t going to think about the situation: about what Tom got from it, or how long it would last, or if it would survive his friend becoming corporeal.

If nothing else, it would be a wonderful memory.

“Hi, Tom,” Harry said, turning his head until his ear was resting over Tom’s heart.

It didn’t beat.

“How were things with Lucius?” Tom asked, clearly faking his calm demeanor as he carded his fingers through Harry’s hair.

“I’m a terrible person, but—”

“You are not. We’ve had this discussion before, Hare,” Tom said sternly. Harry blinked at the new nickname. He’d never had one before—assuming you didn’t count ‘boy.’

He liked it.

“You can keep calling me that,” Harry said, smiling. “It was fun to mess with him, which is why I said I was a bad person—I still think it would have been more moral not to mindwipe him, but I enjoyed it. Don’t get me wrong, I agree we had to do it, I just feel bad for not feeling bad about it. He doesn’t know anything about Voldemort, though he said that Theo’s dad might. And yes, you were right about the St. John’s Wort. I’m glad I brought it. He shouldn’t bother us again, at least not about the diary.”

“Hm,” Tom hummed. “I think we should wait and watch, as far as Voldemort goes. Anything we do will give away that you got more out of Lucius than you should have.”

Harry nodded against Tom’s chest.

“I’m worried about something,” Harry said. “But it’s kind of ridiculous.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

Harry sighed, inhaling a deep breath of cinnamon.

“When I was walking through the Three Broomsticks, I thought I was going to fall over the entire time,” Harry admitted. “My magic sense just keeps getting stronger, somehow, and I really can’t figure out what I’m going to do after you get a body, Tom. I can’t just follow you around or have you follow me around.”

“Why not, Hare?” Tom asked innocently.

“You’ll want to do things. Like go to classes, or to the Wizengamot.”

“You’ll need to go to the Wizengamot as well,” Tom said. “You have seats, darling.”

“Can’t I just give them to you?” Harry complained. “I’d rather invent a ritual to mimic a sticking charm, it seems so useful. Huh, actually, I bet tree sap would work.”

“You want to give me more political power?” Tom asked, chuckling.

The sound of it rumbled through Harry like thunderclouds.

“Yeah, you like power, don’t you? And I hate meetings and talking to people I don’t know. Seems like a perfect solution.”

“I just enjoy how much you seem to trust me.”

“Seem to? Tom, I do trust you. Again. Someday I’ll convince you, I swear.”

Tom chuckled again.

“Anyway,” Harry said. “We cannot always be physically together. Obviously. We’ll have classes to go to separately, for starters, because you’ll be a year above me unless we somehow manage to muck this up. So, I need to figure out something. But occlumency just isn’t helping that much.”

“How do you occlude?” Tom asked.

“I just try to make my mind go…fuzzy,” Harry said. “I’m absolute shit at it. I let the thoughts pass through, make my mind empty, but it just doesn’t work consistently.”

“Ah,” Tom said. “That’s beginner occlumency; no wonder it isn’t helping. I should have asked you sooner what exactly you were doing. When I get a body, I’ll tutor you myself, properly. Then we can hopefully have you ready for Hogwarts by the time we need to go back.”

“Alright, that sounds good,” Harry said, trying not to preen too much as Tom ran his fingers over the back of Harry’s neck.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Harry said.

“What exactly do I smell like, to you?”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Well, it depends on your emotions, which is unusual.”

“How so?”

“Most wix have just one or two base notes, and they grow stronger and weaker with different emotions. I can tell lies, usually, by a change in their scent relative to them telling truths. Even if they’re the world’s best liar, they’ll still know it’s a lie, and I can smell that. But you have completely different smells for different emotions, and they come and go. You’re the most complex person I’ve ever met, apart from myself, but I don’t test myself enough to know my own emotional scent mix. Maybe I should, actually.”

“What are my—scents, as you say?” Tom asked, wrapping his free arm around Harry’s waist. Harry could tell he was proud of his special magic.

“Sandalwood is your base smell. It’s also particularly strong when you’re feeling content or smug, which is what I’m getting right now,” Harry said, laughing a little. “I love sandalwood, and it was what initially drew me to the diary.”

“Oh,” Tom said, his chest rising under Harry’s.

“Jasmine is when you’re amused or very pleased. Orange is when you’re curious. Black pepper is when you’re angry, and it can get really strong. Cedar smoke when you’re upset or frightened. Clove I still haven’t figured out, but I only started smelling that one recently. And, uh, cinnamon,” Harry finished, blushing.

“What’s that one?” Tom asked, grinning.

“I believe it’s when you’re feeling, um, fond,” Harry said. “Of me.”

“You like that one, then.”

“Well, yes, obviously,” Harry said, rolling his eyes at Tom. “It’s very nice to feel cared for.”

Tom blinked at him.

Okay, too far, rein it in, Harry said, blushing harder.

“They’re all smells that work really well together,” Harry said. “So you smell nice no matter what you’re feeling. Although I’ve started to like the smell of woodsmoke less, because it smells like you when you’re upset, and I don’t like that.”

Tom’s arm tightened around him.

“What do you smell like?”

“Lilac is my base note. Vanilla when I’m happy or curious, and amber for sadness. I know there are other notes, but like I said, it’s harder to smell myself. The other thing I was drawn to about you is that we have very compatible scent profiles. Your smells work as a cohesive whole, but they all blend fairly well with each of mine if you choose any pair.”

“You are fascinating,” Tom said, sounding like he very much meant it. “When we get to Hogwarts, I would love to hear what everyone smells like to you.”

“I think Dark wix generally smell better, as do wix who haven’t used a wand as much.”

“Oh,” Tom said. “I actually used to do mostly wandless magic. Core magic, but wandless. I find them so limiting.”

“Right?” Harry said, propping himself up on Tom’s chest to look him in the eye. “I took Lucius’ wand today with one little owl feather and he was defenseless. It’s insane. Even if someone took everything from me, I’d still have my fire and my blood.”

Tom grinned at him.

“You are a terror, Hare,” he said softly.

Harry smiled back.

