LAST TIME: Harry had his first Quidditch meeting, where we met the other members of the Quidditch team: Leo Piper and Matthew Stein. The meeting was awkward, but Harry got invited to his first big party! After attempting to ask Orion to be his plus one, Harry was left to ask his second choice: (poor) Tom. Tom lent Harry has scarf (very important point) as they headed down to the lake together. Chloe sent Harry to meet Septimus Weasley (a big fan of Harry) and Artemis Potter, who Harry helped out of a panic attack and then realised she was related to him, prompting a 'moment'. Harry bumped into Tom tormenting a couple, and then they rushed in the directions of Bea's screams, who was handling herself fine but appreciated the help. We learnt that she was sexually assaulted by Leon Smith, and Tom takes control of the situation, as the group took Smith back to the castle and surrendered him to the authority of the school.

Halloween rushed towards Harry and his housemates and, before they knew it, they were gathered around the fire in the common room, the aftermaths of the Halloween feast resting warmly in their stomachs.

If only the atmosphere had sat as comfortably.

The flickering fire beat shadows into the creases of Orion's frown, and everyone- even Rupert- seemed to remember how much Orion's life had changed since Halloween last year. It was… dispiriting.

Rupert cleared his throat and- trying for some light-heartedness- turned his attention to Atticus. "So how come you aren't slinking off home for Halloween? Daddy not in the mood for entertaining?"

"Just because your mother's all about 'entertainment'," Atticus said loftily, "doesn't mean you should cast aspersions on my family. And if you must know, my father's in Sweden, visiting the minister. And they don't follow rituals in Sweden, thus…" Atticus gestured, "My present company."

"The Swedish minister?" Rupert sniggered.

"Yes. What's wrong with that?"

"Not very impressive, is it? The Swedish minister? When was the last time Sweden made any kind of important contribution to the magical community?"

Harry's immediate thought was 'IKEA', but he didn't think that would be appreciated. Did they even have IKEA now? Was there a magical IKEA? He imagined it: IKEA, but with moving passageways and expansion spells.

"What does your father actually do, Atticus?" Harry asked curiously.

"Political advisor," Atticus sniffed.

"Only he's a pretty shit one," Rupert added cheerily. "And after he lost Spencer-Moon the Quidditch bill, they couldn't kick him out of the British ministry fast enough."

"He just made a mistake," Atticus hissed.

"Quidditch bill?" Harry said.

Rupert stretched back in his chair, yawning. "The Minister wanted to limit the length of a Quidditch match. Said they're a waste of resources. But Atticus' daddy dearest didn't 'pitch' it well." Rupert chortled, egged on by the anger stealing over Atticus' features.

"Do you think she's doing a Dead Man's Fire?" Orion murmured quietly, but there wasn't a person amongst their little gathering that didn't hear. Atticus and Rupert's little tiff was forgotten. "Without me."

"Yes, she is," Cassius agreed. "With your family actually. And her mother."

"Oh," fell from Orion's lips like a little puff of air. "Oh. She probably wants to talk to Apus."

"Yes."

"Is she… is she happy?"

"Is anyone?" Cassius asked, a little smirk twisting his lip.

Tom snorted condescendingly, but Orion ignored him. "What's she doing?"

Cassius leaned back, closing his eyes in some kind of farcical 'preparation' but Harry was perfectly aware that Cassius had his answer prepared, probably twisted to hurt Orion the most he possibly could. Harry wanted to step in, but he didn't think Orion would like it. Letting Cassius speak, however, felt rather like letting a rabid dog off his leash.

Nevertheless, Cassius spoke. "They're sitting around the fire now. It's burning already, flickering hot and cold interchangeably; burns soothed with ice. She's started the ritual; the Mullein's burning. She breathes in deep; and as the smoke presses against the walls of her lungs, a hand comes to rest on her shoulder. He's here, draping himself over her shoulder, and the fire swells and dies away with every heave of her chest. A distant scream tugs her eyes open and in the fire she sees the future she could have had; soft curves and floral scents intermingled, and the wild hair of a lioness. Her nails dig into the floorboard, catching on a balanced etching. The flames surge and break through the silence: one final bright explosion of light and hope before it dwindles and sinks into ashes. Wide eyes and quick breathing, but the Black queen just cries. Cries and cries and-"

"Quite an imagination you have there," Tom said evenly.

Harry glanced to his right, having completely forgotten that anything existed other than Cassius and the picture he was painting. He felt slow and out of place, like he'd been awakened quickly from a deep dream. His eyelids were so heavy.

Tom looked unaffected. Orion looked heart-broken.

And that was when Caspar Grahams decided to pop in. "Hello everyone," he said, jumping onto a sofa with a grin. "You all look rather glum."

