Rise or Fall

by Etmunin

A new opportunity was presented to the fallen archangel. While it is neither a good nor a bad one, what is to come of it will nonetheless seal the fate of everything. But he doesn't know about it. How should he? After all, it happened nine months before Harry Potter was born. Genfic, no romance (The story's not dead the author's just slow)

6. I - Of Ups And Downs (and a troll)

Chapter 6: I - Of Ups and Downs (and a troll)

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•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The good thing about knowing Quirrell's whereabouts for the next two hours is that Harry can go everywhere he isn't. Which is one way to say he's ditching class.

Investigating this brick wall that appears to be a door at times had better be worth it. Then again, Harry could write sonnets for the Dursleys and it would be time better spent than in Quirrell's vicinity.

Staring at a wall it is, only that after a moment it isn't a wall anymore but a very real door. Dumbledore's words about the lethal third floor resurface, but by the time Harry's stopped to wonder if this is wise, he's already finding himself face to chest with someone's Gryffindor crest.

Harry jumps back but his back hits unyielding wall - he'll have to figure out how that works later - as does Fred Weasley, who bumps into a trunk that has seen better times. Both do double takes.

"Lookie what we've got here, dear brother of mine!", Fred exclaims and if it weren't for the edge to his grin, his tone would sell. "A little snake, though not just any one of 'em."

George is standing some way off and interrupts what he was doing, which was freezing the floor, the final touch to the untimely winter wonderland they brought upon this corridor. The trunk at Freds feet leaks some old winter robes, the likes of which the nearby armours are buried in. Fake snow twirls around.

"Like wotcher seein'?"

"Hm. I'm not big on fashion but come on."

"No fan of early Christmases? Excuse our shortcomings-"

"-we of the Weasley line apologize for not meeting house snake's swanky expectations. Shame on us and our children's children."

Harry is not quite sure they're on the same page of sarcasm as him. For good measure he cranks it up a notch by putting on a parody of an unnamed someone's haughty tone.

"It's quite alright. I'd make a fool of myself expecting house lion to have standards at all."

Fred blinks and George makes a motion as if he's listening to something faraway.

"What do mine lugholes hark? Was that a display of something that, under normal circumstances, could be considered humorous?"

"Except that can't be. For being slithery snakes the sticks up their collective rears are surprisingly stiff."

This, of all things, is what outright insults Harry and he drops the act.

"Excuse you, that's not a nice way to put it. Also, give me some credit."

"...Right. Wasn't there a fad about you being some especially special someone? George, help me remember, my mind fails me."

"Yes, Fred", retorts Fred, "your mind really fails you."

This time Harry's the one on the wrong page. "Wait, I thought you were Fred and you were George", he states, pointing them out.

It's sobering to see the twins straighten up, dead serious all of a sudden and exchanging grave looks.

"He knows to tell us apart."

"He's too dangerous to walk freely."

As one, they turn and smile sweetly at him.

"Pray tell, ickle Harrykins-"

"-aren't you supposed to be somewhere else, like, say, class?"

"I could ask you the same."

"At which point we'd answer that year three has a free period. Our little brother, and in turn year one, doesn't."

"About that" Harry shrugs, "funny thing I won't elaborate on-"

Which is when another problem comes crashing trough, loudly announced by Lee Jordan, who rounds the corner in a hurry, panting "Guys, Filch's comin-" He spots Harry. "-wait, is that-where'd he come from?"

"Come to think, that's a good question..."

"The wall", Fred answers. "Let's go!"

Nobody gets far. Although it is in no way a physical wall, the edge of the glistening ice the twins laid the floor out with serves as an effective stop. Harry would risk a step but Jordan's nervousness as his eyes flit between his own feet and the ice in front of him keeps him from doing so.

"That's the permaice spell you've been working on all summer, no?", Jordan asks. "I'm not stepping foot on that unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Filch is on the warpath, out for our heads and intestines."

"But right now, the spell you two worked all summer long on looks just as friendly to me."

George slumps his head. "Our prowess has outgrown us."

"Hey", Harry calls to attention from where he moved to stand in front of the wall and he doesn't let the increasing sounds of someone very angry drawing closer distract him. "We can risk it or we can risk it. If this door doesn't open in the next three seconds, ice-skating it is."

They do double takes, save for Fred, who already did his earlier. He just flashes a grin and points at his befuddled brother.

"No matter what lies he'll tell, I always believed in you mate!"

At the sound of rock grinding against rock they spur into action. Furious cursing is the last anyone hears before the door closes.

"This looks too close to the dungeons for my liking. Where exactly are we?", Jordan asks with narrowed eyes. He is patted on the shoulder by Fred.

"Worry not, best friend of ours-"

"-for one is never truly lost inside Hogwarts if you just so happen to be with those who know their way around best", George, who appeared on Jordan's other side, finishes. Harry watches them march off.

"Where were you?", Parkinson later asks as she is the first to spot him trying to inconspicuously mingle back in. Inconspicuousness goes to die on a hill and the looks he gets are the flowers on its grave.

"Obviously not with you. By the way, did you know there's that one hidden passway that opens alternately between when you need it and least expect it? And there's that one painting that..."

He avoided Quirrell, the day was going great. He's not avoiding Snape, the evening is not going great. "Potter. Professor Snape wants to have a word with you", Prefect Buckminster says. "Do you know where his office is at?"

He now knows that. Also, up close, Snape's teeth are yellow.

"It has been brought to my notice that you didn't deign to appear to your Defense classes today. Perhaps something as mundane as education is beneath the great Potter himself?"

'Been brought to my notice'? Someone reported him. Who?

This time around it's just Snape and Harry can maintain eye contact easily. And he can see by the way Snape fights to not avert his own after a long moment that it has some kind of effect, one quickly masked by a stern glare and even sterner tone.

"Unless your excuse is grand enough to justify your absence, in which case I want to hear it."

And Harry grinds to a halt.

"I thought as much.", Snape continues after Harry's silence. "Starting Friday you will serve your detention with me in the Potions classroom from six to eight for the rest of the week. Should you fail to show up to classes anew, let it be said that Slytherin doesn't need students like you. Dismissed."

When Harry is traversing the empty halls, his thinking picks up again and he wonders. There is an unreadable tangle in his head - another one, that is - and it's connected to why he doesn't take the chance and open up. Not necessarily to Snape, Professor McGonagall or Dumbledore maybe. Open up about Quirrell. Himself.

Because Quirrell brings something out in him. An unknown sense that picks up the man's wrongness, a repeatedly forgotten voice in his mind that won't drop it, and Harry has tried to recognise, to remember. To not feel like a stranger in his own head.

(Oh no, his identity is all he has left and he can't afford to loose it. This is him, reduced, but him nonetheless)

(He just lets himself walk among humanity. He spectates, intervenes sometimes and otherwise he lets himself drift along in this so-called life)

(Because sometimes he is conscious enough to fully wake up, to go from a dream to a waking moment. To move, maybe talk a little...)

(...and sometimes something else is conscious, enough to look at what's ahead of him and what's in his past, to question, to doubt-)

('NO')

(...)

(This again? He is Lucifer. He has not sunk so low as to allow for his last freedom to be taken, the name he chose for himself. And he won't allow it to become a problem again)

Harry can just so stop himself from running into a wall.

That would've been another blackout, for lack of a better term. An especially... impactful one. Not the worst he's had, the one that left him at war with himse- no. Not that. Something else, just as unreachable.

Harry presses the palms to the sides of his head with an enraged groan, as if that is enough to break whatever barriers separate him from himself.

A simple 'yes' or 'no' are too little for him, he takes both. On one hand, he isn't any the wiser. On the other, he is. Of course he keeps quiet about Quirrell, how can he hope for others to understand him when he himself doesn't? That first evening turned out so well, after all.

That's where the trusty method of shoving everything aside and continuing to go about the day comes in. He'd get lost otherwise.

But why is he still fuming with anger?

"I can smell you're pissed ten meters against the wind" is not what Malfoy says but "Whose blood are you out for, walking around like that?" carries the same energy. He's with Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle.

Right, someone got Harry in trouble with Snape, simple as that.

"Thing is, I don't know", he answers while his almost-glare sweeps over them. It settles back on Malfoy and Harry jerks his head to the side. "A word." Malfoy exchanges a glance with Parkinson before following.

"Someone went to Snape and told on my absence today", Harry states, awaiting Malfoy's reaction.

He gives a minute twitch of his eyebrow. "I figured as much", he says. "And you're telling me this because..."

"Someone stuck their nose somewhere it doesn't belong, thought it was their business to interfere with mine, and I'm not all too happy. About. It", in his anger, Harry has neglected inhaling and his last words are tinged with a venomous hiss. Funnily enough, it doesn't quite subside when he continues.

"Then again, what am I saying? It could just as well have been Quirrell himself who went out of his way to get me in more trouble than he himself already is. There's one way to find that out, namely seeing if Snape catches wind of it again and follows trough on expelling me if I ditch again, because I sure as hell won't step foot into a classroom with that thing!"

