Chapter 7: Spring 1991

As the spring term commenced, it became clear that Harry's silent spell wouldn't be ending soon. Naturally, the professors of Hogwarts reacted in a variety of ways. Professor Sprout was as cheerful as ever, and while disappointed with Harry's lack of participation in class, didn't penalise him for never partaking in discussions. Professor Flitwick was delighted to see that Harry could cast charms nonverbally and even went so far as to award house points for every spell he was able to perform. Professor Snape had been content to ignore Harry since the start of his second year and seemed to find it easier to do so. Binns, who couldn't remember their names on a good day, didn't even notice.

But it was Professor McGonagall's reaction that surprised Harry the most. She would give him a stern look over the top of her glasses whenever he failed to respond to one of her questions and deduct points. When that failed to garner a reaction, she began assigning oral presentations for homework and failing him when he stood in front of the class, blinking like a unicorn startled by wandlight. She even went so far as to assign him his first detention in March after he was unable to explain how he transfigured his turtle into bongos.

"You are in a school, Mr Potter," she explained to a surprised Harry after class. "We do not hoard knowledge. Perhaps this will remind you to speak when you are spoken to."

Harry thought this was particularly unfair. It was as frustrating to him as it was to those around him. Even Medusa suffered from his lack of communication when she emerged from her brumation. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak. He wasn't trying to come off as rude or haughty. He didn't like it when his throat burned and constricted around his words. It wasn't like he wasn't trying. Some days were worse than others, but sometimes he managed to laugh at a joke Cedric told, or hum when Grace demanded his attention.

After that first detention, Professor McGonagall assigned him one for every Transfiguration class he didn't speak in. It was an unfair punishment, and part of Harry wanted to speak in every class but hers to spite her. But two months later, the punishments were just as ineffective as they had been when they first started. If anything, it only made things worse. Harry dreaded going to Transfiguration. He even began skipping meals to avoid seeing his professor in the Great Hall. His palms would sweat and his stomach would clench so tightly at the thought of encountering her that it wasn't uncommon for him to make himself sick. As the months dragged on, he found himself in the hospital wing for stomach soothers before every class.

Madam Pomfrey was not impressed when she found out why he required her ministrations on a biweekly basis. He was not privy to the argument, but according to the Hogwarts rumour mill, the mediwitch handed out a tongue lashing so severe, it had even Professor Snape cowering in fear. It also may or may not have included a muggle fistfight (unlikely), an epic duel (less unlikely but from a dodgy source), a pocket-sized dragon (told to him by a wistful looking Hagrid), and a handful of catnip (he thought Grace was messing with him at that point). Either way, the result was that Harry no longer had to attend detention with McGonagall. Instead, he would be required to meet with Madam Pomfrey several times a week for mind-healing sessions.

It was an interesting experience, to say the least. Whilst she never pushed him to talk, Madam Pomfrey never employed the same engaging techniques the mind healers at St Mungo's had. She never asked him to draw her pictures or spell out his feelings with little blocks. She didn't even try to get him to do deep breathing exercises in the hope that he might relax. Instead, Madam Pomfrey spent most of their sessions teaching him spells. Some were helpful, like teaching him how to magic his words into the air in front of him like a placard on a painting. Others were amusing, such as learning to transfigure old potion bottles into hedgehogs and letting them race across the Hospital wing. But the most interesting spells, he learned by watching.

Receiving mind healing from the infirmary's only matron meant that it wasn't uncommon for Harry' sessions to be interrupted by the odd, ailing student. Harry watched, enraptured, every time a student was prescribed a Pepper-Up potion or had radishes removed from their nostrils. It was always something different coming through the infirmary doors, and somehow, Madam Pomfrey always knew how to fix it.

Harry found his throat burning with unasked questions like: why did dosages matter for some potions, but not others? Or: what was going on underneath the skin of someone with mittlemites? Or: How long did it take for regrown bones to return to original hardness? He soon found himself waiting for the next patient to come in, just to see how they could be healed. It didn't take long for Madam Pomfrey to notice his divided attention.