Cassius rose to his feet. "How silly of me. I completely forgot I was meant to be meeting with Druella. I'm late." He slinked towards the portrait hole and glanced back with a funny little smile. "Goodnight."

And he was gone.

"Freak," Rupert chuckled uneasily, all traces of drowsy superiority vanished.

"Cassius enjoys unsettling people," Tom said logically, and Harry suddenly noticed how close together they were pressed. "It's probably a little Halloween prank."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Cassius is a right nutter."

"We should have some confectionaries," Tom decided. "It is Halloween, after all."

He looked pointedly at Atticus, who obediently reached under his armchair and withdrew a pouch of Honeyduke's finest. Rupert and Atticus dived in eagerly and Tom took a toffee, but Orion was unmoving.

"I think I'd better take Orion up to the dormitory," Harry said. "We have plans early tomorrow."

"What kind of plans?" Tom asked.

"Well, it's my first Quidditch match," Harry said, feeling a little stone of anxiety drop in his stomach even as he said the words. "I want to warm up."

"What time?"

"You'll come?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Of course," Tom said. "I have to be there for the Slytherin win, after all."

"You bastard," Harry laughed delightedly. "It's at ten thirty."

"I'll see you there."

Harry bid them goodnight and took Orion's arm to lead him up the stairs, just hearing Graham's faint complaint: "I feel like I've missed something," as he went. Orion was absent, barely blinking as if he could see Walburga even from miles away. Once they reached the dormitories, Harry had to manipulate Orion so he was sitting on the bed, where he took off Orion's shoes and his jumper. He reckoned Orion could deal with sleeping in his trousers and shirt.

Just as Harry patted Orion on the knee and went to get up, Orion's hand shot out and grabbed Harry's wrist. Harry's gaze flickered to his captured limb and then Orion's face, frowning in concern. "Do you need-?"

And then Orion's mouth was over his. Harry's mind shut down at the sudden assault, his eyes flying open in shock and then automatically fluttering closed. The contact was kind of nice- it had been so long since he'd had any kind of intimacy past a brief friendly hug. It wouldn't hurt to just let go. Harry leaned into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Orion and for a moment they breathed as one.

That was when the door opened. The pair broke apart, but they weren't quick enough to hide their actions from Grahams, who promptly turned a very strong shade of red and rushed out of the room.

"Wait, no-!" Harry yelled out and he charged after Grahams. Luckily, the boy had barely gotten down the stairs when Harry grabbed hold of his shoulders and slammed him back against the wall.

"You were kissing Orion," Grahams squeaked.

"Look, Orion's going through something right now," Harry said intensely. "I won't explain, but it's not what it looks like. So keep quiet, alright?"

Grahams squeaked again, and Harry pushed him harder. "Not. A. Word."

Grahams nodded and, reluctantly, Harry let him go. He watched Grahams scurry down the stairs with a pensive frown, and then went back into the dormitories. Orion sat in the same spot- Harry didn't think he'd moved at all- and now that Harry was a little more put together (and with a healthy dose of embarrassment), he could see the distant glaze to Orion's eyes and the desperation in every tremble of his body.

"Oh, Orion," Harry said and sat back on the bed: a healthy distance away.

"No-" Orion said, moving to follow him, but Harry put up a hand.

"You don't want me," Harry said firmly. "You don't. So don't do this. You two said you'd sort it out, remember?"

Orion laughed bitterly. "We're children. We can't sort out anything."

"You'll have help."

"But she doesn't want me. No one wants me."

"I want you- but not like this," Harry said quickly, seeing Orion start to approach again. "And Rigel wants you. He loves you."

"Rigel's going to die. It's only a matter of time."

"Don't talk like that," Harry said firmly. "Just- just go to bed, okay? It'll look better in the morning."

Orion snorted, but he shuffled back and buried beneath his duvet. With his black hair spilling onto the cream of the pillow and his skin almost as white, he looked just like a painting that Aunt Petunia had inherited from some great-aunt: a cherubic boy lying sleeping (or dead, Harry had thought when he was younger) in a field, white scraps of clothing scattered around his body. Petunia had declared it 'obscene' and hidden it away in the attic.

Harry hesitated, leant over Orion and memorised every line of his face, committing it to memory. And then he pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "So many people would love you," he promised. "So many."

Harry walked back over to his bed and stood still for a moment, his fist tightening, before he sighed and started to get ready for bed.

The next morning, it was almost like Orion had forgotten that anything had happened at all. They went and flew around the Quidditch pitch for a little while, Harry trying desperately to calm the nervous flutter in his stomach, a little about the match, but mostly about Orion. If you looked at him in the light of the early morning sunrise: giggling and swooping around a hoop for some reason ('pretending to be a quaffle', apparently), you'd have hardly known that he had any worries at all. Harry knew that wasn't true.