“I aim to please,” he said, laughing.

~~~~~

Ravenclaw’s first quidditch match of the year was against Hufflepufff. The November day was sunny but brutally windy—not that Harry minded. He loved the feeling of riding the air. He was made to fly.

Harry caught the snitch after a straight-down hundred-foot dive that had the crowd screaming in his ears.

“Good game, Diggory,” Harry said, flushed as he shook the other seeker’s hand after the match.

Cedric grinned back at him.

“That was incredible. After we graduate, we should play some seeker’s matches some time. I’ve been thinking of making a club for ex-Hogwarts seekers,” Cedric said as they walked back to the changing rooms together.

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Harry said. He loved the idea of still getting to play quidditch while he was off inventing new plants or playing with dead bodies (or both? Why not both?) “Sign me up for it. Cho Chang in the year above mine is good too, so you might want to talk to her.”

Cedric blushed slightly and didn’t meet his eye, which made Harry grin as they parted ways.

After lunch, Harry returned to his room and got his silver dagger from his trunk, slipping it into his pocket alongside his wand.

++ We won the match! And I’m heading to the lesson now. ++

== Be safe. ==

Harry tucked the diary into his robes and walked to Lupin’s office.

He was very glad he’d had the quidditch match that morning. It had kept him from feeling too nervous about this.

Harry wasn’t afraid of Lupin—he was confident enough in his own abilities that he didn’t think he needed to be. No, Harry was afraid of what would happen if Lupin went wolf around him. It was one thing to use a little mind control on Lucius Malfoy to keep himself and Tom safe. It was quite another to hurt a man who had been nothing but kind to him.

Harry really, really didn’t want that to happen. If worst came to worst, he hoped that he could put Lupin to sleep, or just levitate the professor away without harming him, like he had done to the snake in the dueling club last year.

He knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Lupin’s voice came from the other side. “Ah, Harry, right on time. Excellent playing this morning.”

“Thanks, Remus,” Harry said, smiling nervously.

“Is everything alright?” Lupin asked, gesturing for Harry to sit in one of his armchairs. Harry perched on the arm, grimacing.

“Have you spoken with Sirius? Since he was cleared?”

Lupin looked at him sharply.

“Why do you ask?”

“I think he’d like to hear from you,” Harry said. “Did you try to get him a trial?”

“Of course,” Lupin said at once. “But I didn’t have much power in the Wizengamot. The only people I knew with seats were Sirius and James; the elected members tend to be older, and I’d never tried to get to know them. Why would I? I was twenty-one and fighting a war,” Lupin finished, bitterly.

Harry nodded. The Wizengamot had twenty-five inherited seats and twenty-five elected on a decadal basis, and the latter were usually occupied by high-level ministry officials, like Amelia Bones or Cornelius Fudge.

“But you still believed he was guilty?”

“I did,” Lupin said, nodding slowly.

“I really think he’d like to hear from you,” Harry said. “He seems a bit lonely, cleaning up Black manor all by himself. He could use a friend.”

Lupin met his eyes and nodded.

“A friend…I hope I can be one. Thank you, Harry. Now, shall we begin?”

Harry nodded and lost himself in happy memories.

Reading Flamel’s letter for the first time—knowing he really wasn’t alone in his magic. A corona of silver burst from him, the pattern almost a fractal.

Speaking parseltongue with Tom, the smell of cinnamon in his nose. This time the corona was smaller, but deeper, almost an image of something branching that vanished before Harry could see.

Meeting Sirius, and everything being so easy. The promise of a greenhouse all his own. The silver magic flared around him, rising to the ceiling, still indistinct but so large, like—

“Wow,” Lupin said. “I have no idea what form your patronus will take, but it’s bound to be spectacular. Here, have some chocolate,” he said, handing a piece to Harry, who took it, smiling. As it turned out, happiness was not just renewable but also self-propagating. The more he offered, the more he had.

“Thanks,” Harry said. “Can we try again soon?”

“It’ll have to be next term,” Lupin said. “My illness last week was inconveniently timed. Shall we say January?”

“Alright,” Harry nodded. “Thank you, Remus.”

“Thank you, Harry. If you write to Sirius, tell him to expect a letter from me,” Lupin said. Harry gave him a broad grin and left.

Instead of heading for dinner, however, he turned down the corridors to a certain second-floor bathroom.

He’d had an idea, and it wasn’t going to get out of his head until he’d tried it.

Tom was going to be very mad, but Harry needed to know.

“Hi, Myrtle,” Harry said, waving at the ghost. “I think I’ve definitely got the exorcism worked out, actually. When would you like to go?”

“Oh,” she said. They’d talked about it enough that the topic had become almost routine between them. “I think Christmastime would be nice, if you could, Harry. I’ll get my affairs in order, then,” she giggled, and vanished.

Harry smiled after her. He would miss her, homicidal tendencies or not, and didn’t that say all you needed to know about Harry James Potter? Loyal to a fault and with a moral compass that these days only pointed north in the aggregate.

Harry flew down into the Chamber, where he was greeted by Euryale.

“Hello,” Harry said. “What’s up?”

“I heard you coming,” Euryale replied. “I want to ask you something.”

“Anything,” Harry said, soaring over to land on her back so that he could scratch her neck.

“When my second friend visited me before asking for his job, he gave me a gift,” Euryale said. “A sample. I think that I would like to use it, but only if you would be willing to help me.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. He got the impression that Euryale was slightly—embarrassed?

She huffed a harsh breath.

“I have been around human wix too long. I refuse to be embarrassed by mating. I would like to have an egg of my own, third friend. But I would not want my child to grow up here. I am old and I had enough time in the sun; I prefer the dark and quiet now. But my hatchling should be allowed to explore.”

Harry’s face fell.

“Euryale, I can’t bring a baby basilisk to the castle. The pet rules are more like…guidelines, so a snake would be okay, but its eyes could hurt people.”

“We do not develop our deadly gaze until at least a century of age, sometimes two,” Euryale replied. “Before that, we rely on our venom and size.”

“That’s not in the books,” Harry said, wondering. He decided to spend more time asking Euryale about herself.

“The books know little of my kind. It is true; and even before the deadly gaze appears, there will be a warning period of several years of petrifaction. I promise you, my child will be of no danger to the students.”

“So this is why you asked me for name ideas.”

“Yes, and I like both of your suggestions. Are you willing, then?”

“Yes! I would love to help,” Harry said, grinning. He could smell the fresh-snow fondness of Euryale around him.

“Thank you. I look forward to introducing my egg to you. I will make it, and it will hatch in a month’s time. Around Yule.”

“That sounds great,” Harry said. A present from a basilisk: a baby basilisk.

He had to tell Tom.

“I’ll visit again soon,” Harry hissed, sliding off of Euryale’s back and heading for the study. Euryale hissed a goodbye and returned to her own chambers.

In the study, Harry put the diary and his bag on the desk. He didn’t want Tom too close to what he was about to do. Then, he strode to the ritual circle.

Deep breath. I need to know.

I’m spooning cooked carrots out of the bottom of a can, rationing each bite. I’m out of water and I can’t see. It’s dark, and I reek because the Dursleys forgot about my shower. I’m in hell. I’m in hell—

Harry seized the fear and desperation and pushed, just as he had with his happiness.

The light that haloed around Harry was not light. It was blackness, an abyss, the absence of anything good. It pulsed and began to form—something. Like his patronus, it was still less than fully fledged.

But something grew in the dark.

He shivered, the room suddenly feeling as cold as the grave.

Harry cut the spell and sank to his knees, his chest heaving.

What the hell was I expecting, Harry thought. But—if I could direct that—

What would I even use it for?

He stayed on the ground until his breathing returned to normal, then went to the desk and grabbed the diary, putting it back in his robe.

He wanted to talk to Tom, but he was swaying on his feet. He needed food, and perhaps more importantly, he needed to know that he hadn’t killed anyone with whatever that had been.

After dinner with Hermione, Neville, Luna, Daph and Theo—at which Harry spoke little but laughed a great deal—Harry finally felt at peace enough to open the diary.

++ Tom? ++

== Hare? You seem nervous. Is everything alright with our furry friend? ==

Harry rolled his eyes.

++ Yes, Lupin was fine. I think I’m pretty close to getting the patronus. Do you want the good news or the existential-crisis-inducing news first? ++

== Crisis. ==

Harry rolled his eyes.

++ Of course. I thought of offering other emotions to my magic, and it took. I made some sort of anti-patronus. It was terrifying. Like a dementor’s effects, but under my command like a patronus. ++

== That’s brilliant. It didn’t hurt you, did it? This could be so useful. ==

++ I should have guessed that would be your reaction. ++

== Think of it like this: if we can bottle a dementor’s effects, we wouldn’t even have to hurt anyone to torture them. ==

Harry frowned at the diary.

++ And why are we torturing people, Tom? ++

A little jasmine amusement met Harry’s nose.

== I maintain that this will be useful. And I maintain that you are brilliant. ==

Harry blushed. He could tell that Tom was dodging the question, but seeing as Harry was the final arbiter of the spell’s use, he let it slide.

++ I’m letting this go because I won’t be torturing anyone, so there’s no point in arguing. But I still have the good news! ++

== Yes? Although I think the last was good news as well. ==

++ Of course you do. Euryale is having a baby, and she wants us to raise it! I said yes. And before you ask, apparently baby basilisks don’t have the death glare yet. ++

The diary burned cinnamon.

== That is great news. I have…Wanted another snake. ==

Harry winced, thinking of what Tom had told him about his first snake, Daisy.

++ We’ll keep it safe, Tom. I’ve already named it, per Euryale—remember when she asked me about baby names? Stheno for a girl, and Cetus for a boy. ++

== Excellent choices. ==

++ I thought so, too! Oh, I can’t wait. I’ve always wanted a snake. Did I ever tell you about how I found out I was a parselmouth? ++

== Tell me in dreams? ==

Harry yawned, laid his head on his pillow, and was out before he could reply.

Sirius and Harry met again in the second week of December, in the same Hogsmeade sitting room.

“Hey, Sirius! You’re looking good,” Harry said. Sirius did look good; he’d gotten himself a muggle leather jacket to wear over his wixen shirt and pants, and Harry had to admit it was working for him.

“Thanks, Harry. So are you—are those custom tailored?” Sirius asked, noticing his robes. He was wearing his black robes with embroidered snakes under his cloak.

“Yeah, from Gentlewix,” Harry said. “Daphne took me there. They do a really nice job messing with gender.”

“I see,” Sirius said, his eyebrow raised. “Are you having thoughts about that?”

“No, definitely a guy,” Harry said, holding up his hands. “I just like pretty clothes sometimes, that’s all.”

“It wouldn’t matter either way, to me,” Sirius said. “But good to know. There’s a bunch of old clothes in the manor—I’ll save anything that isn’t cursed for you. You can reuse the buttons and fabric if you want.”

“Oh, cool,” Harry said.

“By the way, I wanted to thank you for talking to Moony,” Sirius said. “Er, Remus. School nickname, sorry. It was good to hear from him; he’ll be coming by the manor over break, to catch up.”

“Speaking of—Sirius, I was wondering—do you think I could spend the winter break with you?”

His bondparent beamed at him.

“Absolutely, kid! Hell, I was going to ask. It’d be a good trial run for the official adoption, if you still want to go through with that. We could—we could even get the process started now, if you want. You could always back out after Yule, but this way we’ll be able to get it squared away before summer.”

“Yes,” Harry said at once. “I’d like that.”

He pulled out a piece of parchment.

“We should write to the Dursleys and get their explicit permission,” Harry said. “Just in case.”

It was one of Tom’s suggestions, should Sirius ask what he just had. They were both concerned that Dumbledore might try to interfere with the adoption, as the man clearly had his own reasons for keeping Harry at the Dursleys.

“Alright,” Sirius said. “Here, I’ll write them. I’m not sure if this will hold up in court, or anything, but—”

“Just ask them to say they want to transfer me to you,” Harry said. “They will.”

Sirius nodded and wrote a quick letter. Harry was gratified to see that his penmanship was much improved in his months of freedom. They spent the rest of the afternoon chatting about quidditch, which ended with Sirius offering to take Harry to the world cup final that summer. Harry, of course, was delighted.

“Do we know who’ll be playing yet?” Harry asked as they walked to the village’s owlry together to send the letter to the Dursleys.

“Bulgaria’s a near certainty, with Krum on the team now,” Sirius said. “You’ll love him. He’s a hell of a seeker. And my money’s on Italy for the second team, but Ireland and Russia both have strong teams this year. They’re all in quarterfinals right now.”

“Not England?” Harry asked.

“Nah, the national team’s shit,” Sirius said. “Say, you don’t want to play professional, do you?”

“Hm,” Harry said. “No, I don’t think so. I love flying but I don’t want to do it all the time, you know?”

“I get that,” Sirius said. “Though I don’t think I ever really got the chance to figure out what I actually want to do with my life.”

Harry smiled at him.

“Well, here’s to the rest of our lives,” Harry said.

Our very, very long lives, Harry thought, his mind on the diary in his pocket.

The letter from the Dursleys was back the next day. It contained a very long paragraph about how they wanted absolutely nothing to do with Harry and were happy to be shot of him. Harry made a copy with some hawthoria from his second miniature greenhouse and sent it to Sirius, with a smiley face drawn on top.

Two days later, Sirius wrote to tell Harry he’d filed adoption papers. Harry told his friends over breakfast, and they all beamed at him.

That afternoon, Harry was walking back from an extra session with professor Sprout when the smell of lemon and bleach made him stop dead.

He turned around slowly to find Dumbledore standing over him.