"Do you have an interest in healing?" she asked after sending off a boy who required his thumbs to be reattached.

Harry gave her a shy smile at having been caught watching but nodded. From that day on, Madam Pomfrey let him shadow her in the hospital wing. She never let him actually treat a patient (he was twelve, after all), but she always explained what he was seeing and walked him through the healing process. She lent him books on healing, and when he devoured those, began teaching him basic healing spells that he could use on himself. Where Professor Flitwick might have squealed in delight when Harry cast a spell silently, he got a firm nod of approval from Madam Pomfrey. When he learned to cast the summing charm, she didn't give him a considering look as Uncle Remus might have but set him to work gathering supplies for him whilst she tended to patients. She cast spells verbally so that he could learn them, then explained what they did as they worked their magic.

It was nice, Harry decided, to have an adult that was invested in him. He had his father and his uncles, of course, but it wasn't quite the same. They were his family, and it only made sense for them to love and support him. Madam Pomfrey, even if it was technically her job to help Harry, didn't have to teach him anything that fell outside of the purview of mind healing. She didn't have to walk Harry through charms that would knit small cuts together or reduce swelling in a sprained ankle. But she did because she saw that it made him happy.

Harry found that he looked forward to his sessions with Madam Pomfrey. Every spare moment was spent in the school library, researching healing. So much so, that Madam Pince reserved a table just for him. (Slytherin's study would have been more ideal, but seeing as he was the only one who could open it, he had to make do.) Many of the healing texts he found were too advanced, but he didn't let it discourage him. So what if he was only a second-year? Every healer had to start somewhere. Harry studied with a ferocity that consumed him. His mind inhaled every scrap of knowledge and tucked it away until his brain was bloated with information. Then he would go to sleep and start again the next day.

The other professors noticed Harry's change in focus. He had always been a good student, but after starting his sessions with Madam Pomfrey, there was a fire in his eyes that hadn't been there before. He looked so passionate, so alive, that it didn't even matter that he still wasn't speaking. No longer was he the gloomy, silent boy who was content to go unnoticed, but a young man who was confident in his abilities. Whilst his participation in class discussions didn't increase, his spellwork and theoretical knowledge had, and soon he was excelling so fast through the curriculum, his classmates couldn't keep up.

Not everyone was impressed with Harry's new attitude. His confidence, which for so long had made him a target, grated on his former dorm mates. Atticus Nettles, in particular, took exception to it. Despite losing his easy access to his favourite victim, Nettles was persistent in his goal to bully Harry. The problem, however, is that it soon became apparent that he was alone in his endeavours.

A majority of the girls lost interest when it became clear Harry wasn't going to react to their taunts. Terrence Higgs, the Fourth Year Harry had replaced as seeker, started giving Harry a wide berth after returning from his suspension for his role in the Boggart Incident. The vast majority of the older Slytherins were either too busy with school to care about Harry, were acclimated to his presence in the house, or knew Flint would hex them seven ways to Sunday if they messed with him. Pucey even went so far as to stop Nettles from hexing Harry in the middle of the crowded Common Room.

"Do you want to explain to Flint why his seeker is missing practice tonight?" Pucey asked one Tuesday in April, before hauling Harry out of the Common Room.

Harry shot Pucey a shy smile, who shrugged in response. They walked towards the Quidditch pitch in companionable silence. The peaceful evening didn't last, because it soon became evident that Flint was in a foul mood. Gryffindor had flattened Hufflepuff in their previous game with an embarrassing score of 955 to 10, putting them in lead for the Quidditch cup. The only way Slytherin could win would be for them to beat Ravenclaw by over 600 points.

Let it be said that Slytherins were nothing if not ambitious, and Flint was determined to prove this stereotype. What commenced next was what would be the most brutal practice Flint had put them through. From the moment they took to the sky, the team flew through a series of dangerous obstacle courses that left them battered and bruised. They flew well into the night, even after it became impossible to see. It was only after Mulciber reminded him that some of them had OWLs to study for did Flint finally release them. Harry dragged himself, shivering and muddy, towards the castle, his mind dreaming of a nice hot bath in his room.

