Note: I have FINALLY finished this monster chapter that just kept giving. (This book was supposed to stop around chapter 19, but it wouldn't cooperate.) As I think I've said earlier, I have half-written book three already, but since I've made such massive changes in my editing, I need to pretty much rewrite all of that. I've also got six 'chapter ones' that need deciding on, so I'll post again and let you know once I've uploaded "Harry Potter and the Tracks of Time". Thanks for all your support.

It was an awful kind of quiet walk back to the Gryffindor Tower. Students were twitchy, full of nerves, and yet every time someone began speaking, they were hushed by their friends, or fell quickly into silence on their own.

It reminded Harry of the silence of the Battle of Hogwarts just before he died. The heavy pressing weight of no noise; the air full of thoughts and worries and hopes, but voices not willing to break the peace.

Because this was the first shock most of these children had seen. The first real curse. The first…well. In this case, of course, Harry was hoping no one had died.

Jostled between larger students, all Harry could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears and the shuffling of hundreds of feet on stone.

By the time Harry managed to squeeze through the Fat Lady's portrait, the silence had broken. A hum of babble hit his ears as he bumped and jostled his way into the room.

Unsurprisingly, tension was high and rumours were rife, even by Gryffindor standards. Bodies were packed into the common room: no one quite willing to miss any news, students needing to share their shock, to get and give support. Shoved forward against his good sense by the pressure of people behind him, Harry walked straight into two younger girls hugging. He muttered an apology. Despite his fame, they barely seemed to register who he was.

His own state of mind even more disturbed, Harry scanned the room for his friends.

Instead, he saw a number of prefects were visibly dotted around the room; Percy was balanced precariously on the armrest of an armchair; Agnes Bancroft was standing on a table, and the two seventh year prefects bracketed the entrance. Each of them was counting loudly; apparently a headcount was necessary but Harry couldn't see them having any success with the pulsing, seething mass of students.

With so many bodies jumbled together, the room heated up quickly, bringing a flush of red to Harry's recently pale face.

He squeezed himself through the crowd, apologising every time the crush of bodies caused him to elbow someone a little too hard, or crowd a little too close in someone else's space.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, ducking under the arms of a seventh year. "'Scuse me. Ow!" He walked face-first into the chest of a senior girl. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean to…Excuse me." His red face got hotter as Harry realised what he'd done and then someone giggled. "I'm so sorry, I'm really, really sorry…"

"It's alright kid…"

"I didn't mean to," Harry protested. "I'll just head off this–Oof—" Someone got him in the diaphragm when they turned around too quickly. Or, possibly Harry might have been rushing. "Sweet Merlin. No, no," he wheezed, bent double over his injured gut. "You're fine. It was my fault. Sorry, pardon me." Harry skirted a group of quidditch players carefully. "Er…" He reached up to pat a few shoulders. "Do you mind if…Thanks so much. 'Scuse me, coming through. Sorry, pardon me."

It took him a while to make it to the space beneath Percy and despite his best attempts, the taller boy did not notice him.

Instead, Harry reached over to grab the elbow of Oliver Wood who had the honoured position of loaning his shoulder for Percy to balance against. "Wood, Wood – I'm over here – Hi. Could you grab Percy for me for a sec?"

The older boy turned and reached out, tapping Percy's shoulder. Poor Percy visibly gave up on the headcount and, leaning down, stretched his head over to speak a little over Harry's ear.

"Harry! You alright there?"

Harry tried a grin which might have come out looking a little sickly, because Percy blanched. "I'm, I'm coping, thanks!" Harry bellowed over the crowd. "Can I borrow your owl, please?"

"What's that?!"

"Hermes!" Harry roared back. "CAN I BORROW YOUR OWL PLEASE?"

Percy blinked. "MY OWL? SURE…HE'LL—"

Harry lost track of Percy's voice in the raucous racket of the crowd and tried again. "WHAT?"

Percy grimaced a little, rolled his eyes, pointed upstairs to the dorms. "HE'LL MEET YOU THERE! OKAY?"

"OKAY!" Harry roared back. "THANKS!"

Then leaving Percy to crowd control, Harry forced his way through the crush to the stairs.

