Harry Potter sat on the edge of the bed that technically belonged to him now.
Technically.
Lily Evans—his real mother, not the memory in a mirror, not a dream, but alive, furious, brilliant, and suddenly omnipresent—had purchased the entire rowhouse three days after the Chamber of Secrets incident.
The healers had said Harry needed "a stable home environment."
Lily had taken that personally.
She had marched into the Ministry of magic to reapply her rights as a guardian, before marching like a vengeful spirit into privet drive to have a 'talk' with her sister.
What Lily didnt understand about the healers comment was that a darkness seemed to be growing within Harry, one that if left unchecked would further change his personality possibly making the carefree boy they knew disappear replaced by one far darker and malicious.
But that was that.
Harry hadn't stepped foot on Privet Drive since.
It should have felt like freedom.
But it didn't.
It felt like… a new cage.
A pretty one.
A loving one, maybe.
But still bars.
Still locked.
And in those first quiet weeks of June—Harry realized something he didn't want to admit:
This wasn't about love.
This was about fear.
Lily's fear.
Fear of losing him, like she'd lost everything else, and fear of a mysterious 'him' that she always seemed to reference when training Harry.
Fear that Harry wasn't ready.
Not strong enough.
A fear that Harry felt meant he still wasnt stronger than Cassius.
Harry squeezed his palms against his eyes.
Cassius.
Even thinking the name twisted his stomach.
Because no matter how he tried to frame it, no matter how he replayed the events of the Chamber, the truth was the same:
Cassius saved Ginny.
Cassius defeated Voldemort.
Cassius spared the basilisk.
Cassius disarmed him.
Cassius won.
Again.
And what had Harry done?
He'd run through corridors.
He'd been confused.
He'd been too slow to recognize the diary.
Too trusting with the wrong people.
Too blind until it was nearly too late.
Just like last year.
Again.
Always again.
Harry let himself fall back flat onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
His wand arm still ached faintly from where Cassius had struck him with that silent, brutal hex. A precision strike—meant to disarm, not injure.
Compassionate. Efficient. Devastating.
Cassius had looked at him—not cruelly, not arrogantly—but with an expression that stung far worse than mockery ever could:
Pity.
Harry Potter hated being pitied.
He hated it even more than he hated being beaten.
And he hated, with a quiet, aching shame, the part of himself that understood why Cassius had done what he'd done.
The basilisk wasn't a monster.
It was a prisoner.
Cassius saw that.
Harry had only seen a weapon.
He swallowed hard.
Why?
Why did Cassius always see more?
Why did he always get there first?
Why did everyone in Hogwarts look at Harry like he was some chosen hero, while Cassius—calm, brilliant, terrifyingly competent Cassius—was the one actually doing the saving?
The one Dumbledore whispered about with a strange mix of fascination and unease.
The one teachers watched out of the corners of their eyes.
The one who walked through school like he already understood it all.
Harry was the chosen one afterall!
His mother had told him the prophecy, he was the one fated to rise above all other and defeat the dark lord!
Not this... this... insignificant little busybody who kept getting in his way.
Harry clenched the sheets.
He wanted to be angry.
He wanted to hate Cassius.
But he couldn't.
Because Cassius wasn't cruel.
Cassius wasn't gloating.
Cassius wasn't trying to embarrass him.
If anything, Cassius treated him like—
Like Harry was the one who needed protecting.
Like he was his little brother or something.
And somehow… that was worse.
~
The door creaked open.
Harry sat up quickly.
Lily stood there, still in her Healers' robes—hair pulled back too tightly, eyes too bright, energy radiating off her in frantic waves.
She looked tired.
Not physically tired.
Emotionally exhausted in the way only someone burning themselves alive for another person ever looked.
"Harry," she breathed, stepping inside with a stack of books. "Good. You're awake."
"It's eight in the evening," Harry muttered.
"I know," Lily said briskly, depositing the books on his desk. "And we're behind schedule."
"Schedule?"
"Your remedial training."
Harry blinked.
"My what?"
Lily pressed her lips together.
"So much has been taken from you. So much you were denied. Things that should never have been withheld. Magic you should have been taught years ago. Skills you must have. Albus agrees, of course—he's already prepared the first-phase curriculum."
Harry felt his stomach drop.
"Dumbledore's… training me?"
"Of course he is," Lily said, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "He should have been doing so from the beginning."
She hesitated.
Then, softly:
"And if he had… maybe you wouldn't have been hurt so many times."
Harry looked away.
The room suddenly felt very small.
Very heavy.
Lily continued, pacing slightly:
"We're going to fix it, Harry. Everything Petunia tried to break in you will be rebuilt. You'll eat properly. You'll grow stronger. You'll exceed every expectation. You'll be safe. You'll be ready."
Ready for him.
She didn't say Voldemort's name, nor Cassius's.
She didn't have to.
Harry felt the prophecy press against the inside of his skull like a migraine.
"Tomorrow morning," Lily said, "your training begins. Occlumency basics. Magical theory reinforcement. Conditioning. Spell repetition until it's muscle memory. Albus thinks you have tremendous potential—untapped potential. Once sharpened, once guided, Harry, you'll—"
"Become a weapon?" Harry whispered.
Lily froze.
The silence was deafening.
"Harry," she said, coming to sit beside him, voice trembling, "I'm doing this for you. To keep you alive."
"I know," he said.
And he did.
And somehow, that made it harder.
~
When Lily finally left the room, Harry stared at the stack of books.
Advanced Defensive Spellcraft
Occlumency for Beginners
Applied Magical Reflexes
Tactical Dueling Frameworks
The Nature of Magical Will
His hand hovered over them—
—but then he pulled it back.
He lay down again.
Staring up at the ceiling.
His life had gotten better, he'd gotten everything he could wish for.
A mother who loved him, a teacher recognized as the strongest in the world mentoring him.
But even still after two years of school a part of himself that had been developing persisted.
His friendship with Ronald Weasley had made Harry lazy.
Study for hours on end... why?
He wasnt a Ravenclaw afterall.
It would be better if it was just endless dueling practice with Dumbledore!
That's how a secret Griffindor like him should train, to hell with Slytherin.
In his heart he felt the hat had sorted him wrong, he should be a griffindor like his parents, so he could be with his only friend, and escape the prejudice of the other students and even head of house.