He should have known that his good luck wouldn't last.

A tripping jinx hit him square in the back the moment he descended into the dungeons, sending his sprawling across the damp stone floor. Harry scrambled to his feet as fast as he could, but his attacker was faster. They grabbed him by the collar of his robes and shoved him face-first into a wall, breaking his glasses on impact. When Harry tried to wiggle free, a wand tip pressed into the back of his neck, forcing him to still.

"What I don't understand," his attacker began. "Is what is so special about you."

Harry was unsurprised to hear Nettles' voice hissing in his ear. He was merely surprised it had taken him so long to finally snap. Harry managed to spin around and face his bully. He tried to give him an unimpressed stare worthy of Professor Snape, but with his glasses dangling from his ears, it was less effective than he had hoped.

"You think, now that you're Flint's pet, that you own the school?" Nettles snapped, leaning in so close that Harry could count every freckle on his face. "You think making the house team makes you special? And don't even get me started on Snape. One little prank and his golden boy gets a private room?"

Harry was hardly Snape's favourite student, but even if he could tell that to Nettles, there was no point. The bully was out for blood and by the looks of it, nothing could dissuade him from getting it. The best thing to do would be to escape and lie low whilst Nettles cooled off.

But when Harry tried to duck around the taller boy, he was shoved against the wall so hard, he was afraid his spine would snap. Nettles raised his wand again and pointed it in Harry's face. "Oh no, I'm starting to have fun. Furnunculus!"

Harry winced as boils erupted across his skin. It was easy to counter it with a Boil-Cure potion, he reminded himself. So as long as that was all Nettles did, he wouldn't have to make a visit to Madam Pomfrey. He waited for Nettles to get bored and wander off like he usually did when Harry failed to react. Only this time, his silence seemed to enrage Nettles further.

"You think you're better than the rest of us, Potter?" he snarled, spittle flying from his mouth and landing on Harry's face. "You with your money and famous brother and perfect grades?"

He ranted for another minute or so. These were common complaints from Nettles and his friends, and Harry found his mind wandering. Though he shouldn't have, otherwise he would have known to duck when Nettles punched him in the face. There was a sickening crunch as his nose broke and hot blood began to flow down his face. Harry's head jerked back, smacking into the stone wall.

The violence took him by surprise. The other Slytherins preferred to use magic to harass him. They had never resorted to something so mugglish as fisticuffs. He looked up at Nettles in confusion and tried to stem the flow of blood with the sleeve of his robe.

He didn't get a chance to respond, because as quickly as the assault had begun, it was over. A large meaty hand landed on Nettles' shoulder, gripping it so tightly that the knuckles blanched. Harry followed the hand up the arm, his gaze landing on a furious Marcus Flint. His dark eyes flicked between Nettles and Harry, and his scowl deepened at the sight of Harry's blood-covered face.

"What the hell are you doing?" He growled.

Nettles had the common sense to look petrified. He stuttered for a moment and looked around, hoping to find an excuse or an ally. All he found was the grave faces of the entire Slytherin quidditch team. Not even Adrian Pucey, his friend, stepped forward to help him.

"Pemberley, take him to Snape," Flint barked, tossing Nettles towards the burly beater by the scruff of his neck.

Pemberley gave a solemn nod before dragging Nettles off down the dark corridor. The rest of the team trudged after, and soon, only Harry and Flint were left. When the last echo of footsteps faded, Flint turned his attention back to Harry, surveying the damage Nettles had wrought.

"You'll need to see Madam Pomfrey," he said in a gentle tone. You know, if grunts could be gentle.

Harry shrugged before extracting his wand, which was still in the pocket of his robes, and tapped his throbbing nose. There was another sickening crack and Harry's nose straightened. When the stinging subsided, Harry managed a half-hearted grin to a vaguely impressed Flint.

"Nice try," he said, reaching down and placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're still seeing her." He steered Harry towards the Hospital wing without another word.