Oh, no, Harry thought, not touching the inner pocket of his robes where he kept the diary. Occlude!

“Hello, sir,” Harry said.

“If you’d come with me, Harry,” Dumbledore said, sternly.

Oh, no, Harry thought again, following Dumbledore to his office. It looked the same as the last time Harry had been there, except that his bondparent was now sitting in front of Dumbledore’s desk, looking strained. Once again, Fawkes flew to his shoulder as soon as he entered, completely ignoring Dumbledore. If the man minded, he didn’t show it.

“What’s this about, Albus?” Sirius asked, standing up as they entered the room.

“Have a seat, please, both of you,” Dumbledore said, taking his place in the throne-like chair behind his desk.

Harry glanced at Sirius’s tense hands as he sat. Maybe Harry had already done more damage to his perception of Dumbledore than he’d thought.

“I need to go to potions, sir,” Harry said.

“I’ll write a note to professor Snape; I’m afraid this cannot wait.” Dumbledore said. “Sirius, you must call off the adoption.”

Chapter Text

“What are you talking about?” Sirius asked Dumbledore, his voice rough.

“I’m afraid Harry must return to the Dursleys,” Dumbledore said evenly. “They are his only family.”

“That’s not true,” Sirius said. “I am his family. In spirit and in law, Albus.”

Harry wanted to open his mouth to agree, but he was worried that he might summon the dark patronus again if he did anything other than focus on maintaining his occlumency shields.

“I mean to say that they are his only blood relations. Harry must return to them for his protection, to renew the blood wards placed upon him by his mother in the moment of her death,” Dumbledore said.

That’s still not how blood wards work! Harry screamed in his mind.

“Regardless, I’m sure Harry has bonded with his aunt and uncle,” Dumbledore continued. “While you may be new and exciting, Sirius, I’m not sure that it’s appropriate for you to be raising Harry at this time.”

Sirius stared hard at him.

“Blood wards?” He asked. “Are they keeping Harry safe?”

Oh, no. Do something—think, Harry!

“Professor, can I ask something?” Harry interrupted. “You placed me with the Dursleys, right? Was that because you were the executor of my parents’ will?”

Sirius looked at Harry, confusion on his face.

“Yes, that is correct. As Sirius, Remus—he was also a friend of your parents, as I’m sure you know—and Peter were all disqualified from having guardianship over you, it fell to me to determine where you would live,” Dumbledore said.

“Why was professor Lupin disqualified, sir?” Harry asked innocently. He didn’t want Dumbledore to know that he knew Remus’s secret already. Sirius grimaced, looking as though he wanted to tell Harry himself.

“I’m afraid that is his information to share,” Dumbledore said gravely.

Harry nodded.

“Did you check on me, sir? As my guardian? I was just wondering because I never saw you.”

“Of course, Harry. I didn’t want to give the appearance of any favoritism, so naturally I couldn’t meet with you before you came to Hogwarts, but I met with your aunt and uncle often.”

It didn’t smell like a lie.

Harry had long wondered if Dumbledore was ignorant of just what was happening to him—or if he had willingly allowed it.

The answer didn’t make him feel any better.

“Oh,” Harry said, taking a deep breath. His knuckles where white on the arms of his hard chair as he cursed Dumbledore for making him say this. He needed to get out of the Dursley’s house more than he needed his pride, however. “You knew I slept in a cupboard until I was eight, then.”

Sirius leapt to his feet.

“You what?” He shouted, looking between Harry and Dumbledore.

Dumbledore’s face was as calm as a windless day, his steepled fingers like a church tower between him and Harry.

“Your aunt and uncle assured me you were well cared for. I was aware that you were alive and healthy, aside from some schoolyard scrapes.”

Harry swallowed heavily.

“Yeah, like when my cousin beat me up after school?” Harry asked, his hands so tight they were shaking. “Or do you also count all the times my uncle hit me?”

“When you came to me at the end of last year, I wrote to them to make sure they were treating you well,” Dumbledore said sagely.

“Oh, great,” Harry said, suddenly on his feet. Fawkes stayed on his shoulder. That explained Vernon’s new arrangement, then. “I should thank you for that. After all, last summer they just forced me to be nocturnal and to buy all of my own food; it wasn’t so bad, really. Not after the summer before, when they locked me in my room for two months straight and fed me through a cat flap. Yeah, I’m really grateful.”

Dumbledore frowned at him gently.

“Now, Harry,” he said. “They did tell me that you had done some accidental magic that scared them very much. You can see—”

“I made them stop hitting me!” Harry barked. Fawkes fanned his wings behind Harry’s head, but didn’t move from his shoulder. “I made them stop hitting me, and I made my aunt take me to Diagon. That’s all.”

“You left Harry with that sort?” Sirius said, his voice low. There was something of the dog in his face now. A small part of Harry, one still capable of feeling something besides fury, wondered if animagi could transform partially.

Dumbledore bowed his head.

“As I have made clear, I had no choice. The blood wards needed to remain active.”

“There had to have been other options! You could have put him under a fucking fidelius,” Sirius said. “You could have raised him here, at Hogwarts. You could have changed his name and moved him to a different country and put him under a fucking fidelius. You may be the head of the Wizengamot, Albus, but when it gets out that you let Harry stay with abusive muggles, there is no way in Hell that you’ll stop me from getting him.”

Harry felt warm inside.

Someone was defending him. It was almost as wonderful as when Tom did it. People cared about him. He couldn’t really be a bad person, could he, if he had people like Sirius, like Tom, like Hermione and Neville and Theo and Daph and Luna?

It was nearly enough to make him smile despite the anger that had finally appeared on Dumbledore’s face. His blue eyes looked remarkably like chips of ice.

“You underestimate Voldemort even now, Sirius? Even after he killed your best friend? Nothing short of blood protection would keep him from Harry should he return, and he still has followers at large.”

Sirius growled.

“I’m not underestimating anyone, but clearly, I overestimated you. Come on, Harry, we’re leaving,” Sirius said. He waited for Harry to walk ahead of him, keeping a sharp eye on Dumbledore. Harry stroked Fawkes one last time—the bird cooed affectionately—and walked to the door, Sirius on his heels.

The spiral staircase echoed with their footsteps. It seemed far longer than normal; Harry felt his heart hammering in his throat until they finally escaped into the silent hall outside.

“Aw, man,” Harry said as they walked away from the office, trying to break the tense silence that had settled in the wake of their departure. “I don’t think Dumbledore is going to write me a note for potions.”

Sirius smiled brittlely.

“Snivellus giving you trouble?”

Harry’s head snapped to Sirius.

“Why did you call him that?”

“School nickname,” Sirius shrugged. “We were enemies at Hogwarts. You probably have some of those, right?”

“No,” Harry said. “Ron Weasley can be a bit of a twat, but he’s not my enemy.”

“Well, you’re a better man than me,” Sirius sighed. “Snivellus—Snape—he was in with the wrong sort. And not like your friend Theo, where he had no choice. Snape’s mum was from a neutral family, and his dad was a muggle. He chose to join the Death Eaters.”

“Snape was a Death Eater?” Harry asked. “But he works here now.”

“He turned spy for us,” Sirius said. “And I’m pretty sure he’s made personal vows to Dumbledore.”

“I see,” Harry said, thinking of something he had once thought about Draco: bullied people bully people.

Not that it was an excuse for the way Snape treated Neville at this point.

“Sirius, did you bully him?” Harry asked softly.

“Snape gave as good as he got,” Sirius said stiffly.

“But you and dad were rich, right? And pure-blood? And—not to be weird—you’re both really good looking,” Harry said. “You seem like you had more power than him, right?”

“Thanks,” Sirius said, grinning wolfishly. Then he sighed. “Yes, you’re right about all of that. I definitely did some things I regret in my youth. I won’t call him that anymore, so long as I don’t have to interact with him. He’s still a bloody asshole.”

“I don’t really see any reason why you’d have to,” Harry said, smiling. “Sorry to bring it up.”

“Nah, I can see why you’d be curious. Maybe don’t tell him you’re late because you were hanging out with me, eh? He’ll probably give you detention.”

Harry laughed.

“Yeah. You’re probably right.”

“I’m having lunch with Augusta Longbottom and Amelia Bones tomorrow; they’re in charge of your custody hearing. I’ll try to get everything sped up. In the meantime, I’ll pick you up at King’s Cross for winter break?”

“That sounds great,” Harry said. “Oh—I like to practice experimental magic over winter break, can I still do that?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Sirius said, winking. Then his face grew serious.

“Harry—are you alright? What you said in there—what your relatives did isn’t acceptable, you know that? And no matter what you did, it wasn’t your fault. Dumbledore—I can’t believe he would even imply that. Have you seen a healer?”

Harry smiled. Sirius didn’t seem to be judging him for what had happened, or even asking the questions Dumbledore clearly had asked about why the Dursleys were afraid of him. Something inside of him relaxed minutely.

“I had a lot of help from a friend of mine, and I did see a healer,” Harry said. “I know it wasn’t my fault. I—don’t have any long-term damage, except for a bit of—a period of not eating enough, you know. I promise, I’m working through it.”

“Alright,” Sirius said slowly, studying Harry’s face closely. “But you can always tell me if you need help. When I was your age, I had problems at home. Not like yours, but—you know. And James took me in, and his parents and I talked a lot. If you ever need that, I’m here for you.”

“Thank you, Sirius,” Harry said. Sirius smiled warmly at him.

“See you soon, Harry.”

Harry beamed as Sirius walked away. He knew, technically, that Sirius was being a more than a bit irresponsible. But Harry figured he’d earned a little freedom in his life.

After Snape took twenty points from Ravenclaw for his lateness, Harry and Hermione headed up to the great hall for dinner, where they were soon joined by Neville, Daphne, and Theo.

“Harry, why is Dumbledore staring at you?” Daphne asked. “He looks really pissed.”

“Don’t look at him,” Harry said. “I’ll tell you after dinner.”

His friends held him to it, dragging Harry off to their classroom as soon as he had taken his last bite of treacle tart.

“Okay, why does the headmaster want to murder you?” Daphne asked as they all collapsed onto Hermione’s conjured cushions. They were much larger and fluffier than they had been in their first year and made from thin air besides. That was something Harry was dreading covering in transfiguration, along with animal transfigurations—alchemy couldn’t do conjuration. He’d have to figure out how to transfigure air.

“Well,” Harry said. “Basically, Sirius has started adoption proceedings.”

“Yes, we know,” Hermione said. “But what does that have to do with Dumbledore?”

Harry debated how much to tell them, and then decided that since this was one area where he didn’t really need to lie, he wouldn’t. They didn’t know what the Dursleys had done to him—only Tom and now Sirius knew that—but they knew Harry wasn’t really part of the family.

“My mother left blood wards on me when she died. That’s what saved me from the killing curse,” Harry said. “Dumbledore seems to think they’re strengthened by me still living with my relatives. But my relatives don’t like magic and I don’t like living with them, and Sirius suggested just using a fidelius instead. Dumbledore told him to stop the adoption, and Sirius kind of blew up at him. I’m a little worried Dumbledore’s going to retaliate,” Harry admitted.

“We’ll just have to stay near you, Harry,” Hermione said firmly. “Dumbledore can’t do anything to you with witnesses.”

Harry beamed at her. He was almost grateful for the dementors; they’d made Hermione such a staunch ally against Dumbledore.

“Would he really hurt you?” Neville asked, nerves bleeding into his voice.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Daphne said darkly. “He was almost as brutal as Crouch was at the end of the last war. He’s got a bit of a domineering streak.”

Neville frowned, his brows knitted in uncertainty.

“Honestly, Neville,” Hermione said. “Who sent the Slytherins back to their dorms with the troll in our first year? Who kept something super dangerous here and just warned us all to stay away, rather than keeping it, you know, not in a school? Who let the dementors come here, and let them on the train? Who put Hagrid in charge of students, even after he raised an illegal dragon in his wooden house in first year? And who, apparently, wants Harry to stay with his relatives even though there are clearly better options? Look, I’m not saying Dumbledore is evil, obviously. I’m just saying he’s used to getting his way and his judgement isn’t the best.”

You don’t know the half of it, Harry thought ruefully.

After a long moment, Neville nodded.

“It’s just weird. Gran has always spoken really highly of him.”

“Your grandmother values power and intelligence,” Hermione said. “And Dumbledore has those. He’s never been in charge of her, either, so she wouldn’t have seen his negligent side, and she’s far too invested in testing standards and reforming the aurors to have noticed his other legal endeavors in the Wizengamot. Of course she’d think highly of him.”

“Oh,” Neville said.

Harry glanced at Theo, who was staring at Hermione with a look that Harry was pretty sure he gave Tom whenever the latter said something particularly brilliant.

“Where are you spending winter break, Harry?” Neville asked. “We can host you, if you like.”

“I’m staying with Sirius,” Harry said. “I can’t wait. He’s letting me have full control of the Black greenhouses.”

Neville’s eyes went as wide as saucers.

“Oh, can I visit? Please, Harry,” he begged.

“Of course! I bet an extra pair of hands will be really useful,” Harry said. “Maybe you can come for a bit this summer! You’re all welcome, actually. Plus, Black Manor has a full pitch, Theo, so we can play! If you can come, of course.”

“I might be able to swing it,” Theo said. “It’s Black Manor, after all. Once upon a time, the Blacks used to have parties to rival the Malfoys.”

Harry raised his hands.

“Well, that is one tradition that I won’t be restarting,” Harry said. Then he yawned; it had been a long day.

“Let’s head up to the tower,” Hermione said, taking pity on him.

“We really are going to walk you everywhere, now,” Theo said firmly.

Harry grinned at them.

He loved his friends.