His worry for Orion carried him through breakfast and down towards the changing rooms. Harry would admit that it was still very odd to be changing into a Slytherin uniform; but it was also almost natural. He supposed he didn't really think of himself fully as a Gryffindor anymore.

"We're hopefully going to do really well," Chloe told the team, in possibly the least convincing 'big speech' Harry had ever heard. She looked terrified: face bleached of all colour. The team also looked less than buoyed.

"No, we're going to kick their arses," Bea asserted, and that was much better received. They walked onto the pitch with Bea's words echoing through their heads: "We're better than all of them. Peters is good, Babbage is good, the rest of you are adequate, and I'm fucking fantastic. No one can beat us."

And she was right.

They flew an almost perfect game if Harry did say so himself. Chloe proved her worth on the pitch even if she wasn't a shining beacon of leadership. Her tactics worked almost perfectly, using all array of sneaky Slytherin cuuning to distract chasers with bludgers and meanwhile pass the quaffle towards the hoops. And apparently there were no rules against aiming bludgers at keepers, which Chloe used to her advantage excellently: as the Hufflepuff keeper went automatically to catch it and was sent crashing backwards into the side of a hoop. The Hufflepuffs brought in their reserve: a timid little third year who flinched whenever the crowd made a loud noise. Bea was predictably excellent: only letting through a quaffle once, and then using the rage from her failure to make three saves in quick succession.

And Harry did his job, finally catching the snitch after 20 minutes.

The Slytherin stands went wild. Harry thought he might have seen Slughorn jump into Dumbledore's arms in his triumph.

"Quickest game in years," Chloe told Harry excitedly, punching the air to more cheers and whoops. Harry was a little surprised- 20 minutes was a pretty normal time in the future, but perhaps Quidditch had gotten better over the years. He thought Hermione had said something about sports doing that.

As the teams began to trail towards the exit, students flooded onto the pitch; mostly friends of the teammates, but a few excited little first years were caught up in the flow. Harry rolled his eyes and began to push through, but he was stopped by another hand on his wrist ('second time in 24 hours', he mused) and turned around with Orion's name already on his tongue.

But it wasn't Orion.

"Oh," Harry blinked. "Septimus."

"Hello," Septimus Weasley said eagerly. "You were amazing. I know you'd be good but- wow. Wow."

"Okay," Harry agreed. "Shouldn't you be consoling the Hufflepuffs? Apparently the Slytherins get Ravenclaw and you lot get Hufflepuff."

"Why would I do that?" Septimus frowned. "They played poorly and they lost. Rightfully so."

"Oh." Harry shifted back, letting a younger girl push past him. "Right. Okay then."

"All this 'houses united against one another' thing is just nonsense. We're all people, aren't we?"

"Right. Yeah. I agree," Harry said, gazing at Septimus with slight wonderment. Septimus Weasley might be genuinely good. That was a rare thing to see these days.

"Anyway, I was just wondering- bit silly, I know, but I thought I'd try- would you, maybe… there's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up."

"There is."

"…Do you want to go?"

Harry shrugged. "Well yeah, I was planning on it."

"I meant… do you want to go with someone?"

"I wouldn't object," Harry said thoughtfully, for some reason, dark hair and green robes coming into mind.

"Do you want to go with me?"

Ah. It suddenly occurred to Harry that he'd been a little obtuse. "With… you?"

"On a date sort of thing, yes."

Honestly, what was it about Harry recently? Did someone spill a love potion on him or something?

"Right." Harry inspected Septimus carefully. There was something comforting about his complete Gryffindorishness, and he was good and kind and he seemed to like Harry with no ulterior motives involved. There were no games. They wouldn't be getting married or anything, but it might be nice. "Okay," he agreed.

"That's okay, I didn't think you'd- oh." Septimus perked up. "Really? You said yes?"

"Sure," Harry shrugged. "Can't hurt. I'll meet you in the entrance hall? Nine?

"Okay," Septimus agreed eagerly, and he reached out as if to touch Harry, but thought better of it. "I'll see you then."

He hurried back to Artemis with a spring in his step, and the pair disappeared towards the castle. Harry glanced around the pitch, seeing that all the other Slytherins had headed back to the changing rooms. He reached down to unbutton his gloves, a seam itching irritatingly at his hand.

"Harrison," a voice from behind Harry had him jumping and spinning, his heart pounding.

"Fucking hell, Tom," he panted, putting a hand up to his chest. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Surely not," Tom said. "How would the Slytherin team cope?"

"You always sneak up on me."

"So you should probably be used to it by now."

"Bastard," Harry said fondly.

"I'm not sure I entirely appreciate that increasingly frequent nickname-"

"Tough, it's stuck now. So…" Harry's breath suddenly felt very tight. "What did you think? Of the match?"