Madam Pomfrey was even less impressed with Harry than Flint had been, though she did agree that his healing spell had been effective. "I didn't teach you that spell so that you could avoid getting help, Potter," she snapped before slathering a boil-cure on his face.

Flint shot him an annoying 'I-told-you-so' sort of look but didn't say anything. He didn't say anything when they walked back to the Slytherin Common Room either. Or the next morning when he took a seat across from him at breakfast. Grace took his presence in stride and asked the Fourth Year to pass the pumpkin juice before inviting him to see the thestrals with them that afternoon. He grunted in what must have been agreement because he lumbered after them on their journey into the Forbidden Forest.

From that day on, Flint became a looming presence in their little group. He was always nearby when Harry needed help with something, even if it wasn't Quidditch or bully related. It wasn't uncommon for Harry to find Flint's Third Year school books tucked into his bag or handwritten study guides tucked inside their pages. If Harry was out around curfew, Flint would materialize nearby to drag him back to the Common Room. He tolerated Harry's friends, even Cedric at his chattiest, and didn't push him in the Black Lake on one of their many walks around the school grounds. Harry wouldn't go so far as to say that Flint was their friend, but he was more than a Quidditch captain concerned about his player.

In return, Harry found that he was being pushed harder than anyone else on the team during practice. If they had to fly ten laps around the Quidditch pitch, Harry had to do twenty. If Flint demanded that they show up at a certain time, Harry needed to be there fifteen minutes early, warmed up and ready to play. During games, Harry would have to note the Seekers' strategy and turn in a detailed report afterwards. In Flint's eyes, Harry shouldn't just be an excellent player, but the best on the team.

It was a mutually beneficial relationship. Harry had the protection of an older, more popular student and Flint got an undefeatable seeker. With Flint's approval, the vast majority of Slytherins accepted Harry's presence in the house. The fact that Harry helped secure the Quidditch cup for Slytherin also had something to do with their acceptance. Those that didn't were smart enough to keep their distaste private. Whether for one reason or another, the bullying had ceased, and Harry finally, after two long years, felt safe.

Genius Fratris

In the weeks leading up to final exams, tensions were running high. There was a dramatic uptick in the amount of calming draughts administered to harried OWL and NEWT students. So many, in fact, that the Hospital Wing ran out several times. Professor Snape worked overtime to keep up with the demand, and Harry had the task of retrieving the replenished supply several times a week. It was on one of these trips that Harry found himself striding down an empty corridor on the first floor, levitating a crate full of potions behind him.

"Aww, has the wittle snakey lost his wand?"

If the mocking words hadn't drawn Harry's attention, the raucous laughter that followed did. Harry frowned and made his way towards the commotion, his fingers wrapping around the end of his wand. He located the noise easily enough and peered into what should have been an abandoned classroom. Inside, he found a group of four older students with their wands out. Gryffindors, he thought, though he couldn't be sure as they weren't wearing their school robes. They were jeering and shooting off hexes at their victim, who was strung up by his ankles and hanging from a chandelier.

It was Atticus Nettles.

"C'mon, Attie," a tall boy that looked a good deal like Nettles jeered. "Do something clever for us!"

Nettles let out a string of foul oaths and spat at the boys.

The boy who looked like Nettles tsked in mock disappointment. "Mummy raised us better than that. Scourgify!"

Nettles' face turned puce as bubbles began to foam out of his mouth. The other boys cheered at this and shot off a round of stinging hexes. By the time they were done, Nettle's face looked as if he had been stung by a hundred bees.

Harry watched for a moment, unsure how to feel. On one hand, there was a small amount of schadenfreude at seeing his biggest bully be tormented. What he was experiencing was a small sample of what Harry himself had experienced, often by Nettles' own hand. But maybe, that was why Harry's stomach clenched. Watching older students attack Nettles wasn't gratifying, it was sad. Not one of the older students stepped in to stop the bullying. There was no Marcus Flint lurking around the corner, ready to rescue Nettles. In fact, Nettles' own brother seemed to be joining in on the fun.