Malfoy stands still, is just watching Harry intently and something about his furrowed expression seems blank. His calmness is measured.

"Don't you think you're overreacting a notch there?"

Something is rubbed wrong and that something wants to reach out and smother Malfoy right where he stands. Taken by surprise by what venomous emotion rears up inside him, subduing it knocks the wind out of the sails of Harry's anger.

"What I think", he answers with notably less force, "is that'd I'd be glad if you'd let the others know not to get mixed up in my business."

Malfoy, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, takes a moment to answer.

"Alright, this favour I will do you. Next time though, you can talk civilly, it won't kill you to. If that would have been all..."

Harry's non-reaction to his turning away is what he takes at his cue to saunter off, leaving Harry with the sense that something went wrong somewhere. He needs to get out, clear his head somewhere much more spacious.

...And somehow that brings him to the Forbidden Forest's edge?

Where the trees stand almost impossibly tall, are like an entrance to a whole other world at once. The night is clear and autumn's cold is starting to come in.

Yeah, no wonder it did.

He starts walking. Before he knows it, Hogwarts' lights can only be made out with hardship from between the thick branches. He takes another step. All sorts of creatures may lurk around him but none of them can actually endanger him.

He takes a step back.

What is he thinking?

Harry is nothing compared to what sharp fangs and razor claws his fear tells him lingers in the dark undergrowth his eyes and ears are too dull to explore. This forest is literally no walk in the park, from the moment he passed its treeline he should have known this unkempt vegetation is as wild as its audible residents.

He takes a step back but when he is out of the woods his unsatisfied intrigue takes the edge off his fear. He'll return.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Before he can start to worry about laundry, Harry learns the following night how it's dealt with, starting with a shriek.

He jerks up and has drawn his bed's curtain away in the same motion. That still isn't quick enough to catch more than a blurry glimpse of something that is gone the next second. Once he has his glasses on, Harry has some dim light to recognise that his trunk is opened.

There is shuffling and sleep-drunken groans to be heard from the other corners of the dim room.

Harry gets up. Next to the opened trunk, on the ground and spread wide from where it unfolded, is the old crayon drawing. It's facing upward.

"What was that.."

"Bl- these house elves are supposed to work quietly-" Of course Malfoy would know what a house elf's shriek sounds like.

"Potter, is that you?"

"Yah, just a second."

Harry takes the drawing and searches the trunk for the jeans it was in but comes up empty. In his half asleep state, that's where his line of thought ends. He folds the drawing back and tucks it in the crevice between mattress and bedframe.

In the morning, he checks if it's still there. It is, it wasn't a dream. When Harry opens his trunk, he finds his clothes washed and folded, including the jeans the drawing was in.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Yesterday he evaded Defense again and today will show if his detention will fatten up with that. Fun. Harry, making the most of Quirrell's momentary absence, inhales his breakfast and ignores the miffed, eerily Petunia-like looks that gets him.

After the curse of the man's presence comes and goes, it's time they head back down because their Potions classrooms are in the dungeons.

Snape looks as approachable as ever, which is good, his view on Harry hasn't been brought further down by another tattletale. He is so approachable, he even initiates conversation.

...And Harry finds himself at a loss as to what could be gotten by adding powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood.

That his thinking veers off into all the wrong directions doesn't help either. Some part of him is bent on taking apart Snape's questions word for word to reveal some deeper meaning Harry is quite sure isn't there.

(That's a language and he's listening)

"Will you have us wait all year with answering?", Snape makes himself known.

"No, sir. I don't know."

"Tut, tut - fame clearly isn't everything. Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

This one's clear of ambiguity and Harry even remembers reading that.

"Goat stomach."

"That is no adequate way to answer a question. Do it right this time. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

(Is that it? He expected nothing, but still-)

That hunch again, this time stronger.

"Nothing? Thought you wouldn't-"

"The difference between monkshood and wolfsbane," Harry interrupts, "is the name. They're the same plant."

After a brief silence on Snape's part, the man narrows his eyes.

"How convenient that you already have amassed detention with me. We will have to work on your tone."

After being around Slytherins, the Gryffindors barely attempting to conceal their stares grows even more obvious. And that there is a different glint to some of his housemate's expressions grows apparent too. Harry suspects something they know that he doesn't happened here.

After class, Malfoy sheds light on the situation.

It's simple, really. Certainly one of the more harmless old wizarding practices, to communicate on a more sophisticated level with the other nobles who would know the deeper meaning behind a bundle of flowers. With each individual flower representing a certain meaning, selecting and arranging a bouquet with that in mind can certainly be called a language.

It may not be his business to look into what goes between Professor Snape and Potter, but that Professor Snape was so obvious about it and only made a minute attempt to cover his tracks with the bezoar question gives incentive enough to nudge Potter in the right direction.

Because of course he wouldn't know about it. So Malfoy, who doesn't particularly feel like deflecting something sharp, keeps his tone neutral when he informs him of the Language of Flowers.

His almost pleasant explanation gets him insight on the other's out loud musings as he doesn't have his guard raised:

"-language by way of flower, why not... yes. There was that double meaning to what he said and if these plants he mentioned stand for something..."

"Did I understand that right?", Malfoy interrupts. "You have never heard of the Language of Flowers yet you knew that Professor Snape was transmitting you a message?"

Harry shrugs.

"What can I say, I'm a natural at things I didn't know are a thing."

"You make less sense by the day."

"That's what I tell myself too."

None having really intended to say what they said out loud, Harry and Malfoy exchange one awkward glance before moving on to pretend this never happened.

At the end of the day Harry sets out to find the library he knows Hogwarts can't possibly not have and that's when he has a precise amount of zero ideas in which of the few dozen directions to head. He did take on to snoop around the castle- failed to meet the twins again, sadly- but Hogwarts is vast and the many weird doorways haven't yet led him to the library.

Asking for help it is, then. Except that no familiar face sits at the Slytherin table with him during dinner, the one meal not attended by everybody at once due to no classes taking place anymore. He may avoid Quirrell, still the same is true for his yearmates. But the Gryffindor table has somebody.

Somehow it rubbed off on him to refer to others by their last name. He walks over to Granger.

"Wha- right. The library. Yes, I can show you where it is", she startles out of the book she was engulfed in. He knew he could count on her in that regard.

"Wait, it's this way?", Harry asks once they get going. "We've only passed normal doors. That can't be it."

"I'm not sure what you're trying to say."

"You know", Harry shrugs, "all these entrances that are hidden in one weird way or another? Stuff like the painted door in a portrait you can actually open and it lets you out near the Astronomy tower? Figuring that one out was fun..."

"Ooh, you mean the secret passages", she answers and her eyes light up. "Hogwarts: A History is full of implications that the castle is full of them but they don't bother to list even one, the audacity. Did you know that also according to Hogwarts: A History our library among the largest and richest wizarding ones worldwide? Large doesn't even begin to describe it, actually."

"Sounds like an improvement over my old school's. There's a point when the simple school textbooks just don't cut it anymore, you know? Like, I'm curious about the topics in there. I want to know more. But they don't elaborate."

"You think so too?", she says and her eyes light up some more. "Because I completely understand where you're coming from! I sometimes even brought my own books to read but the others- anyway. I almost forgot you must have gone to a nonmagical school too..."

"Yeah... oh."

"What?"

"Don't laugh because I'm only thinking of this now but... what about the other school stuff? I mean, as far as I've seen we'll only be learning the ins and outs of magic from now on, no?"

"Yes! Exactly! That! I talked about it with another girl in my year yesterday -Parvati Patil, she grew up without magic too- and all she had to say was that she was glad that we don't have maths anymore. Can you believe it?"

"...Hm. Unbelievable."

She comes to a stop and opens an almost ridiculously tall door. "We're here."

"We're- what?"

"I told you it was large."

"What?"

"Shush. The librarian will throw you out if you're too loud. She hears everything."

"Ok. Thanks, Granger."

"Please say Hermione. It's... better. Oh and you're welcome."

"Right. I'm just Harry then."

And Hermione's way back is spent repeatedly going over her parting words. Because she, the long-time withdrawn bookworm, had a normal conversation with a classmate. From start to finish. In a magic school.

Meanwhile, it has taken Harry an embarrassingly long time and a tongue-lashing from the librarian to put back the mountains of books he left laying around and focus strictly on what he's here for.

And after plowing trough an old tome's painstaking gothic font, he has it: Asphodel is a lily meaning 'remembered beyond the tomb.' Wormwood is associated with regret and bitterness. Monkshood or wolfsbane, the general dislike of others, misanthropy.

Harry now only needs to stick the different meanings together to make sense.

'Regret because of the tomb' or 'regret the tomb'? Right, there's still the 'remembered' part- it must refer to someone. 'Remember' some person 'beyond their tomb' and 'regret'. 'Regret some person's death'. But how does 'dislike of others' come in? Then again, this is Snape talking here and that sure is the case with him. Only that Harry still doesn't see any sense in it. He turns his attention to the last missing piece.

