The castle was still.
It was the kind of stillness that only came at night, when the torches burned low, their flickering flames casting long, wavering shadows across the stone walls. The corridors were hushed, save for the occasional creak of shifting stone or the distant whisper of a breeze through an open window. It was eerie, sure—but for Harry, sneaking through the dark halls of Hogwarts had become second nature, especially with the marauders map in hand and his invisibility cloak in his pocket.
Clutching the crumpled note Draco had passed him earlier, Harry made his way to the fourth floor. The abandoned Necromancy classroom was tucked away behind an unassuming wooden door at the far end of the corridor. As far as Harry knew, it hadn't been used in decades—not since Necromancy was banned from Hogwarts' curriculum. The perfect place for a secret meeting.
When he reached the door, Harry didn't bother knocking. Instead, he pushed it open quietly and slipped inside, the marauders map immediately being shoved into his pockets as well.
The room was much larger than he expected, with rows of ancient desks blanketed in dust. At the front of the room sat a crumbling blackboard, its surface covered in faint, scrawled runes that Harry couldn't read. The air was thick and bone chillingly cold, as if the walls remembered old magic—magic that didn't belong in the bright and polished Hogwarts of today. But that magic was still there, caressing and whispering its secrets with every breeze that flowed through.
But Harry barely noticed, his attention immediately turning to the other person in the room.
Draco was already there, perched on the edge of a desk near the back of the room, his pale hair illuminated by the silvery glow of the moonlight streaming in through a cracked window. He looked up as Harry entered, his guarded expression melting into something softer—relieved, even.
"You're late, Potter," Draco drawled, though there was no real bite to his words.
Harry smirked, shutting the door behind him. "You're early. Didn't know Slytherins were so punctual."
Draco rolled his eyes, sliding off the desk and crossing the room toward him. The moment they were close enough, all pretense dropped. Without another word, Harry and Draco pulled each other into a hug, holding on tightly like two people clinging to a lifeline, the bond tugging between them like it was trying to capture both of their feelings of relief.
"Merlin, I hate this," Draco muttered, his voice muffled against Harry's shoulder. "Having to act like I loathe you again. I nearly hexed Pansy earlier just because she wouldn't stop talking about you."
Harry snorted, his arms tightening briefly around Draco before pulling back. "You hex her and she'll tell everyone you've finally cracked. We're supposed to keep the peace, remember?"
Draco stepped back, his lips curling into a familiar smirk, though the warmth behind it betrayed his true feelings. "Right. Keep the peace. By hating each other's guts in public. Riveting strategy."
Harry grinned. "Admit it—you find it fun."
"Maybe a little," Draco conceded, arching a brow. "You make it so easy to be dramatic. "You watch it, Malfoy,'" He mimicked Harry's earlier tone, puffing out his chest. "You sounded ready to duel me in the middle of the corridor."
"I can't help it if you make a great villain," Harry shot back, laughing quietly. "Besides, you started it with that shove."
Draco's smirk widened. "Oh, come off it, Potter. You loved it. We've got half the school convinced we're at each other's throats already."
Harry shook his head, the smile lingering on his lips. As much as he hated the act, there was something oddly comforting about slipping back into old roles. It was like muscle memory—familiar and simple in a way that nothing else in his life ever was. But this time it was on his terms, the fighting and arguing was planned, calculated, consented by both of them. It was a nice stress reliever.
Still, the moment of levity faded as quickly as it came. Draco's smile dropped, and he gestured for Harry to follow him toward the back of the room, where the moonlight was strongest. "So," Draco said quietly, leaning against the wall, "Umbridge."
Harry sighed, the weight of reality settling back onto his shoulders. "Yeah. Umbridge." He crossed his arms, scowling. "She's a Ministry plant. I know it. And I'll bet anything she's here to stop us from learning how to defend ourselves."
Draco nodded, his expression darkening. "It's not just you she's after, you know. She's here for Dumbledore, too. Fudge is paranoid about him building an army or some nonsense, according to Daphne, her dad works for the Ministry too. But Umbridge will use any excuse to make Hogwarts her own personal kingdom."
"I knew she'd be trouble the moment I saw her at the trial," Harry muttered, his fists clenching at his sides. "You should've seen the way she tore me apart—acting all sweet and innocent while twisting everything I said. She's dangerous, Draco. Not like the deatheaters or Voldemort, but dangerous in her own way."
Draco gave Harry a long, considering look, then sighed. "So what do we do about it?"
Harry blinked at him, slightly surprised. "We?"
Draco rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Yes, we. What, did you think I was just going to sit back and let that woman take over the school? I've got skin in this game too, Potter. If she gains control of Hogwarts, she'll start targeting students. And not just you—anyone who steps out of line."
Harry's gaze softened as he realized Draco's sincerity. "Yeah," He said quietly. "You're right."
For a moment, they were both silent, their expressions mirroring each other's resolve. Then Draco pushed off the wall, pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back. "We need to be smart about this," He said, his voice low and deliberate. "We can't just… hex her into oblivion. As satisfying as that would be."
Harry huffed a laugh. "Tempting, though."
"Tempting doesn't keep us alive," Draco replied, stopping to face Harry again. "We need a plan. A real one. Something that undermines her without exposing us. Something subtle. Something not all Gryffindor."
Harry frowned, thinking hard. "We've got to get people on our side—students who'll stand up to her, even if she tries to push them around. If we're going to fight back, we need to be united. And I mean all the houses. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws—hell, even some Slytherins if we can manage it."
Draco raised an eyebrow, folding his arms. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should," Harry shot back, smiling faintly. Then his expression turned serious again. "I've already suggested starting a study group—something all inclusive. A way to get everyone together under the guise of schoolwork. If we can use that to unite us all, we'll have something to work with."
Draco's eyes gleamed with approval. "That's not half bad, Potter. You're smarter than you look."
"Thanks," Harry replied dryly. "So, you in?"
Draco didn't hesitate. "Of course I'm in. I can help pull in a few Slytherins—Blaise, Tracey, Daphne, Millicent, maybe Theo, Crabbe, and Goyle. Especially Pansy, though. She's against pretty much everything Voldemort and has her ear to the ground, she'll be useful."
Harry blinked, surprised, even as on the inside he started to crumble. So maybe they were together.. "Pansy? Really?"
Draco smirked faintly. "Pansy's smarter than people give her credit for. She knows when to pick a side, and she's loyal when it matters. If we bring her in, she'll keep things quiet. Besides, she hates Umbridge already—thinks all the pink is an affront to fashion."
Harry huffed a laugh, half forced, shaking his head. "I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I'll trust you on that one."
Draco's expression softened again, and he stepped closer. "It's not just about trust, though, is it?" He said quietly. "This—everything we're doing—it has to be airtight, or Umbridge will crush us."
Harry met Draco's eyes, understanding the weight of his words. The bond between them hummed faintly in the background, tugging at both of them like a thread connecting their thoughts. "I know," Harry said firmly. "We can't mess this up."
For a moment, they just stood there, the quiet between them thick with unspoken determination. Draco was right. If Umbridge found out what they were planning, it wouldn't just mean detention or points—it could mean everything they'd worked for would crumble before it even began.