He wasn't panicking, everything would be fine. Just…just a quick letter and he was sure that Draco would tell him all about whatever had happened this morning.

In Percy's dorm, Harry took a moment to catch his breath and then began to focus. Carefully, he scanned the room for a quill and parchment, before settling himself down sensibly at a flat spot and writing.

Draco, he wrote, paying particular attention to the pressure on the quill tip and the shape of his curves and angles,

I missed the beginning, so I don't know what happened. It was Lockhart who fell off his chair, right? How did it happen? Had he started opening his presents? Was it one of ours?

Harry felt a quiver run down from his shoulder to fingertip, and a single droplet of dark ink splotched a corner of the otherwise tidy parchment. Harry licked his lips and forced himself further into that familiar calm mindset, his mind shuddering into that cool darkness with relief.

Was it us? What happened to him? Was – Harry paused, fear flitting at the edges of his mind – that horrible gurgling scream…was that because of our gift? What was it?

The Gryffindors don't know anything.
Harry.

He was ready and waiting when Hermes flew in through the window and his hands were rock steady as he tied the letter to the owl with slow, precise movements.

Hermes had barely left when a huge eagle owl soared into the room and landed, dignified, on the top of someone's trunk.

"I…Caligula? You've brought something from Draco?"

Harry tore open the parchment from his Slytherin friend.

Harry, the letter began in a significantly more rushed script than Harry's own writing,

It was one of our gifts – the one from the Fitzroys, if I remember right. Although now we know it probably wasn't really the Fitzroys. They wouldn't have signed their real name to that.

Harry! We left through the Slytherin door, the one closest to the teachers. The prefects say they heard it was a blood-boiling curse! It's supposed to kill people, painfully, in less than three minutes.

Someone out there really wants to you die, Harry. Be careful, alright? And Vanish this letter.

In true Slytherin fashion, there was no signature.

"Wait!" Harry called out, as the eagle owl made to leave. "I have a reply, alright?"

He controlled his fingers carefully to scratch out another note.

Draco,

Can we stop the other presents being delivered? We should have just Vanished them all.

But it was with a sinking heart that Harry already knew; the presents had already left their hands. That had been the plan, after all. To make them untraceable; to provide them with alibis.

Harry hoped Lockhart would live through their delivery.

By the time Harry had found Ron, Hermione and Neville, news had filtered through the castle that all activities were cancelled for the day. That included Lockhart's Valentine's Day celebrations – Harry wondered idly if Lockhart's hired dwarves had still been paid – and instead a basket of love notes had been left in the common room for prefects to hand out in the evening.

Classes picked up on Monday like normal though, although the castle was quieter than usual. Defence was being taught by a rotation of different teachers depending on their timetables.

A few days passed as the guilt and the weight pressed down on him and no one had news of Lockhart.

Harry stopped eating dinner just so he could get to sleep again, wanting to avoid the pressure on the stomach and the churning and the taste of bile in his throat as he lay in bed each night and stared into the darkness.

Neville and Hermione shared dark looks they didn't even try to hide from Harry, and Ron kept trying to sneak things onto his plate when he wasn't looking, but even their concern didn't make Harry feel better this time.

Draco found time to send Harry a sternly worded note, and they arranged to meet in an uninhabited corner of the castle. Ultimately agreeing to meet in the Owlery, they chose there because it was still cold enough – and smelled bad enough – that people tended to avoid coming, and if they did, they didn't linger.

Harry founding himself puffing as he reached the top of the stairs, lungs burning with the chilly wind he couldn't help but suck in. He wondered briefly, as he stood stooped, desperately catching his breath, if perhaps he hadn't lost some of his fitness recently. He should be used to be climbing castle stairways by now.

Then Draco arrived and grilled Harry mercilessly about his health. That was unusually observant, even for the Slytherin, until Harry realised that he wasn't talking about the weight-loss and dark circles, but Valentine's Day.

"I'm not cursed, Draco!" Harry finally interrupted.

"I'm aware of that, Harry, but that's probably just luck on your part!"

He wouldn't then move on to talking about what they had done to Lockhart.