~~~~~

Harry didn’t even have a chance to open the diary before he fell asleep. He opened his eyes in a treehouse in winter, a massive couch and a shag rug the only adornments besides two large, snow filled windows.

“Hare,” Tom said, pulling him into a hug. “What had you so nervous?”

Harry basked in the feeling of Tom’s arms around him, then pulled his friend down to sit on the shag rug. Tom wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled Harry flush to his side, where Harry laid his head on Tom’s shoulder.

“Oh, you know,” he said, pressing his cheek against Tom’s soft green silk robes. “Just Dumbledore telling Sirius to call off the adoption, forcing me to reveal the Dursley’s abuse to Sirius so that he’d ignore the tripe about blood wards.”

“That fucking bastard,” Tom hissed in parseltongue. “If only he and Voldemort would kill each other. I could do without one-sixty fourth of a soul if I got to experience that.”

“Tom, you need your soul,” Harry hissed teasingly. “It’s important.”

Tom grunted, putting his chin on Harry’s head. “Are you alright now? Are you safe?”

“My friends are going to be escorting me everywhere,” Harry said, laughing lightly. “Which might put a damper on our progress on the stone.”

“We’ve been doing well, though. I feel sure that we have the base circle set now. We just need to get the materials for drawing the runes right.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “But Flamel suggested in his letter today—I forgot to copy it in, sorry—that we need some unicorn hair for the earth runes to balance out the basilisk venom in water, and I really don’t know how to get that. They don’t exactly sell it in potion shops, and we’ll need enough to experiment with.”

“We can try a little gnome dust,” Tom said. “It has some similar healing properties and is also earth-aligned.”

“I’ll order some,” Harry said, burrowing closer to Tom, who responded by squeezing him gently. “Or maybe find some gnomes over winter break.”