Harry broke the silence first. "So, if you're pulling in Slytherins, I'll talk to the others again—Ginny, Neville, Ron. Maybe some Ravenclaws too. Hermione's already on board, though she doesn't know everything yet."
Draco smirked. "Leave it to Granger to get excited about homework-based rebellion."
"Hey, whatever works," Harry replied, grinning.
They spent the next hour hashing out the details—who they'd approach first, how to keep things quiet, and what courses they might start teaching once the groups were in place. The boys sat cross-legged over an old piece of parchment, scratching everything down with an abandoned quill. The abandoned Necromancy classroom felt like a war room, their voices hushed and urgent as they plotted their next move.
When they finally stood to leave, the mood between them had shifted again. The tension of the day had faded, replaced by a quiet, shared determination.
Draco hesitated as they reached the door, glancing at Harry. "You know," He said slowly, "This is the part where we're supposed to sneer at each other again."
Harry grinned, already stepping into his role. "Can't have anyone thinking we're friends, Malfoy. Your reputation would be ruined."
"Likewise, Potter."
They both smirked, but as Harry turned to leave, Draco's voice stopped him.
"Harry."
Harry looked back, surprised by the use of his first name while they were in character. Draco was standing in the doorway, his expression uncharacteristically soft. "Be careful. With Umbridge. With everything."
Harry held his gaze, understanding the unspoken meaning behind the words. "You too, Draco."
Draco nodded once, then pulled the door open with exaggerated flair. "Get out of my way, Potter," He drawled as he stepped past Harry into the deserted corridor. "I'd rather not breathe the same air as you."
Harry bit back a grin, his voice dripping with fake disdain. "Right back at you, Malfoy."
Their soft footsteps echoed through the empty hall as they walked in opposite directions, both playing their parts to perfection. But Harry couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. He felt better now, knowing he had Draco on his side on this. It comforted him in ways he didn't have an explanation for. All he really knew was he was thankful he had Draco on his side and not against him.
——
Harry woke up with a start, his heart hammering in his chest as he looked around. All he could eee were the blur of the closed red curtains that surrounded his bed and his crimson covers pooled around his waist. He took in deep breaths, clutching at the locket around his neck as he focused on the air filling and leaving his lungs.
He hated that door. He hated that damned corridor. What mystery lay behind it? Why couldn't he reach it? Why is it constantly always out of reach? The dream drives him mad, like a constant reminder he couldn't control anything, not even his own dreams.
Harry sighed, his breath shaky as he ran a hand through his messy hair. The sweat clinging to his skin made him shiver, and the weight of the locket felt heavier than ever, pressing into his chest like a warning. He hated this feeling—the helplessness, the frustration, the not knowing. He'd spent a whole summer feeling like that, and now the dreams were dragging him back into it.
But there was no time to dwell. The steady thud of footsteps outside his curtains told him the others were up and already moving. Pulling himself together, Harry swung his legs out of bed and grabbed his glasses from the bedside table. The blurry edges of the world sharpened, and he let out another steadying breath. Focus, he told himself.
By the time he emerged from behind the curtains, the dormitory was buzzing with quiet chatter. Ron was pulling on his tie with all the care of someone wrestling a particularly stubborn snake, his hair half brushed through. "Morning, mate," Ron grumbled, yawning widely. "You look like you didn't sleep at all."
Harry forced a faint smile. "I'm fine." It was automatic at this point. A well-worn answer.
Ron didn't look convinced but didn't press the issue. "Better hurry up, though. Hermione's probably downstairs already, and you know she'll hex us if we're late for breakfast on the first day."
Harry chuckled softly. "Wouldn't put it past her."
As Harry grabbed his clothes and began to get ready, he kept his mind firmly on the day ahead. First classes of the year. First chance to see what Umbridge's Defense Against the Dark Arts class was going to be like. He didn't need to be a Seer like Luna to know it was going to be a disaster.
The Great Hall was alive with the chaotic energy of the first proper morning back. Students were buzzing with excitement and complaints, plates piled high as owls swooped in with the morning post. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had barely settled into their seats when the unmistakable flash of pink at the staff table made Harry's stomach turn.
Dolores Umbridge sat primly in her chair, her sickly-sweet smile in place as she sipped delicately from a floral teacup. Harry's appetite waned immediately.
"Look at her," Ron muttered, glaring at her from across the table. "She's already making me lose my appetite."
Hermione shot him a warning look. "Be careful what you say, Ron. She's probably listening to everything."
"Let her listen," Harry muttered darkly, stabbing at a sausage with his fork. "She'll get an earful sooner or later."
"Harry," Hermione scolded, though her voice was quieter. "We need to be smart about this. She's not just any professor—she's the Ministry's eyes and ears here. If we're going to do something about her, we need to be careful."
Harry nodded, though his mind was already wandering to the meeting last night. We, Draco had said. They weren't fighting this alone. Harry just hoped their plan would hold up once they got started.
As Hermione prattled on about their upcoming schedules after McGonagall had handed them out, Harry let his gaze wander around the hall. It wasn't hard to find Draco at the Slytherin table—his platinum hair always stood out in the crowd. Draco was sitting in his usual spot, listening to Blaise Zabini with a look of mild amusement, but Harry caught the subtle glance Draco sent his way. It was quick, nothing anyone else would notice, but Harry saw it for what it was, an unspoken We're in this together.
Harry felt the bond hum faintly in response, a reassuring presence in the back of his mind. He pushed his food around his plate and smiled faintly. Whatever the day held, he wasn't alone.
——
By mid-morning, the first few classes had passed without too much excitement. Charms with Professor Flitwick was as entertaining as ever, and Transfiguration with McGonagall, while challenging, felt familiar and safe. But after lunch came double Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Harry's stomach sank as he, Ron, and Hermione trudged into the classroom. Usually he would be excited to have this class for an extra long period of time, but Umbridge's presence transformed the once-favored subject into something clinical and lifeless. The walls were bare, save for a long list of "Classroom Rules" written in sickeningly neat handwriting. The words Theory Only and No Practical Application made Harry's blood boil, made his body heat up in ways he knew was Phoenix-related. This class was going to test his abilities to keep the flames hidden, wasn't it?
"Good afternoon, class," Umbridge chirped as she stood at the front of the room, her teacup clutched in both hands.
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," The class droned back, polite. Most of them had no idea just what they were getting into.
Her smile widened. "Wands away, please."
Harry exchanged a look with Hermione, who looked ready to combust. "Wands away? In Defense class?" She hissed under her breath. "What is she playing at?"
"I think we're about to find out," Harry muttered, his grip on his wand tightening before he reluctantly stowed it.
Umbridge began speaking in her maddening, high-pitched voice, outlining the curriculum and goals for the year. Words like "Ministry-approved learning materials" and "non-confrontational education" echoed in the room.
"Excuse me, Professor," Hermione said suddenly, her hand shooting into the air.
Umbridge's smile faltered just slightly. "Yes, Miss..?"
"Granger," Hermione supplied before continuing on, "Are we not going to learn any practical defensive spells this year?" Hermione asked, her voice even but her expression defiant.
Umbridge's smile returned, though it looked more like a grimace. "There will be no need for such nonsense," She said sweetly. "Theoretical knowledge is more than sufficient to prepare you for your O.W.Ls."