The blood boiling curse, Harry had discovered, was one of the most painful ways to die and almost impossible to survive. Lockhart had been lucky, Harry realised, to have opened his presents in front of some of the most magically qualified wizards in Britain. And due to Harry's dumb luck and ability to screw almost anything up, Lockhart had almost died anyway.

Draco didn't get it. Harry eyed his Slytherin friend with suspicion as Draco waved his concerns away as they stood in a corner of the Owlery, shivering slightly in the crisp air, and shared rushed whispers.

"We almost became killers, Draco," Harry worried insistently.

Draco shrugged. "We didn't plan it now, did we? There are other things I'm more worried about."

Harry cocked his head in the pale light streaming in the tower. It was cold enough to make his nose run and his face sting, but at least that helped him clear his head.

"Excuse me?"

Draco's pale hands darted through the air as he gestured, and the brisk air ruffled his blond hair. "I mean, moving on from the unfortunate Lockhart angle."

"Moving on?" Just like that? Harry raised his eyebrows in astonishment. Was it possible for a normal person just to brush that aside, that they'd almost killed a teacher?

Had he misread the boy? Were the prejudices right? Lack of empathy was a worrying trait – stereotypically Slytherin, of course; almost Death Eater-like…

Then Draco finally pushed on.

"Someone really hates you, Harry!"

Harry shrugged, used to it. "Well, yeah."

"No!" The blond insisted. "Someone hates you hates you. They wanted you to die, Harry!"

Harry creased his forehead. "Yeah. Obviously."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Are you dumb, Potter? That present was for you. They wanted you to die, painfully, unstoppably. Are you, are you okay?"

Oh. Draco was worried for Harry. What an odd thought. Harry smiled, to the utter confusion of the Slytherin. "Oh, I get what you mean," Harry nodded. "I know."

Obviously frustrated beyond belief, Draco threw his hands up in the air, disturbing owl dandruff and causing a couple of owls to wake up, blink their eyes and hoot. Draco shot them an irritated look which perhaps the poor birds didn't quite deserve.

"You know. You know? Harry, you're not taking this seriously! This isn't some prank, some mildly irritating, embarrassing short-term thing worth a detention and some House points. If– if you hadn't known that check spell, Occlu-thingy, if you hadn't been really good at it, you would have opened that present and died, Harry!"

"I—"

"That could have been you, Harry! Dying in front of me! And I wouldn't have been able to save you!"

"Sorry!" Harry interrupted.

"You…what?"

Harry scuffed a foot in the straw that lay over the stone floor, disturbing a couple of brown and grey feathers. "I, I didn't realise you were going to feel like this, Draco, so I'm really sorry for, for worrying you, and for scaring you."

"You're still not taking this seriously, you twat! I don't say this often, but I am not the point here!"

"I am serious," Harry assured him. "I really am, I promise. I just…well, I really am just used to this."

There was silence in their hidden corner as Draco's mouth worked noiselessly, shock and disbelief evident on his face.

Then, "Used to it!?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded. "I…did you think maybe being the Boy-Who-Lived was all fun and games? Lots of money and fame and people wanting to spend time with me? Piles of presents and soppy fan letters?"

"Well…"

"Because that's the one side." Harry continued, thoughts flashing back to the Triwizard Tournament, to Umbridge, to that year with Hermione on the run. "I…I was hidden as a child – with my muggles, as you call them – for my safety, Draco."

Draco settled down and tugged the edges of his heavy winter cloak together. He suddenly looked, in Harry's eyes, very, very young. "Really?"

"Sorry."

Harry could see Draco struggling to make sense of a world that had suddenly revealed itself to be less safe than it seemed. Harry knew was he was going through. That horrible time after Sirius died when he had realised that life wasn't kind and death not fair still made him feel cold and hopeless when he thought about it.

He felt old, so old, in front of Draco's realisation.

"…Did you know those gifts could kill, then?"

"What? No!" Harry dismissed. "I…I thought they'd be charmed to make me love someone, or to lure me out of the castle, or maybe even just harmless stuff like turn me Gryffindor colours or something."

"But you said–?"

"People usually try to kill me a little more directly. Face to face, you know."