“What is this place?” Tom asked.

“It’s a treehouse,” Harry said. “Like a house, but in a tree. Just to hang out in. Muggles build them.”

“I see,” Tom said. “What kind of house would you like, Harry?”

Harry hummed, considering.

“I want a ritual lab, and a greenhouse, and a nice kitchen. I kind of miss cooking, actually. I want lots of natural light, and maybe some nice land for foraging. I don’t think I want a manor; I don’t love parties, and I definitely don’t want to host one, so there’d be no point.”

“What about a library?”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” Harry said at once.

“Maybe a large cottage,” Tom mused. “With a laboratory for each of us.”

“Across the hall from each other, so I can run in and irritate you every time I do something weird,” Harry said, poking Tom in the chest. “And I want a tower, so I can jump off of something tall.”

“Should I be concerned?” Tom asked.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Harry said.

“I want a bathtub I can swim in,” Tom said. “I’ve spent my whole life taking cold showers. I deserve a little luxury.”

“That sounds brilliant,” Harry said. “I’ve heard that wixen bubble baths are to die for.”

“I didn’t know that you liked to cook,” Tom said. Harry grimaced.

“I really enjoy it,” he said. “But it’s hard not to think of the Dursleys making me do it. I really want to learn to love it properly. I think it’d be nice to cook for myself, or just for us. I hate the idea of the Dursleys making me fear something I enjoy.”

“You’ll have a brilliant kitchen,” Tom vowed. “And walk in closets for both of us.”

“Is this not a manor?” Harry asked, chuckling.

“No, because we won’t have guest rooms. Then no one can bother us,” Tom said. “And the ballroom can be small. Just big enough for a decent dance.”

“Oh? Just a little ballroom?” Harry teased. “That’s all?”

“Where else am I going to teach you to dance?” Tom asked.

“The living room isn’t good enough for you?”

“We could double up with the library,” Tom mused. “That way the library can just be extra-large.”

“That’s a good plan,” Harry said, grinning. “Are you saying you want to live with me, Tom?”

Tom laughed, jasmine and cinnamon—and an odd hint of woodsmoke—filling the air.

“Why not? I like you, you like me, and we’re going to be immortal together. This would just save me the trouble of travelling to your place every time I want to see your latest experiments.”

“Mm, good point,” Harry said. “But won’t your husband feel kind of weird about it, eventually?”

Tom’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he said softly. “We have a long way to go before then.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, turning his face into Tom’s neck. “Dumbledore and Voldemort are standing between us and matching labs.”

“The bastards,” Tom said, his chuckle rumbling through Harry softly. “They’ll pay for that.”

Harry nodded, grinning.