Harry couldn't stop himself. "But what about actually defending ourselves? What happens if we're attacked?"
The room fell silent. Umbridge's gaze fixed on Harry, her smile sharpening into something colder. "Attacked, Mr. Potter? And who, pray tell, do you believe will be attacking you?"
Harry clenched his fists under the desk, he couldn't stop himself from speaking up. It was dangerous to stop teaching defensive spells in a Defense class, especially with what was on the rise, with who was on the rise. "I don't know—maybe Lord Voldemort, who's already back?"
The air in the room seemed to freeze. A few gasps echoed from students around the room, and Ron whispered, "Harry, careful."
Umbridge's eyes narrowed, though her tone remained sickly sweet. "Ten points from Gryffindor for fearmongering, Mr. Potter. Such dangerous lies have no place in this classroom."
Harry's blood boiled, but Hermione nudged him hard in the side, silently begging him to keep quiet. Harry glared at Umbridge but stayed silent, even as she droned on about "order" and "proper discipline." He managed to hold his tongue, all the way until she started talking about previous professors. Until she brought up Remus.
"Now, let us address some… past mistakes in your education," Umbridge chirped, her voice lilting as though she were gossiping with a friend rather than ripping into Harry's favorite subject. "You poor dears have been subjected to an alarming lack of structure and competence. For example, I hardly need to remind you of the…shall we say, questionable, methods of previous instructors."
"A certain werewolf, for instance." She finished, a smug smirk on her face and a twinkle in her eyes that made Harry want to burn her into a crisp.
Silence rippled through the classroom, sharp and unforgiving. Harry froze, his fingers clenching the edge of his desk. Werewolf. She said it like an accusation. Like Remus was something wrong, something disgusting. Like all Remus was, was a mindless beast.
"Unlike some of your… other instructors, at least Professor Quirrell understood the value of order and discipline—two traits this school so desperately lacks." She went on again, and finally, Harry snapped.
"Professor Lupin was the best Defense teacher we've ever had," Harry blurted, his voice sharp and unshakable. He could feel the flames in his chest flicker to life, hot and simmering beneath the surface, but he didn't care. Not when she was twisting the truth like this.
The room went deathly still. All eyes darted between Harry and Umbridge, as though anticipating a duel. Hermione audibly sucked in a breath beside him, her hand darting out to clutch his wrist in warning.
Umbridge paused, her lips pressed into a thin line. Slowly, she turned to face him, her expression sliding into that nauseatingly sweet smile that made Harry want to break something. "Mr. Potter," She said, saccharine and slow, "I was under the impression you were taught to raise your hand before speaking."
Harry didn't care. He pushed on, his anger too hot to contain. "Professor Lupin actually taught us how to defend ourselves. He cared about us. More than I can say for you—or Quirrell," He added bitterly. "Funny how you're holding up a man who literally had Voldemort growing out of the back of his head as a shining example of 'order.'"
Gasps erupted across the room, sharp and panicked. Some students shifted in their seats uncomfortably, while others just stared at Harry like he'd completely lost his mind. Ron swore under his breath, his head dropping into his hands. Oh yeah, that was something no one but he, Hermione, Ron, and a select few staff members knew.. great.
Umbridge's smile cracked. Her face flushed a dangerous shade of pink, and Harry could see her grip tighten around the delicate handle of her teacup. "Ten more points from Gryffindor," She hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "And an additional ten for your blatant disrespect toward a professor."
"They're not lies," Harry bit back, his voice louder now. "Professor Lupin saved our lives. He saved me. You don't get to talk about him like that."
The flames inside him surged—searing, begging to be unleashed. He forced himself to stay in his seat, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. The last thing he needed was to actually combust in front of half the class. They already thought he was crazy enough, no need to add flames to that list.
"Enough!" Umbridge snapped, slamming her teacup down onto her desk with a sharp clink. Her sugary facade was well and truly gone now, her expression twisted with disdain. "Mr. Potter, I have had quite enough of your insolence. You will not spread dangerous misinformation in this classroom."
"It's not misinformation—"
"You will remain silent!" She shrieked, her voice trembling with rage. Her breathing was sharp and uneven as she snatched a piece of pink parchment from her desk and began furiously scribbling something down with her quill. "This behavior will not be tolerated. If you refuse to learn proper decorum, then perhaps a conversation with your Head of House will help you see reason."
She folded the parchment neatly before holding it out with a forced smile. "Take this note to Professor McGonagall immediately, Mr. Potter.."
Harry glared at her, his teeth gritted, but he snatched the note without another word. His hand shook slightly as he stuffed it into his pocket, the heat simmering beneath his skin. He could feel Hermione's eyes on him, pleading silently for him to stop, but it was too late. He'd already crossed the line.
"Go on, Mr. Potter," Umbridge said, her voice cold and sickeningly sweet once again. "I'm sure Professor McGonagall will be very interested in hearing about your behavior."
Harry pushed out of his chair so quickly it scraped loudly against the floor, making half the class flinch. He stormed out of the room, his jaw tight and his heart pounding so loudly he could barely hear the door slam shut behind him. She was going to regret this. He'd make sure of it.
——
The corridor was empty and quiet, save for the echo of his footsteps as he stalked toward McGonagall's office. The anger bubbling inside him hadn't cooled; it felt like fire running through his veins, burning him from the inside out. He could still hear Umbridge's words ringing in his ears—"a certain werewolf"—and it made his blood boil all over again. The locket around his neck didn't help any, the enhanced anger radiating up and down his back, the flames coiling around him like a snake.
By the time he reached the familiar door to McGonagall's office, his breathing was still sharp and uneven. He had no idea how she would react. Would she be angry with him? Disappointed? The thought made his chest tighten. He liked McGonagall, he thought highly of her and it always sucked when she was disappointed in him. It always felt like he'd broken her heart somehow.
After a moment, he knocked twice.
"Come in," came McGonagall's clipped, clear voice from inside.
Harry pushed the door open and stepped in, closing it behind him. McGonagall was seated at her desk, a stack of papers spread out in front of her. She looked up when she saw him, her expression unreadable behind her square spectacles.
"Mr. Potter," She said evenly, setting her quill down. "What brings you here during class hours?"
Harry swallowed, feeling his face heat up with residual anger and embarrassment. Wordlessly, he pulled the pink note from his pocket and handed it over. McGonagall took it, raising an eyebrow, and unfolded it to read.
The silence stretched on for several moments as her eyes scanned the page. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, though Harry swore he saw the faintest flicker of something—was it irritation?—pass over her face. Finally, she set the note aside and regarded Harry carefully.
"Detention for the rest of the week?" She said, her voice measured. "And a loss of 30 points for 'disrespect and fearmongering.' Care to explain?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "She said awful things about Remus," He muttered, his voice low but firm. "Called him a 'dangerous werewolf'—like he was just… just some thing. And she praised Quirrell. Quirrell! Like he was the model professor."
McGonagall's lips thinned further. "I see."
"She's—" Harry's voice cracked with anger. "She's trying to stop us from learning anything useful. She's dangerous. I don't care if she's with the Ministry. Someone has to stand up to her."