To Harry's mild amusement, Draco was left utterly speechless in the face of Harry's bland explanation and stood still, blinking, as his mind tried to catch up. To Harry's distant amusement, Draco mouthed the word 'usually' in disbelieve.

"I mean," Harry continued, shoulders heavy. "I should have expected it. And I didn't. So, I…I'm sorry. I'm really…I regret not considering that. I was having too much fun being normal, I think."

"Normal."

"Hmm." Harry raised a weary eyebrow. His shoulders hurt, his stomach felt queasy. Some muscles running up his neck was really tight and giving him the worst headache.

"But," Draco tried once more. "But who would hate you so much that they'd want you dead?"

Harry shrugged, feeling more secure and less worldly-wise as the topic returned to what he was used to. "Death Eaters, probably. Although I guess we can't rule out Voldemort's victims, blaming me for not vanquishing him sooner."

Draco flinched. "Can you call him You-Know-Who, please? I…wait, people would do that?"

Harry smiled sadly. "People always think you owe them something, I've discovered. Even if you do your best."

Draco frowned, sniffed, stood upright. He raised one eyebrow in the distinctive Malfoy sneer, making Harry feel absurdly nostalgic. "Well, that doesn't seem right. People should know better. I mean – you lost your parents, and your culture and upbringing and…and all sorts!"

Now that the conversation was on safer topics, Harry felt the tension in his shoulders, the throbbing in his temples fade. "Well, yeah, but I lived, so…"

Looking stern, like a child playing adult, Draco reached out and patted Harry firmly on the shoulder. "I won't assume things about you from now on, Harry. I promise. And I'll help you with anything you need."

"I…thanks." Harry blinked.

Malfoy nodded. "Even if being the Boy-Who-Lived isn't all it's made out to be, you'll still have me. Friends?"

Harry quirked his head. "Thanks a lot, Draco. That's...strangely reassuring."

"Of course it's reassuring," Draco smirked. "I'm a Malfoy."

"Of course." Harry nodded. "Naturally. Er…weren't we already friends?"

Draco sniffed, and then sneezed when some owl dander went up his nose. "Excuse me."

"Bless you."

"Thanks." Malfoy went on. "You think it's that easy to make friends with, not just a Slytherin, but a Malfoy? We were allies."

Harry half-believed it, if that's what Malfoy needed to tell himself. "Ohh, I see. Allies, was it?"

"But now we're friends," Draco emphasised. "Friends."

To Harry's silent amusement, they shook on it.

School continued. Lockhart survived; reports made it into the Prophet that dark wizards previously defeated by Lockhart were holding a grudge, and no one seemed to connect Harry and Draco to the steady stream of dodgy gifts that came Lockhart's way. Aurors began filtering the man's mail.

Classes settled down, homework increased. The teachers stopped worrying about the students' response to Lockhart's curse and began pressuring them to study.

Lockhart returned to class, a little thinner and twitchier, but otherwise unchanged.

Quidditch practise got more intense, again, as the season picked up. The Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match also passed, and with the twins back in form and Harry's expertise, they smashed the opposition in less than two hours.

Harry made it into the news again, but this time as a small article on the fifth page. The focus was still on Lockhart and his 'hidden enemies'; a lot of his past travels were being brought up in the news, and Hermione had decided to cross-reference them all with their existing research notes.

Personally, Harry was just pleased there were few details about him.

He dared to hope his fame was finally settling down.

He also finally posted away a letter to Skeeter, and hoped it was okay.

February passed into March and then April.

Gryffindor faced Hufflepuff in Quidditch. Due to his tiredness, and what he was worried was turning into a lack of stamina, Harry focussed extra hard to end the game early. He caught the snitch after forty minutes.

"There were reporters in the crowd," Hermione mentioned to him after in the library, while they caught up on homework and plotted for Lockhart's downfall.

"And scouts!" Ron had added. He had a large encyclopaedia open in front of him, but his fingers just flipped randomly through the pages.

Harry himself wasn't really bothered by the fuss this time round; he had too much on his mind. "Eh?" He finished a transfiguration essay with a flourish and reached over to grab a book on blackmail. His left hand pressed his temple in a now-common gesture; the ever-present headaches just didn't go away.