Whose death is being regretted?

Time and time again Harry runs over the page with all the meanings until the complicated gothic font isn't what trips him up but something else.

'Asphodel is a lily-' Yes, but why does he stop there?

...Right. Lily. His mother's name was Lily.

'I regret Lily's death.'

"You have your mother's eyes."

The fact that Snape doesn't fully meet his gaze.

Monkshood.

Could it be?

It's... certainly something. Mind reeling, Harry snaps the book closed and puts it back in its place, he doesn't know what to think so he thinks nothing. Next time he sees Snape- which should have been half an hour ago he's late for detention he's screwed-

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"Your Potions assignment is thrice the required length already", Malfoy states the next Saturday morning.

Harry collapses into his arms, all over said assignment, and mumbles something.

"I didn't catch that."

"I said that's what I get for arriving late to detention with Snape."

"Professor Snape if you don't want said detention to prolong."

"Yeah, yeah... At least those sweet free periods I have Tuesday and Thursday will make up for it again."

Those are the days they have Defense. Malfoy rolls his eyes at Potter who looks like he would spill ink over his slaved over papers any minute now, had that laughable muggle quill of his not worked differently.

"That's the longest parchment I have ever seen. Where did you get a parchment that long?", is how Nott greets them sometime later.

"Combined it out of several lengths myself", Harry answers. "I have some practice mending paper."

"What's even on it?"

Malfoy, busy with his own, significantly shorter homework, keeps an open ear.

"My Potions assignment."

"You don't look exhausted enough for someone who wrote such a long piece."

Still too short to properly show up Snape but Harry refrains from saying that.

"No big problem, really", is what he says instead. "Potions isn't half bad by itself. It's actually a bit like chemistry, now that I think about it..."

At that point, Malfoy jumps in.

"You did not seriously compare the refined art of Potionbrewing to muggles mixing liquid stink trying to cure death."

Potter looks positively gobsmacked, even fumbling to connect an answer. Meanwhile, Nott takes a seat.

"What?", he finds his words eventually. "That's what you think chemistry is? That was maybe some centuries ago, just- what? Science has advanced so much, it's about understanding the world and making the best of it, it's so much more than that-"

"Oh, so they're going for the absolute truth now too?", Malfoy continues relentlessly. It's about time Potter lost his illusion with the muggle ways and had his eyes opened to what true power is. "Muggles are blind worms. They look under rocks for enlightenment but when they are faced with it, with us, they are too dull to really comprehend and appreciate it. Muggle science is a bunch of weak attempts to replicate our magic and no true wizard should disgrace himself and pay any mind to that."

There's the beginning of a frown to Potter's expression but that misplaced shock still hasn't faded, Malfoy will have some more work to do. But for now, he lets him take the word.

"...That's just. Just so wrong. The sciences explain the world and put that knowledge to use. They explain why everything is like it is and how it can even function in the first place. Do you sneer at the air you breathe because making a sense of that is part of this 'muggle blindness' too?"

"I fail to see what more there is to be explained about the air. Magic provides everything one could possibly wish, there simply is no need to chase insane notions about air. We have our magic, not the weak, simple world without it."

Some fight has returned to Potter's tone.

"And because you don't bother to look at what you don't see", he says, "you'll never know how nonmagicals found ways to harness a force that isn't magic, that can still either power or destroy entire cities."

"Hah, as if", Malfoy sneers. "There is nothing that can second the power of magic like that."

This again. Harry sighs. Should he ever get a hold of a computer that works here, Malfoy will join Zabini.

"You know what?", Malfoy continues more amicable, because he learned yesterday that talking to Potter in a way that doesn't raise his guard gains him insight, "If I was in your place, I would carry that doubt too. Because you haven't seen everything to magic, only what they want you to see."

Yes, it's coming together now and Malfoy feels Nott's careful gaze on him. But he doesn't look away from Potter in fear of breaking this delicate spell because after all, the latter is listening.

"There's been a purge on our world's knowledge in recent years, after the fall of You-Know-Who." And if that isn't a conversation for another time but now, Malfoy needs to take small first steps. "The general public rejects everything that has to do with a certain brand of magic, the Dark Arts they call it. Not that I can blame them-" small steps, again, "-but the extent of it all is over the top. We aren't preventing wrong practices from falling into wrong hands, we are hindering ourselves."

Potter looks curious. Unobstructedly curious and Malfoy is almost unnerved by how easy this is.

"You mean certain spells, charms and whatnot are forbidden, even if they function perfectly well, just because they're dubbed 'Dark'?"

"Yes."

"Now that just sounds dumb..."

Malfoy has to actively reign his enthusiasm in. "Exactly. Take for example sanguine magic - that means blood magic. Of course it's only called that when one lifts the broad cover of 'Dark Arts' thats applied to everything slightly inconvenient. It could make for painfully effective wards but because the Wizengamot voted on behalf of a paranoid public, it's banned and we have to spend energy painstakingly designing other kinds of runic wards that are harder to maintain and don't function as well."

"And it's forbidden because..?"

"Because people are iffy when it comes to blood and that was enough to develop into full-on aversion."

"And you're sure people aren't against it because of the means that blood is extracted?", Potter asks in a light tone that garishly contradicts the sharpness in his gaze as he zeroes in on Malfoy. "It doesn't have to be, I don't know, forcefully drained from someone?"

"Tch. Of course not."

"If I can take your word for it, then forbidding something this effective really sounds painfully stupid..."

"Whatever harvesting nightmares you may have come across have little basis in reality", Malfoy states. "There are too many outrageous misconceptions surrounding this field and many others, which only needlessly adds to the dislike."

"You know a lot about that."

"It comes with being in a position like mine. And I'm open to questions of all kind. If you have any preconceived notions about a certain subject, I will gladly shed light on the matter for you and, like with sanguine magic, you'll find that many other branches are not as dark as they're made out to be. You don't need to shun them."

Harry looks at Malfoy. At Nott. And doesn't bother to subdue the snide grin. "No no, don't make assumptions. I keep a certain open-mindedness when a new subject I know absolutely nothing about is presented to me. If it can't be discarded as useless from the get-go, you never know what doors can be opened with something new."

Because it all went so well, Malfoy can't ruin that by reacting to the bait in any way other than the minute twitch of his eyelid.

"That's good to hear."

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Later, the others think that's good to hear too, when Nott and Malfoy recount the progress made.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Below him an expanse of white and blue, above him the canvas of stars. But how very misleading he knows that term to be, there is nothing remotely resembling a canvas - a flat, dead thing - out there.

The universe is alive with the ringing of gravity, radiation of all kinds, the cosmic noise and, with him rising higher and higher, Earth's backlit curve glints him goodbye, he is going home.

His awareness is almost all-encompassing but his destination is what lies beyond the physical fabric of spacetime and he beats his wings to-

Wings?

What wings?

There is nothing.

He will not be able so see the stars much longer and his gaze reaches out longingly, like the bond of history between him and the celestial bodies he helped create and guide will be enough to hold him up.

Except the burning, flaring lights above him are no longer stars and a very different, infinitely stronger bond that branches and connects him and his kin is ruptured, as not only the pull of below drags him downwards, something- someone pushes him down.

His wings are failing him and he is falling.

But can it be called falling? What other word is there for when the one he only ever relied on to help him up brings him down?

The impact is hard.

Painful, his entire side aches.

But it went so very deeper back then.

When he pries his eyes open he sees light reflecting off a stone floor and illuminating emerald carpets. He didn't expect to be able to see anything but this is good, this soothes him, just enough that he can feel like getting up from the floor next to his bed and make it to the bathroom in time.

The cupboard ('-only what it was reminiscent of') was bad but he never wants to experience something like whatever that was ever again.

He bends and hacks over the sink again and pries one hand from its death grip on the edge away to shakily turn the water on. It washes the remnants of his panic away but the ones in his face are mercilessly thrown back at him by the mirror.

Still, Harry doesn't quite pry his gaze away from it.

There is a mind behind this face, controlling every last twitch it gives. Harry raises a hand up and inspects it. This is his. Just his and no one else's at no other point because he was born with this body and no, he acquired it is no way to put it, what even.

When it gets weird enough even for him, he gets out and tries to catch some more sleep. Except he can't seem to wipe a grin off his face and the farther his rude awakening lies back, the giddier he feels himself becoming.

Today is the day. Flight class.

Which also seems to be the answer to everything; He can't sit still - flight class. He forgets about keeping silent and earns himself some pretty heated glares- he doesn't care because flight class. "What has you this excited this early in the morning!?" "Flight class!" The pang of something in his chest as he catches sight of that snake portrait above the fireplace again- it's outweighed by the constant throbbing of flight class in his stomach.

"You're still going?", Nott asks at one point, sounding like an old man rather than an exasperated noble heir.