McGonagall didn't reply immediately. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands neatly on her desk. After a long moment, she gestured toward the small tin of biscuits sitting on the corner of her desk. "Biscuit, Potter?"
Harry blinked, thrown completely off balance. "What?"
"A biscuit," McGonagall repeated calmly, holding the tin out to him. "You look like you could use one."
Harry hesitated for a moment before finally reaching out and taking a biscuit. He stared at it dumbly as McGonagall spoke again.
"I do not condone your behavior in Professor Umbridge's class, Mr. Potter," She said, her tone sharp but not unkind. "However…" She paused, and her eyes softened ever so slightly. "I understand why you reacted the way you did."
Harry looked up at her, surprised. "You do?"
McGonagall inclined her head slightly. "There are times when speaking out is necessary—when we cannot, in good conscience, remain silent. That said," She added sternly, "you must learn to pick your battles carefully, particularly where Dolores Umbridge is concerned. She is not someone to be trifled with."
Harry nodded, feeling the heat in his chest begin to cool just slightly. "I'll try, Professor."
"See that you do," McGonagall replied crisply. "Now, as for your detentions…" Her mouth pressed into a line again. "I trust you will endure them with as much dignity as you can manage."
Harry sighed heavily. "Yes, Professor."
"Good. Off you go, then." She gave him one last look, something flickering in her expression that Harry couldn't quite place—pride? Concern?—before returning to her papers.
As Harry left the office, biscuit still clutched in his hand, he felt a strange mix of emotions—anger, relief, and a lingering frustration he couldn't quite shake. He knew McGonagall was right, but the thought of Umbridge twisting the truth and dragging Remus's name through the mud still made his blood simmer. But he'd deal with it, somehow.
At the very least, he knew McGonagall wasn't angry with him—not really. She was on his side, even if she couldn't say it outright. And somehow, that made the prospect of a week's worth of detention with Umbridge just a little bit easier to swallow.
Harry went back to Defense class with a mask in place. McGonagall said to be on his best behavior, and he would try.. as much as he could bear at least.
——
"Harold James Potter!" Hermione hissed at him once they had entered the common room after classes, her nails digging into his arm as she dragged him and Ron into an abandoned corner to speak privately. "What the hell was running through your mind?! Oh, no, sorry, clearly nothing was!"
Harry flinched, though he tried to play it off, pulling his arm free from Hermione's surprisingly strong grip. "I couldn't just sit there and let her talk about Remus like that," He muttered, glancing at Ron for backup. Ron gave him a helpless shrug that said you're on your own, mate. The traitor.
Hermione, however, wasn't letting up. Her darkened brown eyes were blazing, and her face had turned the familiar tint of "Hermione-is-pissed" red. "Harry, you snapped. You practically handed her a week of detentions on a silver platter! Not to mention 30 points—gone! One the first day no less!"
Harry gritted his teeth, the heat he'd just managed to calm threatening to rise again. "And what was I supposed to do? Agree with her? Just sit there while she called Remus dangerous like he isn't one of the best people I've ever known? Like he isn't one of my godfathers?"
Hermione's eyes widened at the reveal, gasping softly. "Remus is one of your godfathers too? I thought it was just Sirius?"
Harry froze, realizing too late what he'd said. The words hung in the air, and Hermione and Ron both stared at him like they were trying to piece together a puzzle. It was awkward and uncomfortable.
"Er—yeah," Harry mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sort of. It's… complicated."
"Complicated?" Hermione repeated, still looking stunned. "Harry, how can that possibly be complicated?"
Ron tilted his head, "Makes sense though. Remus and Sirius are together aren't they? Makes sense they'd both be your godfathers."
Harry sighed, massaging his temples as he tried to think, tried to put his thoughts all together. "Okay listen, that night Remus took me to get my school supplies and my new glasses.. I asked him if he was. He said yes, and that my parents had put both him and Sirius down as my godfathers, and if anything happened to Sirius, I was supposed to go with Remus."
"Then.. then why didn't Remus raise you?" Hermione asked, and Harry didn't fault her. He had asked that same question. He didn't realize just how far bigotry ran in the magical world until this summer. Grunick and the Goblins, Kreacher and the Elves, Remus..
"He said.. he said Dumbledore wouldn't let him. That it'd be dangerous for him to raise me, because he's a werewolf. The way Remus said it.. it's like Dumbledore was guilting him, making him feel worthless so he'd give up his rights.. so I could be sent to the Dursley's." Harry admitted to them, quiet and sheepish even though the truth felt like a weight had slowly begun to lift off of his shoulders. Finally, there was something he could be truthful about to those he cared about most.
Why was he even hiding this part from them? He knew they didn't particularly like Dumbledore still, not after the way he stopped them from sending letters to Harry all summer and didn't listen when they told him Harry's home life wasn't the best. Harry might not have revealed the worst things his Uncle has done to him, or anything about the abuse really, but Hermione and Ron weren't dumb. Far from it actually. They just knew Harry well enough to notice all the signs.
Hermione's face crumpled, her voice a quiet whisper. "That's… awful. I don't understand how Dumbledore could do that. Remus would have been so much better for you, Harry."
Ron looked equally horrified. "Blimey, mate. You mean Dumbledore let you go to them just because Remus is a werewolf?" His voice was laced with anger. "That's messed up, even for Dumbledore."
Harry swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, it's done now. Remus told me he fought back, but Dumbledore wouldn't hear it. He convinced him it was for the best—that I needed to be around the family I was born into and it was more important than anything else."
"Blood family or not, that's still no excuse," Hermione said, her voice hard with a quiet fury Harry had only seen a few times before. She folded her arms tightly over her chest. "Remus would have given you a wonderful family—a real actual family—and instead, you had to grow up in that godawful place."
Harry shrugged, though it was stiff. "What's the point of thinking about it now? It's not like we can change the past."
Ron huffed, shaking his head. "Still, it's not fair. I can't believe you're only just now finding all this out."
"Yeah, well," Harry muttered, staring down at his feet. "It's been a lot."
Hermione sighed, the anger in her face softening to something gentler. "Harry, this is exactly why we need to sit down and talk. All of us. Later. You've been carrying so much, and it's not right."
Ron nodded firmly. "She's right, mate. You need to stop bottling everything up. If something's wrong, we want to help you—we're your friends. That's what friends are supposed to do."
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Hermione held up a hand, cutting him off. "No arguments, Harry. Tonight. After your detention. The three of us—and Neville and Ginny, too, if you're okay with that."
Harry hesitated, his gaze darting between his two best friends. He didn't want to tell them everything, anything really—not yet, at least. But he couldn't deny that they deserved to know more than he'd shared so far. Maybe… maybe it was time to trust them with at least part of the truth. But he wanted someone else there too if he was being forced into this.
"And Luna," Harry bit his lip looking up at his friends. He didn't know if he could explain why he wanted Luna there to them, for all they knew he and Luna just met on the train. They didn't know about Lucrezia and her prophecy, about how he and Luna were destined to destroy a bunch of evil magical soul pieces and defeat Voldemort, how he and Luna were connected in ways he didn't truly understand. All they really knew was Luna was one of Ginny's friends. "I want Luna there too."
Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, both caught off guard. Hermione recovered first. "Luna?" She asked gently, her brow furrowing. "Are you sure?"
Harry nodded firmly. "Yeah. I trust her. I just… I want her there."
Ron scratched the back of his head. "If you say so, mate. Luna's a bit, er, out there, but she seems all right I guess. If you want her there, I'm good with it."
Hermione, still looking a little uncertain, relented with a small sigh. "All right, Harry. If it's important to you, we'll include her."
Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It was a small thing, but knowing Luna would be there with her calm, steady, and understanding presence relieved some of the anxiety bubbling in his chest. Luna was just.. important. He felt like he'd known her his entire life, and yet he's only just met her the day before.
"After your detention, then," Hermione said resolutely, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We'll meet outside the common room. The six of us can find somewhere private to talk."
"Yeah," Ron added, clapping Harry on the shoulder with a bit too much force. "And don't even think about trying to wriggle out of it. You're not getting rid of us that easily."
Harry huffed a quiet and mostly-forced laugh, the tension in his chest loosening only the barest bit. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Hermione softened, giving him a small smile. "Good. Because whatever's been going on, Harry, you don't have to face it alone. Not anymore."
For a moment, Harry looked at his two best friends—Hermione, fiercely determined as always, and Ron, steady and loyal in his own clumsy way. They were his closest friends, the only people he had for a long time.. they meant everything to him. He wouldn't rope them into the dangerous bits, he'd try his hardest to keep them out of that.
"Thanks," He said softly, his voice sincere.
Ron grinned, already moving on. "Well, at least now we know. Merlin's beard, though. Dumbledore…" He trailed off with a scowl. "That's gonna take some time to get over."
Hermione murmured agreement, her expression thoughtful. "We'll figure this out together."
Harry glanced between them once more, a small flicker of warmth settling in his chest. He wasn't ready to tell them everything, but this was a start. He could test the waters, see what he was comfortable revealing and show just how much he had grown over summer. One day at a time..
——
The air felt cool against Harry's skin as he sat beneath the sprawling oak by the lake, the faint rippling of water filling the quiet night. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, the tip glowing softly as he took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl lazily from his lips. The weight in his chest had been relentless all day—the heat of his anger and the simmer of flames underneath his skin barely held in check—but the smoking helped. A little. It was a way to exhale everything he couldn't say, even if the relief was temporary. He took another drag while he thought.
Smoking soothed him, the act of blowing out the smoke was a visual representation of letting out all his stress. He liked to watch the heavy clouds dissipate, imagining it as his own troubles. The burn was nice too, it curbed the urge he had to burst into flames and take everyone with him. Smoking in general was a nice coping mechanism, better than picking fights with anyone who looked at him funny. And this year, that was pretty much everyone. Even his dormmates were doing that, Seamus at least. Dean seemed cautious more then anything.
He finally exhaled the smoke he had held in his lungs, his head pressed up against the large tree. His head felt dizzy in the nicest of ways, the world spinning slightly as he breathed in tobacco polluted oxygen. He needed this before his detention, needed a clear head before he faced that vile woman again.
He didn't even turn when he heard footsteps approaching. There were few people who could sneak up on him these days, and Draco Malfoy wasn't one of them. Not when the bond tugged at his insides whenever Draco was around.
"Smoking kills, you know," Draco drawled as he came to stand nearby, his voice laced with mock disdain.
"That's kind of the point, Malfoy," Harry murmured. His words were lazy, half a joke, but there was truth buried under them, a deep and dark truth that had captured Harry the moment he had witnessed Cedric Diggory die. It should have been him instead. Harry didn't miss the way Draco's lips twitched into a faint frown.
"That's morbid, even for you," Draco replied, though the sharpness Harry expected wasn't there. Instead, there was something softer—something that almost sounded like concern. Draco hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, his shoes crunching softly on the grass. "Mind if I sit?"
Harry glanced at him, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "Suit yourself."
Draco didn't need to be told twice. He slid down against the other side of the tree, the two of them now hidden in the shadows under the massive branches. There was enough space between them for plausible deniability, but Harry could feel it—the hum of the blood bond, faint but undeniably there. It thrummed softly in the back of his mind, a quiet, soothing presence that tugged ever so slightly, as though it wanted to pull them closer.
It was always like this when they were near each other. Calming. Comforting. And Harry hated that it felt right because it made it that much harder to keep up the act. Act like he didn't like Draco, act like he didn't want to shove the stupid idiot to the ground and kiss him speechless for once. The one secret he had no one to talk to about, the one secret he was sure he would take to his grave. Draco was straight, anyways, wasn't he? Or at the very least dating Pansy Parkinson.
"You really shouldn't smoke," Draco said after a long silence, his tone less biting now. "It makes you smell like Muggle trash bins. And I'm pretty sure that's the worst brand you could've possibly chosen."
Harry snorted softly, exhaling a stream of smoke into the night air. "Thanks for the input. I'll be sure to get something more high-class next time."
Draco rolled his eyes, though there was no real heat to it. "Merlin, you're impossible." After another beat of silence, he added, quieter, "Is it actually helping? This?"
Harry didn't answer right away. He stared at the glowing end of the cigarette, watching as the embers burned brighter when he took another drag. "Sort of," He admitted finally, his voice low. "It's not like I have a lot of other options. Not when—" He cut himself off, biting back the rest of the words. Not when you're the only person who understands.
The bond thrummed again, almost as though it knew, and Harry swore he could feel it tugging at him, a silent whisper urging him to close the space between them. He resisted, clenching his free hand into a fist.
Draco shifted, his shoulder bumping against the tree as he turned his head to look at Harry. "It's just… I don't get it," Draco said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You're doing everything you can to keep it together. Fighting for everyone else. You shouldn't have to do this to yourself. Not when—" He faltered, as though unsure how to continue, then huffed quietly. "Not when I'm here."
Harry blinked, turning to look at him. "What?"
Draco scowled faintly, as though annoyed at himself for saying too much. "You heard me, Potter. You're not on your own in this, no matter how much you act like you are. I don't like…" He waved a hand vaguely toward Harry, as though the cigarette represented all of Harry's struggles. "Any of this."
Harry stared at him for a long moment, caught off guard by the raw honesty in Draco's voice. The bond hummed again—louder this time, warmer, like the space between them was charged with something Harry couldn't quite describe. A thread of magic wound through his chest and tugged gently, almost affectionately, toward Draco. Harry had felt it before—when they'd first created the bond over the summer—but it was stronger now, sharper.
"You make it sound so simple," Harry muttered finally, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Like it doesn't matter that we're supposed to hate each other. That everyone's watching, waiting for us to slip up and start beating each other in a bloody pulp in the middle of the hallway."
Draco's expression turned guarded again, but Harry caught the flicker of frustration in his silver eyes. "It shouldn't matter," Draco said firmly. "It's stupid—pretending. I've spent all day biting my tongue while people talk about you like you're the enemy. Like they know anything about you. And I—" He broke off, his jaw clenching as he looked away. "It's infuriating."
Harry's heart gave an odd lurch at that. "You think that's hard?" He shot back quietly, his voice rough. "Try hearing half the school call you a spoiled and horrible brat while you're trying to figure out if you're supposed to hex them or pretend they're right. Try wanting to—" Comfort you. Tell you I get it. Say I don't care what anyone else thinks.