They will.

~~~~~

Harry spent the last part of December avoiding Dumbledore. The man seemed to appear everywhere; fortunately, however, Harry’s friends went everywhere with him as well. Most of the time that meant Hermione, who accompanied him to all of his classes and meals (looking remarkably tired, which was starting to concern Harry), but Theo, Neville and Daphne all took turns walking with him to Quidditch practice. Neville even skipped the last Hogsmeade weekend of the term to spend time with Harry and Luna, running around in the fresh-fallen snow that had covered the grounds. Otherwise, Harry kept to his dorm. He hated being confined at all, but it was much better that than whatever Dumbledore had planned.

Of course, there was one thing he couldn’t do from the safety of his dormitory, and that was perform an exorcism. Thus, on the last night of term, Harry packed a bag with several vials of herbs and walked down to Myrtle’s bathroom under the invisibility cloak and an echinacea silencing bubble.

Harry opened the door to Myrtle’s bathroom softly, then blocked it with a tea tree shield so that no one could enter.

“Myrtle?” He called softly, pulling off the cloak.

“Hello, Harry,” she said, appearing out of one of the stalls. “Is it time?”

“If you’d like,” Harry said. “I wanted to ask—do you want to talk to Tom, first?”

“Hm,” Myrtle said. “Yes, I think I’d like to say a few words to him.”

“Alright,” Harry said, pulling out the diary and angling it so that Myrtle could read.

++ Tom, I’m about to exorcise Myrtle. She wants to say something to you. ++

A hint of woodsmoke and orange filled the air.

== Alright. ==

“Tell him I forgive him,” she said softly. “But I’m not doing it for him. I’m doing it for me. I want to go to my mom and dad with a clean conscience and a clear heart.”

Harry wrote down her words

== Thank you, Myrtle. ==

“Does he regret it, Harry?”

“In his own way,” Harry said. “He didn’t mean for you to die.”

“And you won’t let him do something like this again?”

“I won’t,” Harry said. “He promised me no more accidents.”

“Hm. Tell him that he’d better hold to that, and that he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Uh—”

“These are my last wishes, Harry,” Myrtle said, grinning. “Go on. Write it.”

“Okay,” Harry said, reluctantly copying her words, then adding:

++ I think you deserve me perfectly well, though. Just for the record. ++

Woodsmoke and jasmine proceeded Tom’s response.

== I will hold to the promise I made you, Harry. And Myrtle may be correct about the last part, but I was never one to accept what others said was justice for me. ==

Myrtle laughed.

“He is a little demon, even now, isn’t he? Pretty little demon. Tell him he’d better take care of you, or I’ll come back and haunt him worse than Olive Hornby.”

“Uh, Myrtle, I’m not sure what you mean,” Harry said.

“Just write it, Harry,” Myrtle said.

“Fine, fine,” Harry said, writing out the words.

== I swear that I will. ==

“I am capable of caring for myself, you know,” Harry said and wrote.

“You jumped into the Chamber of Secrets with no real protection and your best friend is baby Lord Voldemort,” Myrtle said, giggling. “See, even he agrees with me,” she said, pointing at the diary where Tom had written something to the same effect.

“Anything else?” Harry asked. “No rush.”

“No, I’m done,” Myrtle said. “I’m tired.”

Harry nodded, putting away the diary and beginning to craft a circle he had found in one of Slytherin’s books. It consisted of all seven air runes written in the ash of sage leaves, which would be used to direct an offering of charcoal and silver to absorb and expel the ghost. Harry had added peppermint to ensure the process was painless for Myrtle.

“Float in the center,” Harry directed when the circle was complete. “Ready?”

“Yup,” Myrtle said, grinning. “Goodbye, Harry. I’m glad I got to know you, even if your boyfriend did murder me.”

Harry spluttered and Myrtle giggled.

“Get on with it, then,” she said with a wink.

Harry sighed and raised a chunk of charcoal that he had rolled in silver shavings before him, then offered it to his magic. He pushed the energy out into the circle, watching as the offering and the runes vanished.

Myrtle smiled.

Then, with a pop, she was gone.

Harry took a deep breath.

“Bye, Myrtle,” he said to the empty bathroom.

Harry stayed still for a long moment, his limbs sluggish.

A shard of moonlight finally startled him from his stupor, and Harry shook himself, then cleaned up the remnants of the circle. He wondered if anyone would know what had happened tomorrow; would someone smell the sage and understand?

When he was done, he leapt down into the passage to the Chamber, soaring out just as Euryale appeared.

“Third friend! I was worried,” she hissed. “You were gone without warning.”

“Sorry, Euryale! Dumbledore was watching me too closely, but I had to see you before I left for winter break.”

“The egg is ready,” Euryale said. “Are you prepared to take it?”

“Yes,” Harry said, suddenly vibrating with excitement.

Euryale hissed her own wordless, snow-scented joy.

“Follow me,” she said, and Harry flew behind her as she slithered into the opening in the statue. They passed down yet another pipe, not quite as long as the one that led to the Chamber itself.

He had never been into Euryale’s chambers before. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

It was a garden.

It was not large, not compared to Euryale herself, but what space was there was filled with trees and a creek that flowed and burbled. There was a large nest of straw between two grass-covered hills, and enough room that Euryale could stretch to her fullest length twice. It was lit with a replica of the great hall’s sky, displaying the moon above.

“It’s lovely,” Harry said.

“Thank you,” Euryale said. “It is home. And there is my egg,” she said, nosing at the nest.

Harry looked at it; it was perhaps the size of an emu egg, but soft in the way of snakes. It gleamed dull silver in the moonlight.

“Hatch,” Euryale hissed.

Harry watched in awe as the shell of the egg cracked and a miniature version of Euryale nosed its way into the world. The little snake was much darker than its mother—a green so deep it was almost black—but its eyes were the same brilliant yellow as its Euryale’s. Harry loved it at once.

“It is a boy,” Euryale said. “Your name is Cetus, little one. This is Harry; you will be his companion.”

“Hello, Cetus,” Harry said, reaching out a finger for the little snake to smell, feeling something click in his soul as the serpent touched him. Cetus was about the size of a garden snake, but thicker and more muscular.

“Hello, Harry,” the snake said. “Mother told me about you in the shell. It is an honor to meet a speaker.”

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Harry said. “Would you like to come with me to the Black family manor for winter break? You can stay here, too.”

“I want to come,” Cetus said, crawling up Harry’s arm and curling around his neck. Harry found that he enjoyed the pressure; he’d always loved the feeling of snakeskin, so much softer than human touch.

“Wonderful,” Harry said. “I’ll get some eggs for you in the morning.”

“That sounds good,” Cetus said, closing his eyes and burrowing into Harry’s robes.

Harry grinned.

He couldn’t wait to see Sirius’s face when he showed up with a new friend.

Chapter Text

Harry had been nervous when leaving the castle that Dumbledore would try to stop him, but the man didn’t even watch as he boarded the express. The five of them—Harry, Neville, Theo, Daph and Hermione were all leaving for the holidays for once—piled into a single compartment.

Harry had spent the morning introducing Cetus to Tom via text translation and explaining to Cetus that he and Tom were theoretically immortal, which had made the snake very excited, as no one actually knew a basilisk’s maximum lifespan. All known basilisk deaths had been in combat. Cetus was also the first natural-born basilisk, as far as either Harry or Tom was aware. Cetus had declared himself Harry’s familiar, which had made Harry feel quite pleased. He’d kind of envied Hermione’s relationship with Crookshanks, and while he liked Helena a lot, it wasn’t the same. Now Cetus was sleeping soundly around Harry’s neck, full of the chicken eggs Harry had gotten for him from the breakfast table.

“Thanks for watching my back,” Harry said to his friends. “It means a lot.”

“Of course! Dumbledore’s so creepy,” Daphne said. “I never see him when I’m by myself, but with you, he’s everywhere.”

“Yeah, it was really weird,” Neville chimed in. “I swear he was even outside walking to the gamekeeper’s house when we were building snowmen.”

“Why is he so interested in where you live, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“No idea,” Harry said. “Um, can I tell you all a secret? Something I really don’t want the whole school knowing about.”

His friends nodded. He could see Daphne’s eyes were lit from behind like they always were when she got new information.

“I found my familiar,” Harry said. Familiar was a status somewhat above pet; Harry figured it would help get the professors to turn a blind eye to Cetus. Harry knew for a fact that several Ravenclaws had non-regulation familiars, including a ferret, a parrot and a falcon. Plus, Ron Weasley had kept that bloody rat for two years, and no one had batted an eye.

“You did? What is it?” Hermione asked eagerly.

Harry took a deep breath.

“Don’t freak out,” he said. “Cetus, can you come meet my friends?”

Predictably, his friends freaked out. Neville shrieked as Cetus poked his head out of Harry’s robes, blinking his yellow eyes slowly, while Hermione, Theo and Daphne stared from Harry to his familiar with wide eyes.

“Hello, Harry’s friends,” Cetus hissed. “Why are they frightened? Is it me?”

“You’re very intimidating,” Harry said, and Cetus preened. His magic was like grapefruit and rosemary with a hint of vanilla that had appeared after he had declared himself Harry’s familiar. Cetus’ magic was not anywhere near as strong as his mother’s, but it was still very pleasant. Harry had wondered since meeting the little basilisk if the serpent might help with his problem of smell once Tom got a body.

“Harry,” Theo said. “You’re a parselmouth.”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“How long have you known?” Daphne asked.

“Since I was a kid,” Harry said.

“Harry,” Theo said again, even more seriously. “Are you descended from Slytherin?”

“No, definitely not,” Harry said. “Someone else in my family must have done the ritual.”

“What is it?” Hermione asked, looking at the snake.

“His name is Cetus,” Harry said, scratching the snake’s head. “He’s a baby anaconda. I found him in the forest; some magical accident transported him here, but he wants to stay with me.”

“An anaconda?” Hermione said. “He’ll be too big, soon, right?”

“His breed is slow-growing,” Harry said, as Cetus stuck his head back into Harry’s robes.

“I can’t believe you’re okay with having a snake around your neck like that,” Neville squeaked.

“I can talk to him,” Harry said. “And he’s very nice.”

Neville laughed nervously at that.

“I’m glad you found a familiar that suits you,” Hermione said, smiling at him.

“I can see why you don’t want the whole school knowing,” Daphne said.

“Why not?” Hermione said. “There are pet exceptions for familiars, and Cetus isn’t dangerous, right? He’s so small, and anacondas aren’t venomous.”

“About the parseltongue,” Daphne said. “It’s supposed to be a dark ability. You’d have Dumbledore on your case worse than ever, and the Slytherins would be mad at you for not being in our house.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “That makes sense. Dumbledore,” she hissed. She’d seen the worst of his stalking the past few weeks, and she was even more fed up with the headmaster than she had been.

They spent the rest of the train ride talking over their winter break plans and watching Daphne and Hermione beat each other in chess. When the train entered the station, it was the first time in Harry’s memory that he walked down its steps without a pit in his stomach.

Sirius was waiting to greet him, dressed in dark silver robes and attracting stares from everyone around. Harry couldn’t tell if it was because his bondparent was extremely good-looking now that most of Azkaban had left his face, or if it was simply because he was Sirius Black, former escaped convict and current extremely rich Lord.

“Hey, Sirius! How are we getting home?”

“The good way,” Sirius said, holding out an arm. “Have you apparated before?”

“With Augusta Longbottom,” Harry said, taking Sirius’s arm and readying himself for the unpleasant squishing sensation.

“Here we go,” Sirius said.

With a crack and a feeling of being sucked through sausage casing, they appeared on a snowy road deep in the forest. Sirius pointed behind Harry, and Harry turned.

A pair of large gates with ravens atop pillars at either end stood in front of a gravel road. Though there was no wall on either side, the forest was so thick that Harry doubted he would be able to get past regardless. With a wave of Sirius’s hands, the gates opened, and they walked forward.

“Welcome to Black manor,” Sirius said. “It’s pretty, actually. I don’t mind it here so much, even if I do feel like a ponce. The space and the quiet are…Nice. After what I lived through. You’d think Azkaban would be quiet—but it wasn’t, not even for a moment. There was always someone muttering or moaning or worse.”

Harry nodded. The lane was beautiful, twisting and turning through gentle snowfall. Harry knew where he would be dreaming himself and Tom tonight.

“Sirius, there’s someone you need to meet,” Harry said, abruptly nervous again. “Cetus, sorry, could you poke your head out?”

“Cold,” the snake hissed, but stuck his nose into the air and blinked one large eye at Sirius before hiding back in Harry’s collar.

“You’re a parselmouth,” Sirius said, chuckling. “Neat snake.”

“You don’t care?”

“Why would I? You’re born with it, so it’s not like it’s something you did, and it’s pretty cool, so it’s not like you shouldn’t do it. What’s its name?”

Harry beamed at him. “He’s Cetus, and he’s a baby anaconda.”

“Fuck, kid, you don’t mess around,” Sirius said. “There’ll be plenty for him to eat around here in the summer. We’ve got a whole lake full of fish, and more pheasants than the rest of the isles combined, I’m pretty sure.

“I’m sure he’ll love that,” Harry said. “Please don’t tell Dumbledore?”

“Of course I won’t,” Sirius said. “I’m not telling him anything anymore, that’s for damned sure.”

Harry smiled as they rounded a corner, and the manor proper came into view.

It was huge, with two wings and a tower on each side. There was a still fountain out front, with more ravens in flight carved in stone. Smaller roads branched off of the main path, leading around the back of the manor, where Harry presumed the greenhouses would be, and deeper into the forest.

“Welcome home,” Sirius said. “I’ve only got half of the west wing cleaned out right now, but you’re welcome to claim any room you want, and I’ll help you clean it today. We’ve got all afternoon, if you’re up for it.”

“Are there bedrooms in the towers?” Harry asked eagerly.

Sirius nodded.

“My little brother’s old room is in the top of the west tower. C’mon, you can leave your stuff in the dining room, and we’ll go have a crack at it.”

The entrance hall was beautiful, dark wood and stone and faded green wallpaper. Harry couldn’t help but adore the aura of heaviness about it, the same way he felt in the Chamber. The massive formal dining room was just down the hall to the left. There was also a small, private dining room beside it, with a table fit for six and tall windows that overlooked the snow-covered front lawn.

“This is brilliant,” Harry said. “I love it.”

“It’s a little dark,” Sirius said, sounding embarrassed.

“It’s cozy,” Harry said, leaving his shrunken trunk and Helena’s cage beside the table. He followed Sirius to the end of the hall and up four flights of spiral staircases, ending in a long ladder, which Sirius climbed first and pushed open the trap door.

Harry followed close behind, entering a massive semi-circular room, the ceiling rising to a high point and covered with tapestries woven with leaves.

“Wow,” Harry said.

It was like being in a forest. The walls were painted with an extensive mural of ferns and foliage, split through with tall oval windows overlooking the grounds, each surrounded by painted branches that made the glass look like a portal to another world. One of the windows was actually a glass door, leading out to the tower’s balcony. On the flat side of the circle, the wall was nothing but books, divided in the middle by a massive four-poster bed with posts carved like trees. A desk and several armchairs completed the furniture.

“Take a look at the bathroom,” Sirius said, beaming. “Also, close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.”

Harry grinned and went through the door Sirius had pointed out, leading to the other half of the semicircle.

“Oh, Tom,” Harry said softly. The room was dark wood and white marble, dominated by a massive bathtub that was more like a small swimming pool. At the far end, an open door led to a closet full of someone else’s clothes.

“What did I say? I knew you’d like it,” Sirius said.

“Damn,” Harry said. He was still trying to wrap his head around the concept of such opulence.

“Regulus—my little brother—was the family favorite,” Sirius said. “He was the good, dutiful son. So, they kitted this place out for him. He only slept here twice, I think.”

“What happened to him?”

“No idea,” Sirius said, bitterly. “He was a bloody Death Eater, though. But still—I wish I knew.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, meaning it.

“It’s alright,” Sirius said, running a hand over his jaw. “It’s been a long time.”

Sirius smiled then turned away to give the room an appraising look. “It’s not half bad, actually. Just the dust, really. I assume the books are safe enough, ‘cause they keep the real nasty shit in the library in the east wing. Here, let’s check the closet. It’ll all be too big for you, though, obviously.”

After several cleaning charms from Sirius and a thorough search of the closet and the desk, Sirius deemed the room safe and summoned Harry’s trunk and Helena’s cage up to them. Then, checking his watch, Sirius grinned.

“Shall we see if we can convince Kreacher to make us passable food?”

Harry blinked.

“Who’s Kreacher?”

“The family elf,” Sirius said. “He’s usually at the townhouse, but he showed up here after I came back. I think it’s some sort of compulsion.”

“Have you considered freeing him?” Harry asked.

“What? Why?” Sirius asked.

“It is slavery,” Harry said. “But Hermione and Theo can explain it better than me. I’ll let them convince you when you meet them.”

“Nott’s campaigning for house-elf rights? Shit, you weren’t kidding about him not being like his dad. I am sorry I made that assumption,” Sirius said. “I’ll have to think about it. It’d be great not to have him, but he does know a lot of secrets about the properties, and I might need those, unfortunately.”

Harry nodded and followed his bondparent back to the dining room, noting along the way where Sirius’s bedroom was (fourth floor, first door from the entrance hall) and where the cleaned-out sitting rooms were.

“Have you found any interesting objects?” Harry asked.

“Nothing, actually,” Sirius said. “It’s not been too hard to clean, just removing the doxies and boggarts and stuff that moved in while it was empty. I suspect all of the dark stuff is in the townhouse, but that’s a problem for future me. Kreacher!” Sirus yelled as they entered the dining room.

An incredibly wizened, incredibly dirty elf popped into being before them.

“Blood-traitor master is calling?”

“Make us some dinner, will you? Harry, what do you want?”

“Anything you like to cook, Kreacher. Thank you,” Harry said, smiling at the elf, who grimaced at him and popped away.

“Polite to elves?”

“They don’t have a choice,” Harry said. “So I might as well be nice.”

“Let’s see how long you’re saying that when the food comes back burnt.”

Dinner was not, however, burnt. It was slightly bland but entirely passable roast chicken, green beans and mashed potatoes. While they ate, Harry and Sirius discussed plans for a cleaning schedule.

“And I hope you won’t mind, but I invited Remus for Yule,” Sirius said. “He doesn’t have any family that he likes to spend time with, so, I offered him ours.”

“That’s great,” Harry said. As wary as he was of the werewolf, he did like him, and the next full moon would be at least two weeks after Yule, so he should be safe to be around. Harry and Sirius talked a little more about what the grounds held and what Sirius suspected was in the greenhouses, then Harry excused himself to bed.

Regulus’s bed was like a cloud. Harry tucked the diary under his pillow and felt Cetus slither away to curl up under the blankets, and soon enough, sleep engulfed him.