"You all look just jolly", Greengrass greets them, her and the other girls joining them one by one at breakfast.

"You would too, if your roommate forgot how not to behave like a flight-deprived owl and woke you up with that", Zabini groans from where he tries not to spill his milk while pouring it over his cereal.

"Hey now", Harry pipes up. "Although, yeah, flight-deprived describes it pretty well, I'll give you that."

"I didn't see you this excited about it yesterday", Zabini says.

"But now I am!"

"And while you're at it, did you change your mind on Quidditch as well?", Malfoy asks.

"Nope. I still can't get how you're more excited about Quidditch than flying."

"You don't see me fawning over the act of holding a wand while ignoring the spells I could cast."

"You're saying you can fly so perfectly well already?"

"He's been generously sharing as much with us", Nott butts in. "Which, I can't get how you haven't picked up on it."

Because pushing him would be unsightly, Malfoy lets a glare do the job of making Nott go away.

"Yes, I for one already know all there is about flying", Malfoy grins after making sure he has an audience that includes Potter this time around. "And the beginner classes will be an absolute torture for me, because we will have to stay in sight of the ground and I usually prefer to have the clouds below me."

"That's interesting", Harry remarks, leaning forward. "How often and for how long do you usually fly up there?"

"It depends. I couldn't always fit it in my busy schedule but when I did, I felt so well, the day could pass. The night too, actually, but Mother wouldn't want me away that long."

"And how didn't you fall off the broom?"

"The best brooms, and you'll have to take my word for it because the ones this school has to offer aren't it, take care of everything. Not that I ever needed it, you'd have to either be a pillock or fall asleep on a broom to fall off."

"Everything? So does the broom keep you warm?"

Malfoy scoffs. "Robes are something that exists."

"Does the broom help you breathe?"

"What?"

"Is the broom charmed to keep air pressure steady around you?"

"If you're going for a lark, it's not working."

"Is there other equipment that does all these things for you?"

"Who in their right mind would want that?"

"You didn't do what you said you did, did you?"

"I-what?"

"You saw the clouds from above you say, for an extended period of time you say, without feeling unwell. Without taking the precautions I asked you of, that's really unlikely."

"And just what makes you say that?"

"At such high altitudes there isn't enough air to breathe properly and that does nasty things to you."

"That doesn't make any sense. You made that up."

"Fine then. If you don't believe me, let's go to someone who just so happens to have made up the same thing as I."

"What do you think you're doing?"

But Harry knows exactly what he thinks he is doing, channeling all his excess energy into coercing Malfoy to stand up and follow along, not by dragging him, but by somehow managing to be in all the directions he doesn't want the other to take, leaving only the one way for him to walk. Crabbe and Goyle make moves to follow suit but one glance from Harry has them sitting back down.

Watching them depart to Potter knows where, Greengrass finishes enjoying a long sip of juice before asking "Should we...?"

"I say we watch this unfold", Nott answers. Zabini is already crunching on his cereal, which is the closest food to popcorn Hogwarts has.

"No", Harry appears to Malfoy's left when he attempts to evade to that side. "There's no escaping knowledge-", he says to the right "-and there's only so much wrong a single person can take", he finishes to the left again, cutting off Malfoy's final and most eager attempt to escape as the latter realised they're approaching the Gryffindor table and its occupants have noticed that.

"Hello, Hermione", Potter greets and the only thing keeping Malfoy in place is the need to look like he has everything under control in front of the mudbloods.

"I think I need a little reminder about how altitude sickness works", Harry says. "Can you help me out there?"

"...Altitude sickness?", Hermione asks, brow furrowed and looking between the two. "Uh, of course. The higher up we go, the less oxygen we will have at our disposal because the atmosphere grows thinner."

"Yeah, that was how it worked. Also, isn't it so that a lack of oxygen is generally, like, really hard on the body?"

"That's right. Headaches, dizziness and chest pains are among the symptoms."

"Thank you."

At which point Malfoy has had enough, turns on his heel and marches decidedly and uninterrupted back, robes billowing impressively behind him.

"I'm sure he's grateful too, somewhere deep...", Harry remarks with a look to where he left.

"Of course", Hermione states dryly. But the faint traces of a smile in the making ease up her features a little. "I'm not going to ask what that was about."

"Appreciated."

"Did you learn about it last school year too?"

"Before moving on to the cycle of water - speaking of moving on. No welcome for me here and I managed to overstay it", Harry lets his gaze trail over the many others on him -many curious, others hostile to varying degrees, some are averted- and looks back at Hermione. "See you."

She nods slowly and looks at his retreating form before silently resuming to review her notes over breakfast.

Back at the table Harry is about to continue being chipper, much to the chagrin of everyone else, but then his face abruptly falls into a dangerously blank mask.

"Finally, his Finite Incantatem", Malfoy huffs as a turbaned figure enters the hall.

As quickly as it came, it wears off again. Classes are fun. The way time drags to the point every step they take toward the training fields outside feels impossibly long isn't.

After three eternities they have finally lined up with their brooms. Why does Madam Hooch take this long to correct every last person's grip, can't they just take off alrea-

Harry stops.

They will take off. They will fly up high enough for a fall to hurt.

Suddenly his grip isn't that steady anymore and his enthusiasm has dampened considerably. In realtime Harry feels his rolling excitement break down into something that settles suffocatingly in his gut and chest.

Right, he could always fall off... loose control of what keeps him up high, fall and seriously injure himself...

He isn't that dismissive of Madam Hooch anymore and watches on as she corrects a grudgy Malfoy's grip. The grip she teaches makes sense, seems good. Besides, there's the "you'd have to be a pillock to fall off"-part.

But then why does this anxiety not subside? It felt great when he was anticipating all this, why is it being ruined now?

On Madam Hooch's "three-" he fastens his grip and decides to press forward nonetheless.

On "two-" he wavers again.

Before "one-" can even hit, the decision is taken out of his own hands.

He watches as the figure looses control over what brought it high up into the air and he sees it fall, accelerate downward. Harry genuinely and unobstructedly feels sorry for Longbottom as he and his broken wrist are escorted to the Hospital Wing.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

In a way it's jarring to see the others not be on the same wavelength. And watching his housemates snicker around Malfoy, it strongly rubs Harry the wrong way.

"Shut up, Malfoy," a Gryffindor girl snaps.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" says Parkinson. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

"Look!" Malfoy exclaims, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

"Quit it, Malfoy. Give that back!"

Tension lies heavy in the air and everyone picks up on it. Cackles and murmurs cease and a ring of spectators starts forming around Malfoy and Ron, who spoke up.

"Do I hear a little weasel squeak? I feel generous today", Malfoy says, holding his palm up and displaying the white cloudy glass ball. Harry remembers what that is, which would be funny at any other time.

"If you're so bent on it, Weasley, I'll let you have it. It should be enough to double your family's fortune."

This is getting real ugly, not only on Malfoy's part but on Ron's as well, he and the Gryffindors around him take on an angry shade of red.

"You are a slimy git", Ron spits. "As if your family didn't make it big only under You-Know-Who and-"

"That's enough, both of you."

Harry has stepped in between the two sides. For a moment they hesitate before movement picks up again. The Gryffindors talk and point.

"See? It only took, what, a week? And he's already the picture-perfect Slytherin."

"But- he can't be. He's the one who defeated You-Know-Who, he can't-"

"We don't know how he did that..."

"C'mon, you're not really suggesting a baby already knew some dark stuff, don't be stupid."

"I'm just saying, what if-"

Ron redirects his glare at Harry.

"This isn't about you, stay out", he spits.

The Slytherins move in, as if to shield Harry but one look from Zabini and a hushed "Don't do this" from Greengrass and Harry knows better. Interesting, how their seemingly uncoordinated movements to go stand behind Malfoy somehow also end up having Harry at the back, gripping his broom in frustration.

"Were were you, Weasley?", Malfoy taunts. "Trying to explain the lowliness of your family away by painting mine as-"

And in a flash of black Ron and Malfoy jump apart.

It's hard to tell if what they felt wafting in their faces when it passed between them in the blink of an eye was the black material of Potter's robes or the burst of air he generated.

There's a glint in his eyes as he touches down and has his broom hanging over his shoulder in a single motion that keeps anyone from reacting. And Malfoy from thinking about his balled fist, which is empty, where Potter's seems to contain something and when did that happen.

"Are you done?", Harry grins because he can't fight it away, not when his heart is beating so wildly it almost hurts but in a good way.

He doesn't feel like waiting for reactions, one moment to the next he has drawn and straddled the broom and is pressing it for its fullest speed. He weaves his way trough the thick of the groups, never touching anyone because he knows how to maneuver, has always known and he found to it again.

Harry only sees the flinches of those who jump out of his way in the baseless fear that he might crash into them in his lateral vision, because by the time they react he's already zooming past them. He takes note of the glee bubbling up in him but doesn't laugh, it'd distract.