Draco turned back to him sharply, their eyes meeting in the low moonlight. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The bond tugged again—insistent, almost needy—and Harry swore he could feel it weaving around them, pulling them closer even though they hadn't moved.
"This is ridiculous," Draco muttered finally, and before Harry could react, he reached over and plucked the cigarette straight from Harry's fingers. "You're terrible at this, by the way."
Harry blinked, startled. "What—?"
Without answering, Draco took a drag, the orange glow of the cigarette highlighting the faint smirk on his face, making him look like a fallen angel, beautiful and surrounded by awe-catching flames. "If you're going to pick up a vice, Potter, you might as well share."
Harry couldn't help it; he laughed—a real, genuine laugh—and the bond hummed happily in response, sending warmth radiating through his chest. For a moment, the weight he'd been carrying all day didn't feel so crushing. The flames that burned beneath his skin cooled, completely.
"You're insufferable, Malfoy," Harry said, shaking his head.
"And you're predictable," Draco shot back, though there was no venom behind it. He held out the cigarette, and Harry accepted it with a quiet huff of amusement.
For a while, they passed it back and forth in silence, the bond between them settling into something steady and soothing, like a pulse of magic that neither of them could ignore. Harry didn't understand it—this strange connection they shared—but he was starting to realize he didn't need to. It was there, and it helped. When Draco was near, the chaos in Harry's head quieted, and the weight in his chest felt just a little bit lighter.
Finally, Draco spoke again, his voice low. "We'll figure this out, Potter. The Umbridge mess, the bond, all of it. I don't care how hard it is—we'll make it work."
Harry looked over at him, surprised by the conviction in his voice. "You're awfully sure of yourself."
Draco smirked faintly, but his eyes were serious. "Call it faith."
Harry swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat, his gaze lingering on Draco for a moment longer before he looked away. Faith. It was a strange word coming from Draco, but the bond thrummed in agreement, wrapping around Harry like a promise.
"You know," Harry started, his voice quiet and soft, staring out over the lake. "If you told me last year I'd be sitting by the lake with Draco Malfoy sharing a cigarette and us both putting faith in one another.. I think I'd punch you on principle."
Draco snorted softly, his smirk twisting into something wry. "And if you told me last year I'd be willingly spending my evenings with Harry Potter, trading secrets like we're… friends…" He trailed off, the word falling awkwardly from his lips, as though it tasted unfamiliar, despite both of them having used it before in reference to the other.
Harry turned his head slightly, catching Draco's eye. The word friends hung between them, heavy and unspoken, like it didn't quite fit—but not because it wasn't true. Because it wasn't enough.
"Funny how things change," Harry murmured, exhaling smoke toward the moonlit water. The embers of the cigarette glowed faintly, reflected in his glasses. "Feels like everything's different now. Like nothing's… real anymore. Except for this." He gestured vaguely between them, toward the invisible pull of the bond.
Draco's expression softened, his smirk slipping away. "Yeah," He said quietly. "This is real."
The bond hummed in agreement, a warm pulse of magic that swept through Harry's chest and settled like a comforting weight. It was as if the bond liked hearing that—like it understood the truth neither of them wanted to admit out loud. That this thing between them, this connection, was becoming the one solid thing they could hold onto when everything else was crumbling.
Draco shifted, resting his back fully against the tree, their shoulders nearly brushing now. "It's maddening, you know," He muttered, his voice quieter now. "Having to act like I hate you. Like I don't give a damn about what happens to you. Watching you get vexed by Umbridge's venom and not being able to—" He broke off, his jaw tightening. "Pretending. It's maddening."
Harry didn't say anything for a moment. He just looked at Draco, really looked at him, in the way he rarely let himself do during the day. The faint furrow of his brow, the tension in his shoulders—tension that wasn't always there when they were alone. And Harry realized, not for the first time, how hard this must be for Draco, too.
"It's not easy for me either," Harry admitted, his voice low. "When I saw you in the corridor earlier, smirking and shoving me, I wanted to—" Tell you I'm glad you're here. Ask if you're all right. Tell you I need you to be, because I don't know how I'd get through this without you. "—hex you back for real," he finished instead, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Draco gave a soft laugh, though there wasn't much humor in it. "As much as I'd deserve it, you'd just end up in detention again. And I'm not sure I can stand another day of pretending you don't exist while you glare holes in the back of my head."
The bond flared again, stronger this time—a faint, insistent hum that tugged at Harry's very core, urging him closer, as though it knew they weren't saying what they wanted to. As though it didn't care about Hogwarts, or Umbridge, or the lines they were supposed to stay on opposite sides of.
Harry sighed and let his head drop back against the tree, feeling the bark dig into his scalp. "It's bloody exhausting, isn't it?"
Draco tilted his head to look at him, silver eyes sharp but not unkind. "What? Pretending? Or just… being Harry Potter?"
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. "Both."
Something flickered across Draco's face then—sympathy, or understanding, or maybe just the silent acknowledgment that the bond between them made things complicated. He didn't have to say anything, though. Harry could feel it, the magic twining through his chest and settling into something steady, like the quiet beat of a second heart.
"Some days," Draco said finally, his voice so soft Harry almost didn't hear him, "I forget we're supposed to hate each other at all."
Harry turned his head sharply, surprised, but Draco didn't meet his gaze. He was staring out at the lake, the faint glow of the cigarette highlighting the delicate angles of his face, casting shadows under his eyes. He looked… tired. Tired in the way Harry felt every morning when he woke up. Tired of fighting battles no one else could see.
"I know what you mean," Harry said quietly, his chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with anger. He hesitated, then added, "Sometimes I don't want to pretend anymore."
Draco finally looked at him, his silver eyes locking onto Harry's. The bond thrummed between them—warm and steady, a current of magic pulling them closer even as neither of them moved.
"Me either," Draco admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence stretched on, the bond humming contentedly as though it was relieved they'd both admitted it. That neither of them wanted this stupid, exhausting act that the world demanded of them.
But reality still lingered, harsh and unrelenting, and they both knew it. With a quiet sigh, Draco dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his heel. The bond gave a faint tug of protest, as though sensing the moment was ending, but they ignored it.
"We should get back," He said, his voice returning to its usual cool drawl, though the soft edge hadn't quite left it.
"Yeah," Harry replied, pushing himself up off the ground and brushing dirt from his trousers. He glanced at Draco, who was watching him carefully, and for a split second, he wanted to say something—anything—to make this easier. To make pretending a little less suffocating.
Instead, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded. "See you around, Malfoy."
Draco smirked faintly, though his eyes betrayed the same hesitation Harry felt. "Don't get yourself killed in detention, Potter."
"I'll try not to," Harry replied with a ghost of a smile.
And as they parted ways—Draco heading back toward the castle, Harry lingering for just a moment longer—the bond thrummed again, a quiet reassurance that this wasn't over. That they were still connected. That even when they were apart, they were never really alone. And Harry held onto that thought, because it was the one thing he could believe in, the one thing that felt consistent and constant.