"You were very good," Tom allowed. "I still can't say I particularly enjoy the game, but you were good. Excellent, in fact."

"Thanks." Harry grinned, warmth prickling up his spine.

"So what did the Septimus boy want?"

Harry took an uncertain step back, spotting something suddenly dark and- not dangerous, exactly, but close- in Tom's eyes. "Oh. He, er, invited me to Hogsmeade."

"You two are getting awfully friendly. A getting-to-know-one-another outing?"

"I think it's a date."

"You don't sound very sure." Tom smiled thinly.

"Well, it was a bit unexpected. I didn't think he… er, liked me." And then Harry's mouth was running away with him. "I mean, I knew he liked me, just… not like that. I'm not sure anyone's ever really liked me like that. Not for me, at least, there was this thing, back home- where I'm from, I mean- that meant that maybe some people liked me, but it wasn't real-"

"I'm sure it was," Tom said, very quietly. "You're not unattractive and you are, objectively, a good person."

"Thanks," Harry snorted. "Piling on the compliments."

"You can certainly do better than Weasley," Tom said. He seemed casual on the surface, but the way he watched Harry from the corner of his eye was anything but.

"Septimus is nice," Harry said defensively. "He's… nice."

"Is that the only thing you can say about him? 'Nice'?"

"Well, he is." Harry felt indignant, yes- Septimus was a perfectly lovely person, from what he could tell- but there was also an odd, satisfied spark in his chest every time Tom insulted Septimus. It was kind of awful.

"He's blander than white rice. And he nearly ejaculates every time you so much as look his way-"

"Tom!"

"It's true," Tom shrugged. "I don't think you should go to Hogsmeade."

"What, just not turn up or something?" Harry crossed his arms; the image of incredulousness.

"It's not like he'll object, is it? He'll probably curtsy and thank you for your time."

"Tom." Harry chucked a glove. It hit Tom in the chest, but he didn't even falter, just kept his funny little smirk.

"You're not denying it," he said smugly.

"I'm not abandoning Septimus. What else am I supposed to do next weekend? Sit in the library and stew in loneliness?"

"You could-" Tom paused, evidently rethinking what he was going to say. "You could…" He sighed heavily. "Septimus Weasley," Tom said, finally. "Really."

"He likes me," Harry said with a loose shrug, and tilted his head curiously as Tom raised his wand and pointed it at Harry, doing a complicated twirling sort of motion. "What's that for?"

Tom shook his head slowly, repeating the action again with concentration. "No kind of mind influencers or love potions- or a confundus…"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, piss off. He's nice."

"You said. Repeatedly."

Harry threw his other glove at Tom, but this one was deftly caught. Tom looked faintly amused.

"Feeling violent?"

Harry shivered and rubbed his hands together. He wanted to get inside. "Put the gloves on my bed, would you? I'm going to get changed."

"Try not to pick up anymore suitors on the way."

"Honestly, Riddle, anyone would think you're jealous."

"And they'd be wrong," Tom said breezily.

Harry suddenly found it a little difficult to conjure a genuine smile, but he didn't know why (yes, he was attracted to Tom, he could acknowledge that, but he didn't want to date him.) And so he backed away, offering a quick wave, and fled back to the changing rooms.

Harry showered quickly, a sort of odd buzzing underneath his skin. Everyone else had already gotten ready, and he peered around the empty space curiously. First time alone in the Slytherin changing room. It was more luxurious than the Gryffindor one, he thought, wrapping a towel around his waist and wiping the steam from his glasses as he set them back onto his nose. The shower units were proper private cubicles and everything, with long sweeping dividers and cold white marble.

The tiles on the ceiling were nice, he noticed. Green, of course, with little specs of sparkling black and silver. And before he could call for help, a familiar sensation was grasping at his lungs, sending little tongues of icy fire licking along his veins. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't look away, and he'd forgotten how awful this felt and it was awful- he felt like he was dying. And he was on his knees, the stone cold on his knees, but he couldn't move or stand up why couldn't he stand up, there was earth packed around him and now sheets, soft and warm-

"Harrison?"

And then a hand on his shoulder, and Harry was taking deep, shuddering breaths, gulping in air like it was- well, like it was oxygen. He pressed his sweaty forehead to the ground, the chill like a balm for his pacing heartbeat. He glanced up and caught a glimpse of wide eyes and soft curls. "Bea," he managed to gasp.

"Don't talk, idiot," she said sharply. "Take a minute, or whatever. You're lucky I came back to look for you. Chloe's already drunk."

"Drunk?" Harry muttered.

"Party. Dolohov's doing, I think. You two are friends, aren't you? Don't talk." Bea's face twisted, as if she couldn't understand why anyone would choose to associate with Rupert.