Ron slapped the book and shot him a mock-disappointed stare. "They were all here for you, mate."

Harry dismissed him.

"Like, for reals."

"Nah."

Neville piped up from his seat at the table. "I think you're underestimating your own value, Harry."

He scoffed. "I'm just a kid! What do they care? I mean, aside from the shock value that I'm still alive and kicking after eleven years and all."

Hermione added, her face buried in a book, "And your mysterious disappearance for a decade."

"Oh yeah, and that."

Ron raised his eyebrows. "And your incredible quidditch skills, which you dominate Hogwarts with?"

Neville spoke up. "And your flying in general?"

Hermione looked up at him, a single wrinkle in the middle of her forehead. "Don't forget that you reply individually to every letter fans send you. I'm surprised the sponsors haven't found you yet."

Harry wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. "They have, actually. I just don't really know what to do about them, so I've asked them to wait till I get to the end of the year. They're beginning to pile up, I guess, but I'm busy."

There was a change of atmosphere at the table, and Harry watched confusion as his friends all exchanged glances and sat a little straighter.

"Harry," Hermione began, folding her hands elegantly over her lap. "We'd like to talk to you about that."

"Yeah mate," Neville added. "We're a bit worried."

Ron nodded.

Harry glanced around them. "Er…okay then?...Go ahead?"

For some reason, Hermione looked exasperated and fond at the same time. "You can't figure it out, Harry?"

"Figure what?"

"We're worried about you," the brunette nodded, brown eyes wide and worried as she leaned towards him from across the table. She patted him gently on the hand, and Harry did admit that against her dainty, feminine fingers, his joints and tendons looked a bit conspicuous. "You're losing weight again, Harry. And you have dark circles. Are you okay?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine." Harry shrugged. "A bit tired, but, I mean, exams are coming up and stuff, right? There's a lot to do."

Ron looked horrified. "Exams, mate? Harry, it's April."

"Yeah? And?"

Ron and Neville exchanged worried glances, while Hermione shuffled some parchment in front of her. "Well, in that case," she muttered, "I suppose you've got a point. I'll have to sort out a study schedule for all of us."

"Eh, hang on a minute…" Ron began.

Hermione looked up, suddenly frazzled. "No, he's right. Exams are merely weeks away. I can't believe I let this Lockhart research take over!" She grabbed the long, Eagle Owl quill that she favoured, and madly began scribbling notes on a spare piece of parchment.

"I don't think I'm keeping up," Ron admitted.

Neville shrugged. "We just do what we're told." He leaned over to ruffle Ron's hair roughly. "And if the research is getting you down, how about you take a break? Have a nap or something, while Hermione works out our study schedule."

"Yeah." Ron's wide eyes looked very confused. "Yeah, I…I will. I'm not cut out for this stuff, I don't think."

Harry bent his head back to the book. None of them were, frankly, but he was doing what he could to change.

Hermione's voice floated up from her scribbling, slightly muffled as she bent over the table. "This Lockhart stuff is starting to slow down too. We don't have access to some of the data we need. Solutions?"

"Oh!" Harry jolted. "Actually, I just solved that one. We needed more access to advanced textbooks, so I asked a professor for access to the entire Restricted Section." He turned to dig around through his pockets, and finally waved a small piece of parchment triumphantly.

Hermione was mostly distracted by her writing. "Which books?"

"The entire Restricted section?" Neville queried, head cocked.

"But," began Ron, looking slightly confused, "what kind of teacher would give you blanket permission to access...with a signature..." His voice trailed away. "Oh! You didn't!"

His other friends also followed the logic.

"You tricked Professor Lockhart into providing the signature for us to bring about his own downfall?" Hermione asked with wide eyes. Humour, pity and satisfaction chased over her face. "Oh, Harry."

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Uh…did you notice Lockhart's been missing a lot of meals lately? He's, um, been a bit frazzled recently. I just caught him at a good time."

Hermione quirked an eyebrow sceptically.

"A good time for me, I mean. You might have noticed he's not quite recovered from, you know, and I've, well," Harry blushed. "I've been helping him answer the fan mail that makes it past the Aurors."

Mouths opened but no words came out.