——
Harry knew detention with Umbridge was going to be horrible. He knew it the minute McGonagall had told him about it. It had begun to hammer into him as he walked down the hallway to Umbridge's office. He wondered what her detentions would be like. Would she make him clean like Snape did? Or would she make him write like McGonagall?
The corridor outside Umbridge's office was suffocatingly quiet, the oppressive silence broken only by the faint creak of floorboards beneath Harry's feet. The sickly sweet scent of her perfume lingered in the air, clinging to the walls and making him feel vaguely nauseous. He paused in front of the door, staring at the absurdly pink plaque with her name on it before lifting his hand to knock.
"Enter," came Umbridge's sing-song voice, and Harry pushed the door open.
The sight of her office made his stomach turn. The walls were all lined with grotesque plates of mewling kittens, and every available surface was draped in pink lace. Dolores Umbridge herself sat behind her desk, smiling her syrupy smile that didn't quite reach her cold, calculating eyes. Her hands were clasped in front of her, the nails manicured and painted in the same cloying pink that dominated the room.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," She said, gesturing to the lone chair in front of her desk. "Do sit down."
Harry sat, his back straight and his expression carefully neutral. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him fidget or squirm.
"For tonight's detention," She began, sliding a piece of parchment across the desk toward him, "you will be writing lines. I find it to be… enlightening." She reached into a drawer and pulled out a quill—an old-fashioned, sinister-looking thing that gleamed faintly in the low light. "You will write I must not tell lies. Do you understand?"
Harry frowned. "What about ink?"
Her smile widened, and there was a glint of cruel amusement in her eyes. "Oh, you won't need any ink, Mr. Potter. This quill is… special."
He took the quill, a sense of unease settling in his chest. Self inking quills were a thing, weren't they? The handle felt unnaturally cold, and a faint pulse of magic seemed to hum through it, vicious and wrong. Still, he didn't falter. He wouldn't let her see him hesitate.
Harry placed the quill against the parchment and wrote the first word: I. As soon as the tip touched the paper, a searing pain tore across the back of his hand. He hissed through clenched teeth, instinctively jerking his hand away, and stared at it in shock. The word I was etched into his skin in raw, angry red, as though he'd carved it with a knife. Blood seeped up from the cut, but instead of dripping, it seemed to vanish into the air, absorbed by the magic of the quill. It was a blood quill. Umbridge was using a fucking blood quill.
Blood quills had been banned for a reason, most dark families didn't even mess with them. They were too far close to the horribly evil magic that no one in their right mind would touch, the kind that made horcruxes possible. He'd only used it that summer because it was necessary. Blood quills were capable of many things, most of them terrible, and this was just one of them. Torture. He was being tortured, again.
For a moment, Harry considered stopping. His hand throbbed, the pain sharp and unrelenting, but he wasn't about to let her win. She wanted to break him, to make him cry out or beg for mercy. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction. There was a darker reason, something that swam deep below the surface, a whispering enhanced by his locket. He deserved the pain.
Harry pressed the quill back to the parchment and began writing again. I must not tell lies.
The pain was worse this time, the words carving themselves into his skin with every stroke of the quill, nothing like signing his name with it. But Harry didn't flinch, didn't make a sound. He kept his breathing steady and his expression impassive, even as the cuts on his hand burned and throbbed.
He'd felt worse. His uncle had made sure of that. Voldemort had hammered it into him last year, hadn't he?
Harry's mind drifted, unbidden, to summers spent at the Dursleys'. To the sharp crack of his uncle's belt and the bruises that painted his skin in sickening shades of purple and yellow, to the cigarette and cigar burns that once littered his skin, the feeling of having his hair ripped out, of punches and kicks to his ribs, the sight of his blood on the floors and walls.. He'd learned early on that showing pain only made it worse. That silence and endurance were his best weapons. And now, sitting in Umbridge's office, he fell back on that same training, like a soldier. He was just a soldier, wasn't he? A soldier in a war he didn't want to participate in.
The room was silent except for the faint scratching of the quill on parchment. Harry didn't look up, but he could feel Umbridge's eyes on him, watching him intently. Waiting for him to crack.
He didn't.
The bond between him and Draco stirred faintly, like a quiet hum in the back of his mind. It wasn't much, but it was enough to ground him, to remind him that he wasn't alone. That he had people who cared about him, even if they couldn't be here now.
After what felt like an eternity, Umbridge's voice cut through the silence. "How are you finding your punishment, Mr. Potter?" She asked sweetly.
Harry didn't look up. "It's fine," He said evenly, his voice betraying none of the pain radiating from his hand. This was one of the things he expertised in.
Her smile faltered, just slightly. "Is that so?" She said, her tone a shade colder.
"Yes, Professor." He didn't stop writing, didn't give her the satisfaction of meeting her gaze just yet.
The quill bit into his skin with each line, the pain sharp and relentless, but Harry kept going. He refused to stop, refused to falter. Each line felt like a small victory, a silent declaration that she couldn't break him. That she never would. It was nothing compared to the things he did to himself.
Umbridge's cheerful facade began to crack as the minutes dragged on. She shifted in her chair, her smile growing tighter and more forced. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to cry, to beg for mercy, to give her the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. Instead, he sat there, calm and composed, as though the blood quill were no more than an ordinary writing tool.
"Perhaps you're not taking this seriously enough, Mr. Potter," She said, her voice icy. "Shall we continue for another hour?"
Harry finally looked up at her, his green eyes blazing with quiet defiance, not even a shred of pain in his gaze, just indifference. "If that's what you want, Professor."
Her smile twisted into a grimace, and for the first time, Harry saw real anger flash in her eyes. "Very well," She said tightly. "You may continue."
Harry did.
The cuts on his hand grew deeper with every line, the pain escalating until his entire arm throbbed. But he didn't stop. He wouldn't. Every word carved into his skin felt like a challenge, a reminder that he could endure this. That he'd survived worse. And with each line, he could feel Umbridge's frustration growing, her composure slipping.
By the time she finally ordered him to stop, Harry's hand was trembling, the words I must not tell liesetched into his skin over and over. He set the quill down carefully, ignoring the way his fingers ached, and looked up at her.
"You may go," She said curtly, her smile long gone.
Harry stood, his back straight and his head held high. He didn't look at his hand as he left the office, didn't let himself think about the pain. He'd won, and that was all that mattered.
—
He walked until he was in a small hidden corridor, leaning against the wall and clutching his shaking hand, looking at the damage. He did not cry, did not scream, he just observed the red and raw lines. He felt numb more than anything. He didn't know if it was him in shock, or the adrenaline.
The words I must not tell lies stood out starkly on Harry's hand, carved deep and angry into his flesh. Blood pooled in the fresh wounds, trickling down his fingers and staining his already battered knuckles, free to run now that it had nowhere else to go. He stared at it, his breath shallow and uneven, the weight of the moment settling in his chest like a stone. If he was a muggle, those deep cuts would have needed stitches.
It wasn't the worst thing he'd endured— not by a long shot. But it was different. Calculated. Cruel. Umbridge hadn't just wanted to punish him; she wanted to leave a mark, to make him feel small, powerless, and defeated.
And yet, he didn't. He'd refused to give her what she wanted, refused to cry out or flinch or let her see even a flicker of pain. He'd stared her down and come out of it standing. But now, away from her prying eyes, the reality of it hit him. The pain. The violation. The anger that simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over.