Harry snorted, but heeded Bea's advice. They sat in silence for what Harry reckoned was about ten minutes, though he really couldn't tell. It was quiet and seemed to stretch out into eternity, but by the end he could at least talk without feeling like his lungs were filled with water.

"Don't think I'm helping you because I'm nice, or something," Bea said suddenly. "It's just because you helped me. Nothing else."

"How are you?" Harry asked delicately. He hadn't seen much of Bea outside practise since the incident. "Recovering?"

"I'm not fragile," Bea sniffed. "Smith was expelled and facing possible charges. The situation was handled."

Harry had been pretty surprised when Dumbledore and Dippet believed Bea's account without question. Harry had thought his shaky standing with the Transfigurations Professor might cause doubt, but if anything, Dumbledore seemed to completely ignore Harry's presence. And once Bea provided memory evidence, Leon Smith was as good as doomed. It had been… not nice, exactly, but satisfying.

"You're not a 'situation'," Harry said strongly. "You're a human being. You went through something traumatic-"

"I won."

Harry pursed his lips, but kept quiet. He did the same thing: never mind that he burnt a man's face off, they saved the Philosopher's stone! Yes, he died for a minute, but Dobby was happy! His godfather was free, even if Harry wasn't. Cedric died, but… no, that had been a pretty bleak year.

"You know you can talk to me if you need anything," Harry told her.

"I won't," she said shortly. She gestured to Harry's shaking hands. "Does this happen often?"

"That's… that was the worst it's ever been."

"What is it?"

"I don't know," Harry shrugged. "Been happening since the attack. On my village. But it passes quickly. See?" He raised his hands, now steady. "All better."

"Good," Bea frowned, inspecting Harry. "You can walk to the hospital wing then."

Harry's gaze shot up quickly, and he shook his head. "That's not happening."

Bea grunted in faint disgust. "Don't be a fucking nitwit. It's what the hospital wing's for."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"You can tell that to Madam Hallpepper. Unless you're a fully qualified medic and you just never mentioned it."

"Surprise," Harry said weakly, but he didn't really have the energy to fight. And he probably should see if there was something wrong with him. He slumped under Bea's scrutiny, and nodded in silent agreement.

"Come on then, get up. No time to lose. Up!"

Harry struggled to his feet, and as he did, he felt a strong breeze around areas not often exposed to breeze. He froze. "…Bea, am I still wearing a towel?"

"No."

"Have I been wearing it for any of the time you've been here?"

"No."

"Great. Just great."

"I'll allow time to put on some clothes."

"Thanks."

"You're completely fine."

Harry grinned triumphantly, and Bea rolled her eyes.

Hallpepper peered at the two curiously. "Is there any reason why you wanted a check-up, Peters? From what I can tell you're perfectly healthy: normal blood sugar levels, fit, good heartbeat."

"He had a fucking fit," Bea said.

Hallpepper frowned. "You did? Well, that shouldn't have happened. What kind of fit?"

"He went grey and sort of shaky. It's like he was burning up."

"It's just a breathing thing," Harry said dismissively. "It's fine."

"I'll be the judge of that," Hallpepper said firmly, and scowled down at him. "What did it feel like?"

"Like I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move… it was like I was frozen," Harry muttered.

Hallpepper planted a hand on her hip and squinted. "It's likely just stress. Have you been sleeping well?"

Harry stayed strategically silent. He didn't think he'd ever had a good night's sleep in his life.

"I'll keep you overnight so you can have some peace and quiet, and you can go tomorrow if you promise to tell me if something like this happens again. Deal?"

Harry nodded.

"Good," Hallpepper nodded briskly. "I'll get you some pyjamas."

Bea watched with a sneer as the matron left. "Old bat," she muttered. "That wasn't stress. You're not stressed."

Harry shrugged. "I am. Pretty constantly, actually."

Bea let out a loud exhale of frustration and growled something that sounded an awful lot like 'fuckers'. She glared. "If you won't listen, don't blame me when you drop dead. I don't even care!" And she stormed out.

Harry sighed and settled down for a long night. Which was when a tall figure fell through the door of the hospital wing.

"Oh dear!" Hallpepper tutted, appearing from nowhere. "What have you done this time?"

"Oh, er," the figure muttered, and Harry recognised with shock the undisguisable voice of Rubeus Hagrid. "I got mesself bit again."

"What was it this time? Grindylow? Pixie?"

"Spider." Hagrid held out his arm and Hallpepper stepped closer, letting out a little hiss.

"Spider?" she asked, and Harry could hear the doubt from across the room.

"A big spider," Hagrid said helpfully.

Hallpepper sighed. "I'll fetch the anti-venom."