Harry shrugged. "I, uh, I figured I kinda owed him one, since he's going to be losing his job soon?" – and had almost died in Harry's place; had almost died because Harry posted things to him; because Harry hadn't thought – "I think maybe he should really retire and just keep himself safe."

The words came out heavier than Harry had intended; they landed on the table with an almost audible thud and his friends glanced at him, curious as to the sudden mood change. There was silence for a moment as no one knew how to respond, before Ron – honest, oblivious Ron – broke the mood.

"It's practically like you're really going out of your way for his actual benefit, Harry."

"Hmm," Harry hummed non-committedly. "Look, I just made use of the opportunities I had."

Hermione raised both eyebrows. "I guess you have. Harry Potter, you're always surprising me."

Neville shot a silent look her way, but Harry didn't notice.

"Oh? I'll take that as a good thing, I guess?"

Unsurprisingly if unsatisfyingly, time stopped for no wizard. The school year began to feel like a boulder rolling downhill: uncontrolled, undirected, and with more momentum every moment.

Harry got in contact with the Owl Post people, and set himself deadlines to work through all the mail. Again.

He and Draco remained in touch, closer than ever, really, since that strange conversation in the Owlery; Harry found himself appreciating his advice.

"Why don't you get your people to screen your mail for you?" Draco finally wrote one day, sick of Harry's complaints about time during their moderately frequent correspondence.

"My who?" Harry had responded, and a sudden rash of owls appeared in Hogwarts, carrying missives and instructions about lawyers and accountants, and a good personal assistant or two.

"Are you honestly expecting to deal with all the legal work on your own, Harry?" Draco continued, once the majority of advice and admonishments were out of the way.

Quill in hand, Harry felt another headache burgeoning as he slowly penned the words, "What legal work, precisely?"

Rapidly educated, Harry began sending owls to enquire as to where he could get some legal and financial advice to guide him through all the sponsorship offers and will bequests that had apparently come his way.

Post quidditch match, Hogwarts appeared to have moved on from Lockhart's close call, and students instead stopped Harry in the corridors for photos. Personally, Harry blamed the Prophet coverage – he was back on the front page again.

In a possibly related occurrence, Snape scowled more viciously at Harry than he had in living memory – it even penetrated through the veil of familiarity and exhaustion that Harry had been shrouded with. He earned a string of detentions for pointless things both in Potions and in the corridors.

When the stray thought occurred, that Harry was glad at least Dobby had stopped 'helping' him, he realised that he hadn't freed Dobby yet, and probably couldn't this year either. Lucius Malfoy certainly wasn't going to visit Harry in the school while Dobby was with him, and Harry certainly wasn't going to give any diary remnants back.

All his plans blurred together, all intentions became vague, and the dizzying spiral of things to do, and things to remember, and places to he began to overwhelm Harry even despite his strict schedule and newfound Occlumency. He began using the Pensive more, trying to eke out every drop of knowledge available to him.

In an effort to feel accomplished, Harry snuck out on his own one night and removed the Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw from the Room of Requirement. At least, Harry hoped, he might get the feeling that he was achieving things, some things – at least something – despite the chaos and the busy and the ever-growing sense of failure.

It only took a moment to stab it to death with a Basilisk fang he had taken from the monster, and he grinned in satisfaction as the thing keen a high, horrible sound before vibrating violently and shaking itself into bits. Then, having mentally ticked something off of his To-Do list, Harry felt the satisfaction fade as the urgent need to do something welled up within him once more.

Everything began adding up.

They finished the Lockhart research – as good as it was going to get – and Harry began sending snippets to Skeeter to whet her appetite.

"But nothing big until after exams," Hermione insisted as she handed over all the piles of parchment into Harry's keeping. "After exams, okay Harry? We can let Lockhart's teaching speak for itself, but for the students who actually tried, we can't disturb their academics, can we?"

"Of course," Harry lied blankly, having never considered Hogwarts exams to be…important. They'd been cancelled so often over the years, after all.

But since Hermione insisted, he waited through the exams before posting off large stacks of data. He waited until the final exams had been and gone – even for the seniors, even the seventh years – and then finally sent all of the damning scandal to Skeeter's waiting hands.