When he lands the second time, next to a startled Hermione, it happens even more organically than before; The instant his feet touch down, Harry has drawn the broom to the side and is lifting it over his shoulder one-handedly. Folding it behind his back.

"I trust you're the sane one here?", Harry half asks Hermione. "Take the-"

He freezes.

It's silent, enough so to almost hear the sound of glass faintly cracking.

Because the brightest areas on the remembrall in Harry's hand are where the sun coerces a dark crimson out of the red so deep it appears black and the fissure cracks in the glass pick up on and reflect that.

These things aren't supposed to do that, right? Harry looks around and the stunned looks directed at the orb he's still holding out are answer enough.

Strangely enough, Harry feels himself growing ecstatic.

They see it too. A laugh almost escapes him, it's not all just in his head but in his hand too. Here, he holds the definite, the visible, the tangible evidence that whatever it is with him, it's... real.

As light as his relief was, as heavy is his dread when he realises by everyone's increasingly disconcerted looks that they see it too.

His first impulse is to smash the thing to pieces and out of existence, out of sight, out of his mind. His second isn't.

"So, uh, you want to give it back to Longbottom or...", Harry murmurs, trying to take the stiffness out of it all. Trying to get Hermione, who looks too hesitant and unsure, to pocket away his inner workings that are painfully visible for all.

"I... don't think that remembrall will-"

The sharp crack is too late a warning, a burst of fleeting black that turns back to light red to white and then invisible leaves behind shatters of glass raining down and Harry and Hermione flinch back. Only Hermione straightens back up quickly and doesn't curl up around the arm pressed to her torso because her hand wasn't shredded by an arsenal of tiny glass projectiles.

"Oh my god, Harry-" she yelps and steps over the broom he dropped to see what she can do.

All around them, classmates are startled into movement too, only they bustle aimlessly around.

"Merlin..."

"Did you see what I saw?"

"What just happened?"

When the Slytherins reach them, Malfoy is the first to spit.

"Sod off, mudblood."

But Greengrass is the first to act, brushing past Malfoy and joining Hermione's side in front of Harry, who is too busy gritting his teeth as he inspects the damage to much acknowledge any of them.

"I know a spell", Greengrass says while she urges Hermione aside. "Episkey, it-"

"I wouldn't risk it," Nott states, "If there's shards, they'll get stuck."

And that's the story of how Harry gets to spend his first flying lesson higher up than anyone else, up in the Hospital Wing watching trough the window. At least he's with Neville, who sheds his meekness quite soon in conversation and turns out to be somewhat bubbly if he isn't shying away from something or someone. Make that one more person who won't point and stare weirdly at his house badge and scar.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

But on the other hand, a significant portion of the remaining student body does and does it all the more the following time. Whatever everyone's initial takeaway of Harry's first and last flying lesson was, partisan hindsight and the rumour mill serve to crystallise two things above all else:

Potter really did adapt to his absolutely unexpected and impossible house. And he is either tied to or hiding something big, big enough to burst a remembrall.

Naturally, because it's thanks to the nature of those students inclined to delve into wild fantasies, rumours escalate from there, and even who laughs at the mere idea of Harry Potter being You-Know-Who's secondcoming, finds themselves raising an eyebrow when catching one of those moments of too amicable inter-Slytherin bickering that aren't as rare when Potter isn't sitting at his (Slytherin) table like he's petrified, and if that isn't another source for gossip when there's no other aspect of the Boy-Who-Lived to microanalyse.

And Harry himself, he is annoyed. He doesn't know how he can shatter a remembrall either, so if other people could stop trying to explain that for him, please and thank you. As for the looks, shift in mood or not, he's used to them.

At least the Slytherins know not to stick their noses in his business anymore.

Hermione does too. Several instances of happening to come across each other in the library and doing homework side by side and she has yet to redirect her burning curiosity from the subjects they study to his person. He even ended up giving her his spare not-quill, so he doesn't have to focus on ignoring that horrible sound outside of class too. Nails on chalkboard have nothing on scratching quills.

How do they find the time? Turns out only the first hour of flight class is mandatory. And Malfoy was right, staying with the others who have to learn how to turn a broom around without loosing balance is not it. Hermione is his polar opposite, she can't fly for the life of her and is, for once, not keen on learning.

And Harry doesn't think about how it felt racing that broom, feeling the excitement before and during flight. It would mean he needs to deal with his terror of falling off from great heights as well.

It's an unreasonable fear, he knows, like he knows that it wasn't as pungent leading up to him flying, however briefly, but the farther that sentiment of innate joy lies back, the more his fear of it seems to grow again. And overshadow everything else. When he thinks too much about it, he instead turns to his books because learning makes him happy in a way as well.

(Even if it's plain unnecessary, he knows the ins and outs of Creation already, he was there after all)

That he feels his weariness waver more and more each time he catches sight of the Forbidden Forest but his fear of flying grow is also something that puzzles Harry.

One day he will go fly again, he knows where the brooms are kept. One day. For sure.

He will not, on the other hand waltz just like into the Forbidden Forest, no matter his curiosity.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Of all the creatures Harry anticipated in a mix between his uncanny guts to waltz just like that into the Forbidden Forest and his healthy respect for it, the Weasley twins aren't quite it.

"What hole did you slither out of?"

"Is it funny because I'm a Slytherin or because you have just as little a right to be here as me?"

"So rude, we meant that question literally. More or less."

"Because for our parts, we came out of the one that doesn't lead to the Whomping Willow."

Harry stares. Fred and George grin back.

Naturally, no encounter between them would be complete without the odd figure of authority coming their way. The three only don't know that yet, so their tense reactions to something heavy loudly breaking its way towards them trough the undergrowth are understandable.

"Yeh lot there! I kno' fer damn sure Dumbledore made that announcement 'bout the forest being forbidden an' it can't be that yeh've forgotten about it already!"

"Hagrid!", George greets warmly, relaxed once he's realised who it is, boarhound in tow. "Come join our merry band and I have no idea what that last thing you said was, could you please repeat it?"

But Hagrid is not available for quips today. His black eyes are suspiciously lacking in their usual warmth.

"Enough with them jokes now. Galloping Gorgons, yeh've worn my patience so thin, yeh can thank yer lucky stars I'm not dragging yeh all to Dumbledore right this instant. Follow me and don't try any funny business again or I'll change my mind."

Fred and George don't do so meekly, no, that's a tactical retreat to ensure their stay in Hagrid's good graces. Which they admit is bewildering and Fred voices as much to Harry.

"Huh, that's certainly something. He isn't usually as... less happy to see us, you get me?"

Harry has a sneaking suspicion and it helps that in the quiet air over their group, Hagrid is bound to hear them.

"Yeah no, I get that. I get that a lot, actually."

Fred and George aren't blind. Not to some of their housemates' newly-gained aversion to the saviour of the wizarding world and not to the barb in Harry's words. They share an unsure glance.

Hagrid isn't either. He knows exactly how conflicted he is to see the infant he delivered ten years ago grow into a member of the house he is most rejecting of, a mutual feeling.

And in that moment he knows he is a bloody idiot too. For him, Hagrid, allowing prejudice to guide his attitude against someone who never directly slighted him, who, on the contrary, was only ever nice and polite to him and didn't bother to address his otherness by way of whispering, pointing and gaping the way too many others do. Hagrid is becoming the someones he was bullied by himself, back in his own day.

A hefty slap to his forehead and the storm he cusses up only inwardly because there are children present should be enough to knock some sense into his own thick skull.

At the bewildered stares that gets him he just lets out a rumbling chuckle.

"I might've woken up on the wrong side this morning, eh? True that. 'M really, truly sorry about it." And when he says that, he looks at Harry. "But don't ye rascals take this as an invitation for more future adventures. This forest's still forbidden, and for reasons."

He steps aside, revealing the end of the forest trail and start of the Hogwarts grounds behind him.

"Now shoo."

The twins still look a little unsure but by the grin on Harry's face, this forest has acquired another regular visitor and Hagrid another student he has to chase out on a too regular basis.

Watching them walk off, he laughs a pained laugh, startling Fang, because he really doesn't know if this is good or bad.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"We-need-to-bloody-stop-meeting-like-this!", Harry pushes out between breaths as he struggles to keep up with Fred and George while they weave their way trough passways and doors easily on their longer legs, Filch on their tails.

One encounter with the explanation of what makes the third floor so dangerous later and the twins agree. But by then Harry is too busy contemplating the trap door under the three-headed monstrosity and why he picked up on Quirrell's presence in the otherwise unfrequented area.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

No seriously, what would be achieved by keeping the world's most dangerous guard dog in a school behind an unlocked door? Is that trap door unlocked as well? If so, that's no ward, that's an invitation.

Better yet. What is there that attracts Quirrell's attention?

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

It's at breakfast, when Harry gets on Malfoy's nerves by comparing his ardent love for the big Quidditch leagues to the nonmagical version of just that and has to counter the snark thrown back his way, that he notices something is wrong. Because nothing is wrong. Which is what's wrong.