As she moved away, Harry let out a sympathetic wince. Right in the middle of Hagrid's forearm were two puncture marks: large and deep, that Harry recognised from his own leg after the Triwizard Tournament.

"Your acromantula…" Harry said quietly. Of course. Without Tom's interference, Aragog was still secreted away within the castle.

Hagrid's eyes snapped to him immediately. "Yeh've seen 'im?"

Harry remembered how very rubbish Hagrid was at keeping secrets.

"I mean, er," Hagrid backtracked. "What's an acromantula?"

It was possibly the worst cover-up Harry had ever heard.

"I recognise the bite," Harry said, nodding towards Hagrid's arm. "I've got an interest."

"Yeh like acromantualas?" Hagrid asked uncertainly.

Harry paused- what was a very Hagrid thing to say? "Of course. Beautiful, aren't they?"

Hagrid took a nearby seat in excitement, his arm apparently forgotten. "Oh, gorgeous. Aragog, why, he's only a little thing but he's magnificen'. Bes' thin' I ever had."

Hagrid's eyes had lit up. It was odd: the kindness was still there, but they were young and bright and so very unfamiliar. Seeing them felt rather like somebody had died. Harry supposed that also meant someone had been born; someone new and fresh and untainted by the prejudices of the wizarding world. If he could only preserve it…

"You know, most people don't see it like that. They don't like the unordinary or the different," Harry began.

"I know," Hagrid said. "'s cruel, tha's what it is."

"And so perhaps- if you have a friend as magnificent as Aragog, it might be a better idea for him to go into the forest. Where you can visit, but he's less likely to be found."

"But nothin's gonna happen to 'im here," Hagrid said, frowning. "I keep 'im safe."

"But what if he escaped?" Harry suggested carefully. "Just to explore. It's natural, but he could be in danger."

"I 'spose…"

"And he could have a family in the forest."

"Tha'd be nice," Hagrid agreed, his eyes glistening.

Harry recognised the signs of incoming tears, and said quickly, "Just something to think about."

Hagrid nodded, and the two sat in silence for a moment.

"So why're yeh in here?"

"Oh, I'm dying," Harry said very seriously.

And Hagrid began sobbing.

"I'm joking!" Harry flapped his hands in a bit of panic. "It's just a stress thing- no, don't do that-" Harry squeezed his eyes shut as Hagrid blew his nose on a nearby doily.

"'S jus' such a sad thought," Hagrid said mournfully. "And yeh've bin so nice-"

"It was a joke," Harry said weakly. "Promise."

Hagrid clapped a large hand on Harry's shoulder, and Harry nearly collapsed under the weight. Hagrid may have been smaller than Harry remembered, but he was still twice Harry's size.

"Yeh can come an' see 'im, if you wan'," Hagrid suggested.

"Him?"

"Aragog."

"Oh." Time to backtrack. "Er, I have more of an aesthetic appreciation? I'm, um, pretty scared of spiders, actually." Harry internally punched himself. What the hell was that?

Hagrid seemed to buy it. "Yeah, there's a lotta people who find 'em a mite scary. But he's a real softie, promise. He can't see properly, yeh know- they can't till they're at leas' five. Tha's why he bit me arm. He didn' know better."

"It looks bad," Harry said, trying to be tactful. He had never quite shared in Hagrid's belief that every vicious animal was just misunderstood.

"'S nothin'," Hagrid shrugged, howled with pain at the movement, and then grinned. "'Sides, Millie'll fix me up good and proper."

"Millie?"

"That's Madam Hallpepper to you two," the Matron said, sternly placing a vial on the side table. "Rubeus, knock that back. Try not to taste it."

Hagrid reached out a huge hand and picked up the vial. It disappeared into the folds of his palm, and he raised his hand to his mouth. Hagrid swallowed, then rolled his shoulder.

"Oo, lovely," Hagrid mumbled. "Tha'll sort it out. Thanks Millie."

"Madam Hallpepper," she reminded him, and flapped her hands dismissively. "Oh, get out. It'll be sorted out in the morning. And for heaven's sake, stop playing around with beasts- danger classifications are there for a reason!"

"They're a suggestion, aren't they?" Hagrid said cheekily.

Hallpepper rolled her eyes, and Hagrid scampered out obediently.

"Utter nightmare," Hallpepper mumbled fondly. "That heart of his will get him into trouble one of these days."

"I think he'll be alright," Harry said, and tightened his fists hopefully.

"Right, Peters, into your pyjamas."

"It's 2 o'clock! In the afternoon!"

"And?"

Sigh. "Yes, Madam Hallpepper."

Harry rather enjoyed his night in the hospital wing. He did some homework, took a Dreamless Sleep Potion, and woke up satisfyingly well-rested. And so all-in-all, he was feeling pretty well-prepared and clear-headed when Tom strode in, just as Harry was getting ready to leave.