At the end of the year, after everything Hogwarts was over, it was a physical relief for Harry when the Prophet came out revealing all Lockhart's lies.

It happened the morning of the Leaving Feast, just when Lockhart was probably beginning to believe that he had made it safely through the year unscathed.

Dozens of owls flew into the Great Hall for breakfast, while Harry sat with his friends and argued with Percy over the nature of advanced transfiguration. The flutter of wings was nothing special, but the glaring bold headlines and gasps of surprise turned heads very quickly.

Soon, toast, marmalade and bacon were all left abandoned on plates while chattering students peered over the shoulders of anyone lucky enough to have a paper subscription. The Hall buzzed with sound.

The teaching staff too, Harry was amused to see, were craning their heads to read through the article which said nothing factual but hinted deliciously at scandals untold.

Lockhart, to Harry's guilty amusement, was pale, and left breakfast early while clutching his stomach.

The evening meal was still buzzing with the news and students argued over the truth of the matter, fuelled significantly by Lockhart's unexplained absence from the castle. A special edition paper had come out that evening, practically filled with Skeeter's scathing lines, all focussing on Lockhart's life and lies revealed. Gryffindor still celebrated their House win, of course, but the other Houses didn't seem to mind. Even Slytherin – even Draco – seemed more caught up in the Lockhart scandal than school competition.

Of course, Harry thought, silently shovelling peas into his mouth while chaos reigned around him, a significant reason for that was the post-exam senior students. The poor children had just busted themselves to study to exams – for their futures, for a lot of them – and Skeeter had just revealed that a lot of that effort was probably going to be a waste.

The following morning over breakfast, with more scandalous headlines, the castle was convinced of Lockhart's crimes. Facts had been hinted at, interviews quoted. Although all student comments were anonymous – Harry's friend group most prominent – the Potter name was dropped in a number of times and whispers repeated over the breakfast tables.

Poor "Potter's education undermined", the "young orphan with no one to oversee the quality of his education" and "Young star shackled by lack of professional teachers" really did seem to pluck at parental heartstrings. It was all very emotional.

Soon, hundreds of menacing Howlers arrived at Hogwarts, Lockhart apparently also having a talent for owl-post warding; the owls didn't seem to know he was missing. Alternatively, maybe the owls were for Dumbledore, for hiring the man. Harry sat in his seat at Gryffindor table and didn't know who the letters were for. Peacefully drinking his pumpkin juice, Harry found he was quite content not to care.

Personally, emotions complex, Harry found himself hoping the wizard had escaped the country for a time, where the scandal and public censure could not endanger him and where he could hopefully retire in peace.

If he stuck to novel writing, not teaching, Harry would feel far better disposed towards the man. And indeed, if anyone could make good use of bad publicity, it would be the promotionally-minded Gilderoy Lockhart.

If Harry's little plan had gone a little awry in the middle with that near-death incident, he felt significantly more content to successfully reveal a teaching fraud and allowing a scandalous escape. Knowing what he did about the future, Harry was honestly passionate about the need for good Defence teachers. Since he'd managed it in the end without anyone dying, Harry took it as a win.

Before Hogwarts was out, the Ministry went into damage control. All Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. results would be declared void upon request, as so many families were worried about passing. The assembled school was in the middle of absorbing the fact that the resulting chaos would take Professor Dumbledore and his staff weeks to clear up over the holidays, while Harry and his friends sat back in satisfaction.

"So what's it like for the Defence Curse to use you?" Ron grinned over at Harry across the breakfast table while the other students finished eating and began heading off elsewhere. "You're the reason we've lost our Defence teacher, Harry. How does it feel?"

Hermione shot Ron a scolding glance, but Harry muffled a quiet snort and sat back in his chair. "Hey, you lot were used as well, if that's how you want it."

Neville snorted. "Go on! This was all your idea."

"Well," Harry began, "without Hermione it would never have even got off the round." He shot a tired grin – they were all tired grins these days, but at least he was trying – and she smiled back at him. All their tension from over Christmas seemed to have been forgiven and forgotten. "We all put up a good effort."

"Damn right I did," Ron agreed. "I studied more for this blasted business than I've studied in my life!"