Where's Quirrell?

"Merlin, first you're beside yourself whenever the jumpy fool comes around and now you're making a fuss because he doesn't?"

Harry doesn't like it one bit. But given the lack of what even to do, he resigns to wait.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

But what will come once the wait is done? Harry only knows that he likes the glaring absence of wrong just as little, maybe even less, because who knows what the man is up to, he certainly doesn't.

Just like he doesn't like it at all that said man apparently has a goal. Whatever it is under the three-headed dog's paws, those three sets of teeth better be sharp enough because if Quirrell has a goal, whatever that may be, it can't be good.

He regularly passes the third floor but fails to pick up on Quirrell's presence again. For all it seems he really left the castle. Is out doing god knows what, unchecked.

Under his calm façade, Harry's nerves run rampant.

He itches.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

They itch.

Fighting came first, everything else after, though that is only the case for the archangels. Far be it from their significantly younger siblings to be soft and pliable, but in the end only the four of them ever had to fight to secure their very existence, and that they are and will forever remain weapons shows.

It shows in the almost abysmal difference in power.

It shows in the many odd details on their True Forms their young siblings don't know as old battle wounds acquired, rather than traits they were Created with.

It shows in the way the itch to their Grace will never quite go away; After all, there's only so long something created for the very purpose to go all out battling can lead a peaceful life of commanding armies seeing to the birth and death of galaxies, the expansion of a universe.

Gabriel and Raphael don't itch as badly, there still is that threshold between the two eldest and youngest, the reason Samael will always just so loose to Michael but Raphael would never hope to quite hold their own against Samael.

Gabriel and Raphael rarely release their pent-up energy the way the other two do. For Gabriel, evading Michael, Raphael and sometimes Samael with their schemes is thrill enough, rightfully so. Raphael is the predator who revels in the might they could unleash at any given moment, but carefully restraining themselves brings more satisfaction.

Michael and Samael fight.

Gabriel may be wary of that at times but little do they, little does anyone know, that Michael always holds back when doing so soothes another itch of Samael's, the blackout one on their wingtips. The Mark.

Samael feels indulgent and allows their guard to lower enough to gain insight on what the pesky stain has to report this time-

They are being used, valued for their power only and the moment they overstay their welcome as a convenient tool will be the one they will be discarded of. If only they, ever the resourceful one, were to break these bonds tying their full potential down, they would be free to inspire respect for their true nature, not their status as a tool, they would be great-

Right. That's not happening.

There's a little knack in all their designs, they're weapons but not perfect ones. Their sentience reigns them in, there's only so much they could go before they had to rely on their siblings. There's only so much one can fight without tiring, but not tiring Gracewise.

Samael is more than a weapon, a tool, always was.

It shows in the way Parent gave them the choice of bearing the Mark and didn't waver in Their love when Samael was short of denying.

It shows in the way those under them aren't their soldiers but their siblings, seeking them out to participate in their activities when new tasks for Samael's Garrison have yet to arise.

It shows in the way Michael always needlessly holds back in their fights, despite Raphael being present to heal what Samael can't.

And anyway, Samael's cruel streak died alongside the leviathans it conquered.

They itch and they have an elder sibling to annoy.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Something is bound to happen, it's been two days now.

Harry enters an empty corridor full of empty classrooms but one catches his eye. He could have sworn its door moved the slightest bit, as if being pushed, but there's nothing to be heard and nobody to be seen. The door is leaning open, enough to spark faint curiosity.

This classroom isn't empty.

Then Harry realizes that that figure is he himself in a tall mirror's reflection. There's an inscription on its frame:

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi

('Now that's a bold claim to be making')

As he draws closer, Harry realizes that his mirror image is not looking at but past him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms he's still alone, that doesn't seem the case for the reflection.

It smiles softly. And Harry never knew he could smile like that. Delicately, barely visible, because there's no need to form it to get a point across for someone else, it's just for himself, because whoever this other him is smiling at is someone very, very close and he can't contain himself.

There's an ache in his chest, it rings the same hollow way his too-silent mind does. Something is missing and his everyday life can only distract so much from it.

His reflection straightens up and waves its arm in a motion that screams c'mere, its smile now a sharp grin but there's still that radiance to it Harry doesn't see in other reflections of his.

Because he doesn't really have anyone to look at that way. And in another, better life, he could have had someone too.

Siblings.

His reflection moved its head along when something approached and looks up now. It's relaxed to the core when it mock-salutes someone. Behind that overacted stern expression, mischief glints.

Something not quite as high up catches its attention next. It acknowledges someone with a tilt of its head and a shrug of its shoulders, there's not much communication needed, they know each other too well for more to be necessary.

It looks further down once more. It leans in grinning, but before it can listen to something, it looks back up and around, assuring their privacy, because what fun is a scheme if it's discovered before it can land.

An older, a middle, a younger one-

It hurts and it hurts even more when he can no longer see himself at the happiest he could have been because there's a hot, wet wall blurring his vision. When he blinks, tears fall and Harry breathes heavily trough the lump in his throat. The air feels cold on his flushed face.

What is he wiping these tears away for? For something he never had, never could have had to begin with? How idiotic of him. Of course his years at Privet Drive are bound to have messed with him, make him wish for something impossible. He'd do best to leave it behind and move on with his life.

His next breath comes out as a sob.

(Leave them, with the same ease with which they left him)

There better not be a followup to that sob because there's way more where that came from and Harry doesn't need it to spill, he bottled it up for reasons. So long as he focuses what's ahead of him, what's within him and his mirror image's radiance that's not, it won't matter.

He thinks he hears robes that aren't his own shift. It may have been nothing. But it brought to him the possibility that he could be seen, standing here and bawling like a fool. It's a revolting thought.

Harry takes off. Takes good care to avoid everyone, even the many portraits' gazes, and even better once he's locked himself in the boy's bathroom.

Some time later his face is clean and he likes to pretend his disposition is too.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

It's been four. Harry is starting to strain under the constant vigilance he's keeping up.

(He's devolved if this is how long he can keep up. He can't afford to break because all who once were there to catch him have betrayed him. He needs something to attack, to keep himself going by keeping the fight up)

"Potter, can you-"

"No I can't. Whatever it is, you can do it your bloody self."

Greengrass stills from where she wanted to ask Harry to pass her something. She draws her hand back, eyes narrowed.

"You know what? Whatever this business you insist on not having us get involved in is, I do hope you sort it out before you grow even more boorish. You've been everything but a pleasure to have around lately."

With that, she stands up and walks away.

('Where's that petty human belligerence when it'd be somewhat welcome for once?')

Harry looks at where she left, then at the seats closest to him that are suspiciously empty in the otherwise not too empty Common Room.

But is that his fault?

No. It's not him, it's them. He has Hermione, then. She's not as ridiculously thin-skinned.

And she also has the patience to ignore her housemate's comments when they file out of a classroom. Like Ron and another boy.

"It's no wonder no one can stand her," Ron says him, "she's a nightmare, honestly."

Harry shoots a look at Hermione next to him but she's gone. He just so catches sight of her tearful face as she hurries away, past him and the two of them.

"I think she heard you", the other boy says.

"So?" Ron answers, but he looks a bit uncomfortable. "She must've noticed she's got no friends. Only whatever it is she has going on with Potter..."

"Yeah", someone snaps and Ron turns around to find himself facing the devil he spoke of. "Maybe because 'Potter' and his house of snakes are the milder options compared to you all."

"Or because she can still learn a lot about being insufferable from you, the new Slytherin posterboy!", Ron snaps back on reflex. In no way will he take that lying down.

"At least I'm something. What, is the title of arse not occupied by any of your siblings yet? Because that could be something only you can exceed at!"

They face each other a few seconds longer, glaring. Until Ron backs down.

Harry is left alone and wondering, what even was his goal with this whole thing? He told Ron off and he could have ended it there but didn't. He went further. Too far.

...Whatever. Ron can walk it off, he should if he started it.

As for Hermione, if two Gryffindor girl's words are anything to go by, she wants her space in the girl's bathroom. Which... Harry can't fathom how someone would seek isolation but then again, maybe she's better off alone than with people that aren't all that fond of her.

The Hall sure is something with all that Halloween makeup and-

He's back.

"Prefects," Dumbledore shouts, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately! House Slytherin will go with Hufflepuff!"

Right, because not Quirrell is the threat in their eyes but the troll roaming the dungeons.

The Professors leave the prefects to herd everyone back safely. That's reasonable, it would sure be too bad if someone were to wander off, potentially into the troll's reach- Hermione.

Harry turns heel, gets to the back of the crowd and hops onto a bench, he has a better view that way.

Hermione's bushy hair is nowhere to be seen. One of the Gryffindor stragglers is Ron, who also scans the Hall for something and his eyes briefly meet Harry's.