~~~~~

Just as he had predicted, he was walking along a now-familiar snow-covered lane, the manor rising from the trees ahead. Tom appeared beside him in fur-collared robes that made him look extremely (devastatingly) handsome.

“Welcome to Black Manor,” Harry said, reaching his hand out and threading his fingers through Tom’s. Tom glanced down at their joined hands and grinned.

“Is that okay?” Harry asked, squeezing his friend’s hand.

“It’s excellent,” Tom said, tugging him forward. “Show me your room.”

“It’s brilliant,” Harry said, taking the lead as they entered the manor. Harry led Tom through the hall and up the spiral staircases, nearly bouncing as they climbed.

“Orion Black used to complain about this place,” Tom said. “He invited me to stay with him the summer after my fourth year, but of course—I became a diary instead.”

Orion again, Harry said, his jaw clenching. Jealous, much?

“He did?” Harry asked lightly.

“Yes, he did, the bastard. He constantly complained about how small it was and how there was nothing to do here, despite the world-famous Black library and national-park-sized grounds. His perspective was so skewed that it might as well have been horizontal.”

Harry felt a rush of joy as Tom insulted Orion, mortified to find himself hoping that Orion was a terrible person indeed. Harry carefully did not look at Tom’s face as he climbed the ladder into the room.

“Isn’t it great?” Harry asked, as Tom took in the muraled walls and the immensely high ceiling. “I can’t wait to float around in here while I’m reading.”

Harry glanced at Tom’s face and grimaced.

His friend’s brows were furrowed, his lips pursed, his dark blue eyes narrowed. The room smelled of a cedar bonfire.

“You don’t like it?” Harry asked, concerned.

Tom sighed.

“I do,” Tom said quickly. “I just forgot, for a moment, that I’m not really here. And then I remembered, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” Harry said, taking Tom’s hand again and squeezing it. “Not much longer. Sirius said there are gnomes in one of the greenhouses; I’ll go collect some dust when I get a chance.”

Tom smiled at him, though Harry could tell he wasn’t fully reassured.

“Come on,” Harry said, pulling him into the bathroom gently. “I’ll let you use my bathroom when you live here, promise.”

“Why would I—Damn," Tom said, taking in the bathtub. “I think I could do laps in that.”

“Yup,” Harry said, grinning. “Sirius already told me he ordered bubble bath, too.”

“Wow,” Tom said. “You were right. Not immediately killing the creepy dog was a very good choice.”

“See, murder isn’t the answer,” Harry said, leading Tom back to the bedroom.

“Murder isn’t always the answer,” Tom replied teasingly. Harry rolled his eyes and climbed onto the bed, pulling Tom after him. Tom looked at him reluctantly for a moment, then, at Harry’s urging, laid his head on Harry’s chest. Harry smiled fondly at him and pushed his hand into Tom’s incredibly soft, wavy hair.

“You have a heartbeat,” Tom said. “I don’t, not even here.”

Harry hummed an agreement.

“Do you think I should try to steal Sirius’s elf?” Harry asked, the thought springing into his mind unbidden. “The poor thing obviously hates him. I bet I can convince him to like me.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Tom said. “He might know if the Blacks had a bit of my soul. But don’t you want to free the elves?”

“Yes,” Harry said emphatically. “But Sirius is against it in Kreacher’s case, or he’s at least reluctant, and I don’t want to push too hard before we’ve gotten any info on your soul out of Kreacher, in case I alienate him. Ideally, I get him to like me, transfer his bond to me, get the horcrux, and then convince him to want to be freed.”

“Excellent plan, darling,” Tom purred on his chest. Harry rather enjoyed the feeling of Tom’s weight on him, like the world’s deadliest blanket. “I’ll make you a Slytherin yet.”

“Haven’t you already?” Harry asked, grinning.

“No,” Tom said. “A real Slytherin would never have baited Lucius as much as you did. And I assume you told your friends about Cetus? That’s very Hufflepuff of you, Hare.”

Harry snorted. “Yes, yes, I’m every house. But I’m a Ravenclaw first, so there.”

“That you are,” Tom said, his lovely eyes flashing up at him. “Always jumping into pits to see what’s at the bottom.”

“Aren’t you glad I do that? Most of the time, it’s you.”

Tom laughed.

“Some parts of me are better than others.”

“Agreed,” Harry said. “Now, finish that story about the first time you met the giant squid? Please?”