"Yeah?" Harry asked, pausing in pulling on his shirt.

Tom paused abruptly. He didn't say anything, and the oddest expression slid onto his face.

"Tom?" Harry frowned, and began doing up his buttons.

Tom's head moved- it might have been a miniscule shake- and he cleared his throat. "I heard you fainted."

"It was a fit. A manly fit."

Tom smirked. "Swooned like sleeping beauty."

"Shut up."

Tom gestured towards Harry's chest, and he glanced down. "Oh yeah," Harry said. "Buttons." And he did up the rest.

"Was this the same 'manly fit' as in the summer? When we met outside the or- house."

"Yeah," Harry said. "It was a bit worse this time- nothing I couldn't handle, though."

"Very brave."

"Shut up. Again."

"What did Madam Hallpepper say it was caused by?"

"Stress."

"Stress?" Tom looked unconvinced.

"Yeah, Bea didn't much believe that either."

"I'm not surprised."

"I'm supposed to come back if it gets worse."

"That's the least she can do."

Harry shrugged and began tugging on his socks.

Tom crossed his arms. "Has Weasley been by yet? Crying over your prone body? Kissing you awake-"

"Look, can we stop with the sleeping beauty thing?"

"Certainly." Pause. "So where's Prince Charming then?"

"He's not-" Harry sighed. "We haven't even gone to Hogsmeade yet."

"But who am I to stand in the way of true love's kiss?"

"You do realise you're not twelve, Tom." Harry scowled up at the Head Boy. He didn't know why Tom was being so weird about all of this. He inspected Tom closer, taking in his tense body language and blank expression, but that unfamiliar something in the set of his eyebrows. Vulnerability, maybe.

Perhaps- and it seemed ridiculous as Harry suggested it even to himself- Tom was feeling insecure. Tom didn't have that many… friends (or whatever he and Tom were; somewhere between closeness and rivalry), and perhaps he was afraid Harry would like Septimus better, or something ridiculous like that.

"Did you, er," Harry slipped on a shoe, "want to go and see something with me? I mean, you might already know about it, but I think you'd like it."

"By all means," Tom said, inclining his head.

"Right. Good." Harry stood. "Let's go then."

"…Do you maybe want to put on your other shoe first?"

"Yeah, good idea."

As Harrison led him up to the seventh-floor and a familiar corridor, it didn't take long for Tom to remember searching for the Come and Go Room last year to no avail. He was suddenly gripped with certainty that Harrison was going to lead him right to the same spot and the wall would slide open effortlessly.

He was right.

"This is the Room of Requirement," Harrison said, beaming. "You pace back and forwards three times and think of whatever you want, and the room will provide."

Half of Tom wanted to complain- why had the room worked for Harrison and not Tom all those months ago? What did Tom do wrong? -but a louder part of Tom couldn't forget Harrison, trusting and half-dressed, and now showing Tom all these secrets: no one else.

"So how does it work?" Tom asked curiously, glancing around. Harrison appeared to have chosen something cosy for the two of them; furnished with tattered sofas and armchairs draped with soft crimson furnishings, and a crackling fire (which Tom swore he kept seeing the outline of a face in). "Does the room have a fixed mass which changes its shape, in which case what happens to items left in here, or does it summon the needed items from other locations? Or are there a million variations of different rooms stored somewhere? Are they all in the same dimension-?"

"I don't really know," Harrison said thoughtfully. "It just sort of works."

"Honestly," Tom rolled his eyes, fonder than he'd allowed for anyone else. "No imagination."

"I have imagination!" Harrison protested. "Just… not about rooms."

"It's fascinating magic. I'd love to investigate it," Tom said, his fingers just itching to cast some diagnostics.

Harrison watched Tom with something like wonder. "Why do you only want to be a teacher, Tom? You could change the world. In a good way."

"Teachers are powerful," Tom argued. "Change the children, change the world."

"I just don't think you'd like it. You're good at teaching people you like, Tom," Harrison said. "You can't stand helping Avery with his homework. Sure, you might be good- and believe me, you're really good- at helping me, but can you honestly say that you could bear to teach a class full of Caspar Grahams day in and day out?"

Tom kept stubbornly silent, but it did set his mind whirring. It was true: he loathed most people. Time for a change of subject. "How did you find this place?"

"Oh, a house elf showed me." Harrison smiled distantly. Tom's lip curled; he couldn't imagine how an interaction with a house elf could cause so much nostalgia.

"What did you use it for?"

"Escape. No offence, but you and the others were… quite intense, near the start. I wasn't totally stable, either."

Tom kept his doubts about Harrison's currently stability to himself: remembering how he'd retched and shook outside Wool's in the summer heat.