Neville jostled him cheerfully. "Probably did you good, mate."

Ron grinned. "The shock might still kill me yet! You've made us make history, Harry."

He rolled his eyes. "Nonsense, this little effort doesn't even count as historical. How many years has this cursed hit concurrently, Hermione?" He continued before she could respond. "Besides, this isn't the first time I…I've –"

Harry stopped suddenly, and dropped his knife in his shock. His mouth seemed stuck, like a skipping record player.

"I've, I've, I've, I've, I've," Harry heard himself say mindlessly, shock reverberating. Faintly, as if from a great distance, he heard Hermione hiss as the jam covered blade rolled off the edge of his plate, spreading sticky red jelly all over the table. Then she looked at his rapidly paling face.

"You need to…Harry?" Hermione's tone changed. "Is everything alright? Harry?"

"I—I—I…" Harry felt himself make a high, keening kind of noise, like a puppy in distress.

"Mate," Neville added, eyeing Harry worriedly. "Harry. What happened?"

Harry blinked slowly, his face suddenly so pale and drained of blood that he looked grey. "…Yes…I did. What?"

Exchanging worried glances, his friends shuffled closer to him and lowered their voices.

Hermione gently reached over a hand to feel Harry's forehead. "You really don't look good, Harry. How do you feel?"

"Yes," Harry repeated blankly and then his lower lip trembled like he couldn't quite mouth the words he wanted to say. He swallowed noisily.

Harry distantly felt like his friends were saying something, perhaps talking to each other – or to him?

"Harry. Look at me, Harry. Harry, breathe," someone said.

He focussed hard to pull himself back together, to ignore the screaming panic in his head and the sudden coldness of his hands.

To the confusion of his friends, Harry's lost eyes slowly refocused; he turned to look at Hermione sluggishly. "I don't feel too good, Hermione. Can you tell the professors I can't… do… today? I'm going to…I have to…things."

"…Right," Neville agreed cautiously when Ron and Hermione failed to respond. "I'll walk to up to the Infirmary now, Harry. Do you want to take your stuff?"

Harry sat there in silence for a moment longer, before his face frowned in concentration and he stood to leave the table. He stumbled, a stray foot catching on a corner, but didn't seem to notice as he lurched forward blankly.

"Harry! Harry, wait!" Neville called, as Harry tottered off in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. "I'll come with you, not that way. Come on."

Harry felt his wrist grasped by his good friend, and let himself be guided along the corridors, his mind in a frantic whirl and his stomach churning. His half-eaten breakfast now seemed like a horrible idea.

He'd killed Profession Quirrell, Harry had finally realised with cold shock. He'd murdered him. On purpose. He'd planned it.

He let out a hysterical little giggle as Neville kept him upright through sheer force. All that panic about Lockhart's curse, but Harry had already done it to someone! What was the point of worrying?

Harry let himself be guided by Neville's firm grasp as they tottered towards the Infirmary and, hopefully, a Calming Draught or two.

He was a murderer, the thought sank in.

Not like before, when everything was an accident. No, this timeline round he'd gone into things with eyes wide open. He'd known Quirrell would die at the end of first year; known that his touch would be fatal.

And he planned for it anyway. Knowing the outcome in advance and plotting it all out for his convenience. Premeditated and everything.

That irritatingly familiar ringing in his ears came back as Harry's mind whirled and he stubbed his toe against something on the floor. Neville's warm hands – they were good hands, Harry thought; he could always rely on Neville – took a moment to rearrange themselves and then gripped him more firmly.

Death Eaters were the murderers; Harry was sure he'd been on the other side. He'd assumed all this time that he was one of the good guys!

Heat retreated from his hands and feet, leaving his whole body cold and numb. Harry noticed blankly, as Neville's firm grip supported him slowly onwards, that his body had somehow begun trembling. Long, rolling shudders racked his body as his feet faltered onwards, one unsteady step after another. Neville's firm grip on his one wrist became a firm grip on a wrist and elbow, as Harry found the world tilt around him again and the increasingly worried Neville lifted, supported, hustled him upstairs.

He was doing this all wrong.

How had he not planned for this? What else had he done? Or not done?