“Of course,” Tom said, and oh, how Harry was going to miss this closeness when it inevitably ended.

~~~~~

Cleaning turned out to be far more fun than it sounded. He’d admitted to Sirius that he was awful at most charms, but as it turned out, his owl feather hover charms were more than powerful enough to immobilize a dozen pixies at once while Sirius stunned them in rapid succession.

“Why aren’t we killing them?” Harry asked, as they cleared yet another bedroom.

“Damn useful parts for potions,” Sirius said. “And it’s better to harvest them live. Don’t worry, they don’t feel a thing while stunned.”

Harry shuddered. Somehow, the killing curse actually sounded like a better fate than that.

When he wasn’t cleaning or chatting with Sirius, Harry roamed the halls of the manor, did experiments in his room, read Regulus’s books while bobbing around like a balloon with Cetus on his shoulders, and tried to find any dark artifacts to ferret away before Sirius could toss them.

It was during this latter activity that Harry finally ran into Kreacher on his own for the first time.

“Hello, Kreacher,” Harry said, surprised to find the elf in the dusty office he’d just entered.

“Blood-traitor’s blood traitor pet,” Kreacher muttered. “What does it want?”

I better fix that before Tom gets here, Harry thought with a sigh.

“Has Sirius been destroying artifacts in the manor?”

The elf blinked at him.

“Kreacher is not letting him,” he said, watching Harry warily. Harry smiled at him.

“Good,” Harry said. “I was hoping I could learn something from them, which I can’t do if they’re destroyed.”

“Hm,” Kreacher said, and popped away.

It was a start.

Yule arrived, and in addition to Helena bringing him his usual presents from his friends, he also got a book on the history of Herbology from Luna and a shrinking, self-warming snake enclosure from Sirius. Remus arrived midway through the morning, and the three of them spent a remarkably pleasant day talking about Remus’s experience fighting dark creatures—of which he had quite a bit, seeing as that was most of the work he’d been doing in the years between Voldemort’s apparent downfall and Remus’s current professorship. Kreacher made quite a decent spread for dinner, and they all went to bed happy.

The best part of the holiday, however, came when Harry was asleep.

~~~~~

“Happy Yule, Tom!” Harry said, jumping on his friend as soon as his eyes opened in the dream world. They were once again in Harry’s new room, which was possibly his favorite place in the world. To Harry’s immense pleasure, Tom caught him like he’d been expecting it and actually spun him around.

“Happy Yule, Hare,” he said, putting Harry’s feet back on the ground. “You know, we should celebrate the rest of the Wheel, too. I’ve always liked Lammas best after Samhain. Not that I could do much in the orphanage, but—you see my point.”

“Oh, yes, I’d like that,” Harry said, slightly breathless. “Also, Theo finally told me that Yule isn’t technically for presents, but we all do it anyway, and I got you something!”

Harry stepped back and held out his hands, concentrating until a familiar box appeared in them and settling with it on his bed.

“It’s real, too,” Harry said. “It finally arrived a few days ago. But I’ve been getting better at controlling the dreams, so I thought it would be nice to try this.”

Tom stared at him, then sat beside him on the bed, taking the box gingerly from him and unwrapping it.

Inside was a marble chessboard and a black velvet box with hand-carved wizard chess pieces. The black pieces were dark marble snakes with tiny emerald eyes, while the white were pale marble lions with dark sapphire eyes. Tom stared at them, picking up the black king; it was a basilisk in a crown, twisting sinuously in his hand.

Cinnamon and woodsmoke filled the room.

“Do you like it?” Harry asked, nervously.

“This is the second year you’ve gotten me a present beyond compare,” Tom said. “And I’m still stuck in a book.”

“Think of it as an apology, for you still being stuck in said book,” Harry said, smiling, his chest aching slightly.

Tom sighed and turned heavy eyes on Harry.

“I love it, Harry. I’ve never had a set of my own.” His eyes flashed. “Does this mean you’ll play with me?”

“I don’t think I’ll be any fun,” Harry said. “I’m not very good.”

“I’ll trade you for a match,” Tom said.

“Trade me what?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What do you want?” Tom asked, grinning viciously.

“Dance lessons,” Harry said. “But didn’t you already promise me those?”

“I did,” Tom said. “Hm, how about this: for every game, I promise you one hour of work in the greenhouses at the manor next summer.”

“Really?” Harry beamed at him; he knew Tom liked plants in an academic way, but not in the same way that Harry did, with dirt under his nails and the smell of flowers in his nose. “Deal. But don’t blame me when you don’t have fun beating me.”

“I doubt I could fail to have fun with you, Hare,” Tom said quietly, then grinned at him. “Still, you will lose.”

He set up the board, giving Harry the lions, and they began to play.

Harry did indeed lose. Twice. But Harry woke up to the smell of cinnamon, and that was all that mattered to him.

~~~~~

The following morning, Sirius and Remus were playing pool and catching up in one of the de-pixied drawing rooms, and Harry took the opportunity to venture out to the gnome-infested greenhouse.

It didn’t take him long to catch two of the tiny, potato-like creatures, stunning them with a bit of lavender (just a bud; he didn’t want them to die of starvation while asleep) and held one upside down over a small pail. Collecting gnome dust involved using a glorified lemon zester on the creature’s thick skull skin. It was fairly disgusting, but not smelly, so Harry wasn’t too bothered.

He had just finished with the first gnome and moved on to the second when Kreacher popped into being beside him.

“Blood-traitor pet is doing something,” Kreacher muttered. “What is he doing? Would mistress be pleased, or angry?”

Ah, so I’ve progressed from “it” to “he.” Excellent.

“Hello, Kreacher,” Harry said softly. “Dinner last night was lovely, thank you for that.”

Kreacher grimaced at him.

“My mistress would be crying if she saw the werewolf eating here,” Kreacher said. Harry blinked at him; he was fairly sure he wasn’t supposed to know that, though of course he already did.

“Where have you been keeping the artifacts, Kreacher? Are they certainly safe?”

“At Grimwauld Place,” Kreacher said, puffing up. “Blood traitor master will not be getting his hands on them there.”

I see, and do you happen to have any bits of my best friend’s soul? Harry thought, biting his tongue.

“That’s good,” Harry said. “Maybe if you cleaned up the manor a bit more, you could save even more?”

Kreacher blinked at him.

“Maybe Kreacher will,” the elf huffed. “The half-blood is having a good idea.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry said, as the elf popped away.

He settled back to continue his work on the gnome, smiling slightly as fat snowflakes began to fall around him.

If the rest of his life was going to be like this, then he could really see the appeal of immortality.

Tom grimaced at the latest book Harry had given him, a text on summoning rituals from Regulus’ library. It wasn’t the subject matter that bothered him. If anything, the text was fascinating.

No, what was bothering him were the four white, white walls still around him, hidden as they were now by neat stacks of books.

He was still trapped.

Tom didn’t resent Harry for it. How could he? Much to his horror, he’d actually meant their little discussion about sharing a home. It would be nice, wouldn’t it, to have Harry close at hand? That way Tom could watch him, keep him safe, sabotage his romantic relationships—

But he couldn’t do any of that from inside of a damned book.

“Oh, Tom,” he said softly in a mockery of Harry’s voice. “Sirius looks so good now that he’s healthier, I’m so happy for him.”

“Oh, Tom, Draco Malfoy isn’t so bad,” Tom hissed to himself. “His dad is a ponce, but he’s actually quite sweet, in his own way.”

“Oh, Tom, Roger Davies made the most excellent goal in the game, you should have seen it! He was half hanging off his broom—should have bloody fallen then, shouldn’t he?”

He’d never understood why he’d hated it so much when Harry mentioned that Zhao girl last year, but now he could recognize the pattern.

He was scared.

Scared that Harry would get bored, eventually, of his friend with no body. Scared that Harry would find someone more solid and less dangerous to fulfil whatever it was that Harry seemed to get from their relationship. He trusted Harry—he did, somehow, remarkably, for the first time in his life, trust someone. But trust was a lot to hang his hopes on when he had no hands, no heart, no mind.

The dreams were—indulgent. Tom liked touching Harry, liked seeing him smile; it was as simple as that. Like a good wine or a fine meal. After a (short) lifetime of impeccable restraint, he’d always wondered when he’d meet his vice. Perhaps it was a boy with green eyes.

But the dreams also made returning to this place of emptiness so much worse.

And now all that he owed Harry seemed to weigh on his shoulders like a mountain. Tom Riddle always paid his debts, but how on earth could he pay this one?

The worst part was that he knew Harry wouldn’t even ask him to.

His Harry, always so compassionate, so willing to see the best in people. His alchemist could be vindictive, though, too; his willingness to manipulate Lucius proved that. But with Tom—he was so forgiving. It was something Tom never would have expected from another person. That forgiveness, too, was intoxicating, especially as he now saw that not everyone was deemed worthy of it.

Yes, he wanted Harry to keep his compassion.

He also wanted it all directed at himself.

Tom slammed his fist against the wall of the white room. There was no sound from the impact.

The damned inverse patronus, he thought. Could he be any more brilliant? And the chess set—

Merlin.

I wish I had a body.

Soon isn’t soon enough.