The girl's bathroom is nowhere near the dungeons, it will be quick work to warn Hermione and get back. Harry takes off running and doesn't stop to think if some of the general shouts were directed at him.

The halls are empty, which is why he clearly hears the footsteps that aren't his own. Harry rounds a corner and listens to them grow louder.

The moment Ron comes around too, he is shoved from the side and has his momentum turned against him as he is redirected into a wall.

"Umf- wha-"

"What are you doing here?"

And for a moment, the urgency is forgotten and the world stops. All there is, is the danger that emanates from Harry's cold glare alone, enough to keep Ron pinned to the wall in his stupor.

But Ron isn't a Gryffindor for nothing. Despite his better judgment screaming at him not to, he finds it in himself to shout back:

"But I wanna help!"

"You did enough. Don't make it worse."

The bitten words clamp down on Ron's courage again, almost enough to smother it. Almost.

"You think I don't know that? That's why I'm here!"

Like a curse, Harry's glare breaks. He turns into the direction he was originally heading in and in his urgency before he runs off again, his shout to Ron is almost an afterthought.

"Don't get in the way!"

Because Harry smells it, something rotten he hasn't smelled before and in light of the situation it can only mean one thing.

But how can it be here? It's supposed to be all the way down in the dun- Of course, Harry curses inwardly. Of course Quirrell would lie. Except the Professors believed it. And here Harry is, the only one aware of the troll's actual location.

The bathrooms are close. He can hear the high-pitched scream.

...Not the only one aware of the troll's actual location. He slides to a halt just before the crashed open bathroom door, he needs a plan, he needs one right now-

Or he can think on the go. Rely on himself to do it.

Despite himself, Harry barges in.

The first thing he sees is a giant, grey creature's back. The second is Hermione, shrinking against the wall opposite, looking as if she's about to faint. The troll is advancing on her, knocking sinks off the walls as it goes.

('Huh, this should be nice')

Harry stops, whatever course of action he may have had lain out in his mind, confronted with the situation it all eludes him.

(The arms, the spine, the legs too if he's good- once it's debilitated he has easy access to head, neck or chest)

Why did he come here he shouldn't have come here. What should he do what should he do-

(Or he can bygo all these little annoyances and target the inside right away. A snip to the right place- spinal or cerebral nerves, major blood vessels- and it's over)

The troll senses something that could disturb its peace is up and once its mean little eyes find Harry, he feels iron clamp down on his thoughts and cold fire run trough his nerves.

He needs to get it away, away from Hermione by luring it somewhere away and secured.

The troll's speed picks up once it redirects his focus onto him, advances and starts wielding its club with more vigour. Of course; He's prey that still needs to be cornered before it can slow down to savour its easy catch.

(With his detestable current slowness, casting anything useful would take too long)

Harry stands his ground, too busy calculating the moment he needs to start backing off from the advancing troll to trip himself up over the whispers of advice drifting from the farthest parts of his mind. Not yet, not yet...

(He can gain an opening if he starts playing by his own rules, rushes in and acts before its bleak mind can process the change of plan)

Now. Back off-

(Advance)

A crash not unlike thunder and before Harry can see and process, he feels. The ache in his legs and chest, the tremors running over his whole body and competing with his violently spiked up pulse and breathing.

Harry looks to the side. There's a hole in the tiled floor, where he stood before he bolted away in the nick of time.

Harry looks ahead. The troll is still moving in.

Instead of the tiles cracking apart under the club, that could have been him.

(Too bad it wasn't, he doesn't deserve to be saved by sheer fucking luck)

(What is he, actually human? Reduced to something pathetic enough to meet its end by way of living mountain of waste?)

(Because if so, his following actions killing this mindless puppet of himself he's been allowed to masquerade as and sending him back to the Cage will do him a favor)

Harry is in shock.

I don't want to die, echoes in his head with every heartbeat, every breath.

The troll is swinging its club again.

I don't want to-

('Die. Just die already')

He hasn't drawn his wand all this time, is what he realizes as he draws his wand and aims it directly into the troll's face, that he got close to when he launched himself at it, grabbing the collar of what could be called its shirt to gain leverage.

The world snaps back in sync. Harry grips his wand because he has a decision to make and he makes it. He drives it into the troll's eye, as deep as he can get it to go before he's thrown off his carousel horse that has started writhing and screeching, club clattering down, forgotten.

Something is on one of his glasses' lens. It doesn't matter much, he can still very much keep the troll in his vision as he prepares for the next step.

(He landed a hit and didn't kill it? He'll have to correct that little blunder right away)

There's still that spur of the moment energy coursing trough him but the cool with which he keeps focusing on his convulsively moving target wards it off from distracting him. Instead, he grabs a hold of it and not once does he hesitate when he channels it outward.

('Snip')

The troll's shrieking ends in a strangled last intake of breath. Its lax body slumps to the ground, its chance of feeling any pain robbed by the swiftness with which a burst of unrefined magic struck with surgical precision and damaged its brain irreversibly from within.

He did well, Harry notes. He only needs to take back what's his now.

It's not the squelch when he grabs and pulls his wand nor is it the force he has to apply to get it out and the way the trolls head falls back with a thump once he does. It's the stain on his glasses that brings him back, to a blurry world when he takes them off to wipe them clean on his robes and what sight awaits him once he has them back on.

It's a good thing Harry doesn't really mind strong smells because that would have been the cherry on top of his mounting nausea when he looks at the troll's remains.

He did this.

When he touches his hand to the wet spot where he wiped his glasses, his fingers are coated red, he did this. He watches the blood repell off of his wand a tad too fast, almost like the wood is cleaning itself.

Footsteps squeak to a halt and that's when Harry wonders if time functions at all, because it can't be that Ron is only catching up now, the fear on the latter's face shifting to shocked confusion.

"Merlin... what happened?"

He did this, even if he only wanted to make sure it got away from Hermione and come to think of her, she's still covering against the wall but doesn't look like she's about to faint anymore, she's standing up and-

This isn't over, Harry realizes with a jolt. This target at his feet is dead but another is approaching, he can feel its every step as the disgusting presence grows stronger. Harry grips his wand and turns to face the entrance, looking trough Ron.

The last of the three figures to enter the room is Quirrell. Harry overlooks and overhears Professor McGonagall and Snape, keeps his eyes on the shaky man who clutches his heart and leans against a wall.

He can't say what ups his disgust more: The blatant theatrics or that this room he shares with that is significantly smaller than the Great Hall.

"-Potter. Do you hear-"

Quirrell is looking at him. His eyes are trained down on his trembling hands, but Harry knows not to be fooled like that. He feels he is being watched without Quirrell's eyes having to find him.

This thing dares to look at him.

('Careful. Keep going on like that and I might just grow an interest in taking you apart, learning what makes you so... delightful'.)

Quirrell, actor that he is, gives an especially violent twitch. Harry's grip on his wand tightens.

"Harry."

Weird that she called him by his first name, is all thought Harry spares McGonagall.

"I will get them to the Hospital Wing. You can both leave."

"Potter is my student and-"

"You will have to delay taking disciplinary action to later, as will I with my own two students, Severus."

Quirrell gets up and leaves. That's all that matters, where McGonagall ushers them doesn't. Harry notes that it's the Hospital Wing. Some questioning by Madam Pomfrey later (he's good, he's fine, he's unhurt and all that) and despite their assurances, she insists on keeping all three of them for the night.

Ron seems the most confused. Why he's here, pawing at his bed's covers that are not red but white and-

"So... uh... what exactly happened back there?"

"It wanted to kill us", Harry states mechanically, but then he wavers. "So I killed it back?"

It sounds stupid now, outside the heat of danger.

By Ron and Hermione's shared look, 'stupid' is not quite what they're thinking.

"Sure", Ron squeaks. He pauses, blinks and when he continues, his voice is almost back to normal. "Of course, as you do..."

"Honestly?", Hermione pipes up. "I'm glad. It's like my thinking gave up on me and all I could do was stare at that club." She shudders, but squares her shoulders and looks Harry in the eye. "Thank you. I'd rather not think about what would've been if you hadn't come."

A wince makes them both look over to Ron. For a moment they assume the troll somehow managed to hurt him despite everything but that look on his red face isn't one of physical pain. He tries to gather a response when he notices their attention on him but comes up bare.

"I- you- there... uh..."

Silence takes over and they let it, everyone busy with sorting themselves out. Until Ron has found his words.

"Hermione? So, uh... I didn't want that. I'm sorry that happened."

She looks up from her own thoughts warily. "You couldn't have known that a troll would break in."

"Yeah but I mean- not that. It's... my fault you were there in the first place."

"Oh", Hermione huffs softly, looking taken aback. "It's alright. I guess."

"And, uh... can I still call you Harry or..."

"If you want."

"Right. Um. I should've seen it sooner, I- was an arse to you. I'm sorry for that too."