No one, not even a bully like Nettles, deserved to be humiliated as Harry had been. No one should suffer like that. Nothing would ever erase the torment that Hary had experienced. Spells couldn't be uncast, and the suffering he felt would always be with him. He couldn't go back and change Nettles' actions. But Harry could control his own actions. He didn't have to be mean or cruel or blind to pain. He could stop the suffering.

A Ravenclaw would have questioned the wisdom of stepping in and facing a group of older students who were hell-bent on harassing a twelve-year-old. A Hufflepuff would have commented on how utterly nice it was, if not a bit rash (after all, a teacher would've been able to sort it out more efficiently, no?). A Gryffindor would have commended him for being brave, and standing up against his adversaries.

Harry didn't know how a Slytherin would react. Once upon a time, he would have thought that they would use the situation as a power play. They would step in, not out of loyalty or kindness, but knowing that they held power over him. They would use the knowledge to torment him, or perhaps they would join in on the fun.

But then he thought of Flint. He was gruff and coarse and intimidating as hell. And sure, maybe he did have ulterior motives for helping Harry, but that didn't negate all that he did for him. Helping someone didn't have to be entirely altruistic. Whether to be nice or to gain favour, Flint still had helped him. Harry was no less thankful for all that Flint had done, after all.

And if Harry was wrong about Slytherin's poster-boy, maybe he was wrong about the majority of them as well. Maybe being a Slytherin wasn't all about power plays and politicking and baby Death Eaters. Maybe it was watching out for the weakest link so they didn't poorly represent the rest of the house. Maybe it was being loyal to those under your care. Maybe it was a burning passion that drove you to extreme measures to get the results you wanted. Or maybe it wasn't. Harry had no clue.

All he knew was that he wanted to be a Slytherin like Flint, and not one like Atticus. And Flint would never let him be bullied by a group of older students.

He hexed three of the older students before they even had the chance to draw their wands. Their limbs snapped together, bodies rigid, and they fell back onto the dusty stone floor. Nettle's brother spun around to face him, shooting a stunning spell at him in the process. Harry swatted it away and fixed the boy with an unimpressed look.

Nettles' brother (and he had to be his brother because they had the same sneer), growled and stalked towards him. "Aw, has Attie's boyfriend come to rescue him?"

Harry rolled his eyes before firing off a stinging hex of his own. If it was a little stronger than the average… well, that was hardly his problem, was it? When Nettles' Sr yelped in surprise, Harry jerked his chin at his dangling housemate in a silent demand that he be released.

"Make me," he challenged, having no difficulty interpreting Harry's unspoken demand.

Well, Harry had been wanting to try out the stunning spell he had read about in one of Flint's books.

The jet of red light hit the Nettles the Elder square in the chest, and he crumpled. This had the unfortunate side effect of releasing the still floating Nettles. He landed next to his brother with a painful sounding thud. Harry hastened to his fallen housemate, beginning to cast diagnostic charms over him before he realised what he was doing. Finding Nettles to be in good health for someone who fell three meters, Harry rose to his feet and reached out with a slow, deliberate hand.

The two Second Years stared at each other, unwilling to blink or be the first to look away. Nettles continued to gawk at him, pale-faced and unmoving, unable to comprehend why Harry would come to his aid. He was looking for ulterior motives, no doubt, wondering how, not if, Harry would use this against him. At his feet, one of the older boys was rousing from his imposed slumber. They had perhaps a minute before the bullies regained consciousness. Harry didn't want to be there for when that happened.

Harry shrugged, withdrew his hand, and walked away.

He completed his errand for Madam Pomfrey and spent the rest of the afternoon helping her roll bandages. He kept an ear out for an irate professor that would drag him to detention, but it never came. Instead, he was greeted by Grace and Cedric, who were bickering about which of them was Medusa's favourite human. (It was John, but he wasn't about to tell them that.) They seemed unaware of what had happened. Nettles and the others must have had the sense to keep their mouths shut. In fact, there was no sign of anyone knowing, which was impressive given the Hogwarts rumour mill's proficiency. Harry enjoyed a quiet, uninterrupted meal, as a result, where the most dramatic thing he had to deal with was Grace feeding Medusa eggs from the table.