"And how did you get the room to work?" Tom hesitated, and then admitted reluctantly: "I tried sometime last year."

"Oh, I was probably in it that time," Harrison admitted sheepishly. "The room doesn't work if someone's already in it."

"Of course." Tom should have thought of that. "I'll admit it's a relief. I thought I'd failed somehow."

"Would it really be that bad if you had?"

The pair drifted gradually towards the armchairs and took seats opposite one another.

"I don't like failure," Tom said quietly. "It's weakness. Like… admitting you don't-"

"-Belong?" Harrison suggested, quirking a smirk.

"I suppose."

"Look," Harrison ran a hand through his hair. "This is possibly the soppiest thing I've ever said, but... it only matters if the people who you care about think you belong. Everyone else can fuck off. And if people care about you- as sugary as it sounds- they won't care if you fail."

"That's very idealistic," Tom said.

"It's true, though."

"It matters what people think of you," Tom insisted. "Power and weakness; the unspoken language we use every day and never realise it. The invisible dogs at our heels."

Harrison turned his head away. Tom wondered what he was thinking- could he see something?

"So have you been looking at methods, you know, other than Horcruxes?" Harrison asked faux-casually, but Tom could hear the intensity. This was a test, he realised.

Tom nodded in agreement, and Harrison relaxed. Tom had apparently passed.

"Like what?"

"Have you heard of the Deathly Hallows?"

"No."

"I thought they were a myth- I rather still think that, actually- but there are clues throughout history. Footnotes. Suggestions that they might exist."

"But what are they?"

Tom leaned in conspiratorially. "They originate from The Tale of the Three Brothers. It describes three siblings- Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus- who, whilst travelling together, came across a river where many had perished before. And as they were skilled in magic, they made a bridge-"

"'Skilled in magic'? Really? It's a bridge."

"It's a metaphor," Tom said sharply.

"Right. Sorry."

"Anyway, as they crossed the bridge and escaped Death's grasp, he appeared to them-"

"What, the actual Death?"

"Yes, the actual Death, are you going to let me finish or not?"

"Sorry."

"As a reward, he granted them each a wish-"

"-I can't believe Death's a fairy godmother-"

"-And so to each brother he gave, respectively, an unbeatable wand, a stone which could resurrect the dead, and an invisibility cloak so perfect it could hide the user from even Death." Here, Tom paused (for effect).

Harrison lasted barely ten seconds before he asked impatiently, "Well? What happened to them?"

Tom smiled in satisfaction. "The oldest was slain in his sleep and the wand stolen, the second took his own life to join the shades that could never truly be brought back, and the last lived a long life, finally giving himself up to Death's loving arms." Tom sneered slightly.

"And how does any of this mean immortality?"

"It's said that if one person were to unite all three Deathly Hallows- the objects in the story- they would be named the Master of Death. And how could Death kill its own master?"

"Well, I like the lack of cannibalism. How are you supposed to recognise the objects? There are a million wands and cloaks and we're not short on stones, either."

"According to the myth, the wand usually ends up in the possession of the most powerful wizard of any time, its history dripping with blood. It's probably the least difficult to track down- theoretically, of course. The resurrection stone could look incredibly ordinary, but I imagine the main clue would come from picking it up and chatting with your dead grandmother. And the cloak… well, it's eternal. Most invisibility cloaks fade and tear and fall apart with time, they barely last 100 years, but this one- the original- would be perfect until the end of time."

"I had an invisibility cloak in my family," Harrison said softly. "Passed down."

"And by the time it got to you, it was hardly more than a tattered travelling cloak, yes?"

Harrison nodded wordlessly.

"Invisibility cloaks make terrible family heirlooms. No offence."

"But it's a myth, right? The Deathly Hallows aren't real?"

"There's no proof. But that's neither here nor there." Tom studied Harrison's face thoughtfully, and out of nowhere, the thought 'there can only be one Master of Death' popped into his head. He dismissed it- it was hardly relevant.

They sat together in quiet contemplation. Harrison staring at nothing, but it was a musing stare, more of a slow realisation. It was peaceful. Nice.

Now if only Septimus Weasley could fall from a tall building. For a very long time. Never losing consciousness, finally hitting the ground feet first so his neck didn't snap and he could feel every bone of his body splintering and crushing under the pressure, until he was little more than a smear on the grass. Then he could die.

Yes, Tom mused, settling back into the cushioned armchair. That would be perfect.

It's finally here! Well, doesn't Harry just jump from romantic encounter to romantic encounter? And this is probably the most shippy chapter yet. Aw, Tom's possessive and Harry is slightly cruel in his acceptance of Septimus. What emotionally unaware nitwits.

Check out my tumblr (of the same penname), and if you want to you can visit my Ko-Fi from there. Scraps would be appreciated xx