Harry slumped against the cold stone wall, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to steady his breathing. The bond with Draco stirred faintly in the back of his mind-a soft, reassuring him. He let it anchor him, just enough to stay sane.
He pulled his wand from his pocket with his uninjured hand, muttering a quiet "Tergeo." The charm siphoned away the blood, leaving his hand clean but still raw and aching. The words were still there, etched deep into his skin, and he knew they'd scar. He didn't bother trying to heal them further, didn't run to the hospital wing like he should have; he doubted Madam Pomfrey would ever miss the signs of a blood quill, but he didn't want to explain how he'd gotten them. If he spoke up, he knew nothing would really happen. It happened every year, and all it did was make it worse. No one ever believed him.
Instead, he wrapped his hand in a scrap of fabric torn from the hem of his shirt, tying it tightly around the wounds. It wasn't much, but it would hold until he could get back to the dormitory.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to push off the wall and stand upright. The pain was sharp and relentless, but he ignored it, just as he'd ignored Umbridge's smug, twisted smile and the way her voice dripped with malice. He'd faced worse before, and he would face worse again. This was just another battle in a war he hadn't chosen but couldn't escape.
Harry made his way through the dark, empty corridors, his footsteps soft against the stone floor. The castle seemed to hum around him, ancient and alive, and for once, he could actually feel that it was on his side. Like it understood what he was fighting against and encouraged the rebellion that stirred in his veins.
As Harry approached the steps that led up to the Gryffindor common room's entrance, he slowed his steps, exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders. The long walk from Umbridge's office had done little to cool his temper or soothe the aching throb in his hand, still tightly wrapped in the makeshift bandage. All he wanted was to go lay down in his bed, to escape, to maybe dream of something good and not that damn corridor.
He paused when he heard faint hums, whispers of voices that sounded like his friends waiting outside the portrait hole. His heart hammered in his chest as he remembered, he was supposed to talk to them tonight. He was supposed to speak to them, tell them about why he had been so trapped in his mind during the summer, why he had been so off and strange.. to let Ginny, Neville, Luna get a glimpse into his most vulnerable moments.. Harry couldn't help it. He panicked.
Harry began to run, run as fast as he could, as fast as his weak legs would take him. He ran and pleaded with the magic of the school, begging until he was doing nothing more than rambling in his own mind. Please, Harry cried out silently to the magic, please help me.
The castle answered.
The magic felt almost physical for a moment, a light pressure on his back as it led him to a thick wooden door, the door opening wide automatically and led him to a hidden corridor. He raced through, his breathing heavy but his mind full of rare euphoria as the adrenaline flowed through his veins. He burst through the tapestry that waited for him, drifting to a stop as he realized he was still on the seventh floor, but in a completely different area. He had burst through the giant tapestry of trolls doing ballet.
He frowned, he hadn't realized there was a passageway behind that tapestry, nor why it would lead to a seemingly empty hallway. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, the faint echoes of his footsteps fading into the silent corridor. Harry's hand was still throbbing, a sharp reminder of the lines Umbridge had forced him to carve into his skin, something he doesn't think he'll ever heal from. He clenched his fist and then winced, the pain radiating up his arm. His other hand instinctively brushed against the fabric of the tapestry, rough and old beneath his fingers. The trolls frozen mid-leap seemed absurdly out of place given the weight of the night. Still, Harry wasn't about to question it—not when it had given him an escape.
He leaned against the tapestry, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. The overwhelming need to run, to flee from his friends and their well-meaning concern, was starting to ebb. He hated himself for it. For panicking. For being too weak to face them. What kind of friend was he?
The thought of opening up—of telling Ginny, Neville, Luna, Ron, and Hermione even part of the truth—felt insurmountable. What could he say? How could he explain the weight pressing on his chest, the nightmares, the way everything inside him felt fractured and broken? How could he admit to them, people who only ever wanted to help, that he didn't know how to let them in without breaking apart entirely? That he was scared he'd lose them for real if he did?
The corridor was silent except for Harry's ragged breathing. He slid down to the floor, his back pressed to the cold stone wall. His makeshift bandage had loosened, and he quickly tightened it, avoiding looking at the angry red marks beneath.
His hand lingered for a moment on the locket around his neck, his fingers brushing over the smooth metal surface. Its presence felt heavier now than ever, the whispered promises of power and punishment always close. The locket made the anger in his chest sharper, the resentment clearer. It wasn't just Umbridge, or the Dursleys, or Dumbledore. It was everything. Everything he's gone through.
"I can't do this," He whispered aloud, his voice hoarse and barely audible in the quiet corridor. "Not tonight."
But he knew avoiding it wouldn't make it better. The panic attack had left his chest tight and his hands clammy, and now the silence felt oppressive. He rubbed his temples, the motion grounding him slightly. He couldn't afford to flame out at Hogwarts, it would just make everything worse.
The bond hummed faintly again, that strange, steady warmth from Draco's presence, even from afar. It reminded Harry of something solid, something unshakable. He thought of the cigarettes they've shared, the quiet moments they've had together, Draco's voice telling him they'd figure it out, that he wasn't alone. It was a comfort.
How could he trust Draco with so much, but his friends with so little? Draco knew about the phoenix that lived inside Harry, he knew about Lucrezia and her locket, the prophecy that declared him and Luna as the ones destined to destroy Voldemort and his horcruxes.. he knew about it all. But what did his friends know? The ones who he had fought monsters with? The ones who had been there for him through everything? They knew none of that. It was for their own safety, Harry had been sure of it, but he was losing that certainty. Should he just tell them?
I just want to be alone.
I just want to be alone.
I just want to be alone.
The castle's magic seemed to sense his turmoil. The air in the corridor shifted, the faint scent of old wood and dust giving way to something warm and soothing, almost like a freshly brewed cup of tea. Harry opened his eyes and found himself staring at a plain wooden door that hadn't been there before.
Cautiously, he stood, brushing himself off as he approached the door. The handle was cool beneath his fingers, and when he pushed it open, he found a small, cozy room waiting for him. It was nothing like Umbridge's office. The space was warm, filled with soft, golden light. A simple chair sat near a fireplace, and on the table beside it rested a steaming cup of tea and a small tin of biscuits.
Harry blinked in surprise, his panic momentarily forgotten. The room felt safe. Inviting. Like it was offering him a reprieve from everything outside.
He hesitated in the doorway before stepping inside, closing the door softly behind him. The tension in his chest eased as he sank into the chair, the warmth from the fire chasing away the chill that had somehow settled in his bones. He reached for the tea without thinking, letting the heat seep into his hands as he brought it to his lips.
For the first time that night, Harry felt himself exhale fully. Whatever this place was, it was exactly what he needed.
"Thank you," He murmured to the castle, the words slipping out unbidden. He wasn't sure if the magic understood or cared, but he felt lighter saying it.
The castle had given him a moment to breathe. He'd face his friends eventually. He'd figure out how to tell them the truth—at least some of it. But for now, he allowed himself to sit in the quiet, the warmth of the fire wrapping around him like a shield. He'd figure it out, he'd have to. One day at a time, one moment at a time.