Harry found himself in his room that night, unable to sleep. Instead, he sat in the wingback chair in front of the fireplace, relishing in Medusa's heavy weight across his shoulders. He stroked the soft scales on her head, listening with half an ear as she described the stash of doxy eggs she had discovered. From Snape's supply closet, no less. Harry had to sigh at that. It was fortunate Snape didn't know about Medusa or he might actually cut her up to use as potions ingredients.

"At least it wasn't the Rat Girl's Rat," she said with a defensive hiss. "I'm hungry. You never feed me enough."

That's because my friends are always feeding you, he wanted to say. He settled for bopping her on the nose and chuckling when she snapped playfully at his fingers. They engaged in a mock fight, with her winding around his leg as Harry tried to snag her tail. It ended with Harry sprawled on the floor, having tripped after narrowly avoiding stepping on his reptilian friend. Medusa let out a huff of amusement and slithered off to bask next to the fire. Harry watched her roll around on the hearth, trying to find the warmest spot, when something caught his eye.

Heart pounding, he rose from his place on the ground and crossed the short distance to the fireplace. He kneeled on the hearth, ignoring the borderline painful heat that radiated from the flames, and stuck his head in as far as he dared. Because there, just at the back, hidden under a thick layer of soot, was a carving of a snake. The same exact carving that was in the fireplace in the Common Room and led to the Study.

"Open," he commanded.

The words were out of his mouth before he realised he had wanted to say them. His voice was deeper than he remembered it being, which made sense. He was nearly thirteen and all of the other boys' voices were changing. The fact that he rarely used his made little difference to things like puberty. Still, the sound startled him more than the fact that he had finally said something after months of silence.

The secret passageway also didn't care what Harry's voice sounded like. It recognised the hiss of Parseltongue, the demand that it open. And it obeyed. There was a gentle grinding sound as the back of the fireplace gave way, opening up into a dark hole. Medusa hissed with delight and zoomed through the opening, leaving Harry with no other choice but to chase after her. After casting a quick flame freezing charm, he waded through the remnants of the fire and stepped into an all too familiar cavernous room.

The Study was just how he remembered it: dim, imposing, and oppressive. He wandered further into the Study, spying Cedric's unfinished Transfiguration essay on a nearby table, his quill still standing in a bottle of ink. The Latin book that Grace had been pretending to read, the one she had bit Percy Weasley for, was discarded one of the luxurious leather couches, a bookmark poking out a little more than halfway through. A green and silver woolly blanket was draped over the back of a chair and a box of half-eaten Bertie Botts was spilt on the end table next to it. A letter he had started to Ginny but had never completed lay abandoned, dated nearly six months prior. All around him, there was a collection of sundry, proof that people had been there, had lived and breathed in this very room.

At some point, he and his friends had turned the dark and spooky study into their home. The musty smell of old books and scrolls was a soothing perfume and the dull, pulsing, sound of water against the walls was like a lullaby. The darkness was comforting rather than scary, and the looming bookcase covered wall offered safety. He had missed the Study, and he was sure his friends had too. They hadn't pressed him to open it, not even to retrieve their belongings. They would be ecstatic to learn that he had been able to enter, and Harry was excited to tell them.

"Whenever you are confronted with an opponent. Conquer him with love." ― Mahatma Gandhi

A/N: yeah hi, still alive. I never apologise for long absences because, ya know, this is fanfiction. I do it as a fun, free, hobby. But oh boy this was a doozy of a hiatus. What happened, you might ask (and many of you did reach out in concern, bless you)? In short: health problems. I still haven't recovered from my surgery back in July and I recently had a cancer scare. My mental health has tanked big time. But I'm trying to get my life back together. Thank you so much for all of the kind reviews and comments you have sent me over these last 5 months. They have been the bright spot in my day, even if I can't bring myself to write. Thank you to each of you who have reached out and checked on me. It means more than words can adequately express. All my love, Alexa

Also, Atticus' brother's name is Cato, if you are curious.