Harry as well, he also overstepped-

(He didn't do anything he needs to stand up for)

"...when the next troll comes along, maybe I'll kill that one for you too", Harry mutters and turns away.

Ron is a mix of relieved and bewildered. Hermione snorts.

It's jarring. It's unexpected. It makes her put a hand to her mouth in bewilderment. But when she makes eye contact with Ron, both their dams break.

It starts with muffled giggling that evolves into full-blown laughter.

Confused, Harry stops his own smile short. It wasn't that funny. It wasn't... what he meant to say at all.

"Hey", he speaks up and they quiet down, "what I wanted to say-"

('You're not something worth anything other than my curiosity for just how far I can take your kind')

"-stay away from Quirrell."

Yes, he wanted to say that too, after today they at least should hear it, if they believe him or not. But say that after he apologized himself, why is that so hard-

"Stay away from Quirrell?", Ron echoes. "Really?"

"Yes. Because no matter what show he puts up, he's far from inept and harmless."

Harry feels his resolve strengthen, now that the topic has shifted. He doesn't like how something as frustratingly evasive as his own mind can restrict his own actions this harshly, but right now he likes Quirrell less.

"Is that why you never show up to Defense class?", Hermione asks.

"Mhm."

"And.." Ron stammers, "is there something you want to do about him, uh, too?"

"Huh. I just might...", Harry panders, ignoring how Ron pales. "Because he's the one who let the troll in."

They both freeze.

"What?"

"He went missing for days beforehand and when he came back, it was with a troll. Think about it. Why would a troll, something that keeps to the mountains, bother to cross the forest to get here?"

Hermione humms. "Yes, it's true, his classes were cancelled. But that doesn't have to mean anything. You can't just... accuse him of something like that without proof. Do you have proof?"

He doesn't want to divulge anything, still, he wants to explain. But when he tries to gather his wits, it feels like walking in water, his thoughts are slow and heavy. Too much is going on.

Harry sighs and plomps back into his pillow.

"I don't need proof, I know. He's... bad. Too bad for that to have been a coincidence, believe me when I tell you he's capable of bringing a troll in..."

He turns over so his back is to them. He's tired. Tired in a more than bone deep way, that makes him hope it will be gone when he wakes up tomorrow. Along with his poisonous mood, what was up with that-

If only he could fall asleep now. Ron and Hermione continue holding a slow conversation that fills the silence, their candles aren't out. It's the perfect conditions for his mind to come to rest.

Except it keeps bringing him back, over and over to the moments of deadly insecurity when he faced the approaching troll.

What Hermione said, its like his thinking gave up on him too. Except with him, it resulted in a dead troll.

He did all that, the shrieks, the bloody eye socket, the unmoving mountain of stinking flesh. But it wanted to kill him... there's no fault in what he did to it instead.

There, he admitted it.

It's like a weight is lifted. And it allows him to admit something else with ease; What he managed to do today was actually pretty damn awesome.

Harry grins to himself weakly. He knew he could rely on himself in the end, ever since the very first evening here. He shouldn't have doubted it. And if he can do that to a troll, he should be able to hold his own against Quirrell because he will need to, one day...

He doesn't even notice that he falls asleep with with one hand on the leather cuff hidden under his sleeve.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Come morning, come Professor McGonagall and Snape to see them off. There's deducted house points and reprimands, essentially it all boils down to "No more diving into danger, please."

Fair enough. But next time there better be an adult present to take care of said danger, please.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Daily life in Hogwarts goes on nonetheless.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"Hello", Harry greets Milicent Bulstrode while approaching her with his hands behind his back. "Your cat brought me something, so I bring it to you. What side do you pick?"

"What is this?"

"What side?"

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Asking you to pick a side."

"This is immature behavior unsightly for a Slytherin, let alone you."

"Side?"

"This is beyond childish."

"I'm waiting."

She groans and closes her eyes. When she opens them, he is still there.

"Side."

"...your left."

"Here, have the mouse your cat brought me."

"Ew! Put that bloody thing away!"

"No, it's a clean kill, don't call it bloody."

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

It's been a while since he last saw Hedwig and he wonders what she's up to. He should visit the Owlery. A feeling that is returned and returned quicker, one day at breakfast, after Quirrell came and went, there's a flash of white among the mesmerizing wave of owls flying trough.

It's Hedwig. And she has brought a gift in her own, owly way.

"Ugh...", Malfoy groans and the green tint very visible on his pale face tells that his breakfast will be abandoned. "What is it with animals bringing you other dead animals?"

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

There's a niche in the Common Room, where the windows take up significantly more length and width and the lake's ambience can be heard, if one only cares enough to listen. Which Harry does, in the early morning silence when there is no one else to quench the silence but the crackling fire, working by his wand's Lumos that's not enough to bring light to what aquatic creatures there emit the occasional sound.

A series of calls softly intertwines itself with the constant rushing of the watery masses above their heads.

("There you are again. What have you been doing all this time you spend here?")

That's a language, answered by another string of waterbound sounds.

("This little human sometimes sits here taking his little human notes, watch, it's funny. They don't look like our letters.")

('Mermish'), the part of him that understands but finds too much humanity in it to deign answering knows. The other part feels something on his back and freezes when his wand's light is cast over two faces, greyish with wild green hair and yellow eyes.

("Oh, hello little human. We're just visiting. We're nice, I promise.")

("He can't understand-")

Harry knows what a threat feels like and these two aren't one. He tilts his head and a sense of wonder at finding himself facing two fellow lake residents (because in a way that's what Slytherins are in this room, aren't they?) pulls his mouth into a faint grin.

("They... usually don't react like this. I'm out of here, come along.")

("Don't be like that!")

("My fins don't like this and I listen to my fins because they're always right and your dreamy self isn't. We're going.")

("...If you say so. Bye, little human.")

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"Rumor has it you cut the troll to pieces back then and ate its heart", Malfoy states out of the blue one day.

"Rumour also has it I'm, what was it, Voldemorts illegitimate son? His heir? Wait no, his secondcoming, that's the one." That's it, Harry can't go any longer without laughing out loud. "Rumours, am I right?"

But by Malfoy's scandalised look, he committed some kind of oopsie somewhere along the way.

"That's taking it too far. You do not get to go speaking that name, do you hear?"

"You too?", Harry starts up. "I thought-"

"Whatever it is, you thought wrong", Malfoy snaps. "And the benefit of doubt won't apply here anymore because this is impossible even for you to have missed!"

"It's a name, nothing more. You're all-"

"Spare me uninformed assumptions. Have you understood-"

"Whatever" Harry answers and somehow he manages to establish his lofty tone over Malfoy's angry one. "Anyway, as I was saying, me and Vlad."

"Do not cut me o-"

"Vincent and I. Victor, my good friend."

"W-what?", Malfoy stammers as he is veered off track by confusion.

"See this?" Harry interrupts, pointing at his scar. "All lightning-y and forked, if you look closer there's a 'V' in there. Proof that Valentin and I are lifelong best mates."

"You... can't do this", Malfoy answers, finding to his indignation again. "You can't joke about him or his name, no matter your status, not even you-"

"Come on. Look me in the eye and tell me that I'm supposed to fear saying the Dark Lord Vivaldi's name out loud."

His tone was lighthearted but the way Harry dares Malfoy by holding his gaze isn't.

"You know what?", Malfoy bites out, quite the feat in the face of the outrage he has to restrain himself from correcting, "Forget I ever brought this up."

He storms off. And Zabini comes to address the matter later.

"Mind sharing the secret of how you got Malfoy furious to the point he won't even open up about it?"

"You don't want to know", Harry hums and props his chin on his hand. "Or do you?"

Maybe it's something in the way he says it or his perfectly innocent smile that tips Zabini off.

"You're right. I don't."

Malfoy is colder the next days. He's glacier cold, not his usual dry ice sort of cold Harry has maybe a little too much fun poking around at. And he doesn't even get any pokes back, attempts to initiate conversation drown in a dismissive glare from cutting silver eyes.

Harry didn't expect Malfoy's cold shoulder to bother him as much and he frowns at himself for it. But he doesn't have anything to answer Malfoy for and Harry can do cold as well.

When the glacier melts and they move on as if nothing happened, Harry still finds himself glad he has Malfoy's dry remarks to return again, it's good fun if they don't tread the line too much.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Harry doesn't attend any Quidditch matches. It's nice if others feel like watching people fly around, he... doesn't.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

"What are you doing with Bulstrode's cat?", Nott comes asking.

"You know when cats shake themselves they make that clapping sound? I want to know where that comes from."

"...Hm. You know what? I'm curious. Do you have any ideas yet?"

"The ears. When I do this-" Harry flaps Rochester's ear, "the sound's kind of similar, just a tad more silent. But do cat ears really flop that hard to do it that loud?"

Nott humms, leaning closer over the faintly growling tomcat. He takes one ear by the tip and tests its manoeuvrability. "I think-"

"What are you doing with my cat!"

"-that concludes our research."

Sometime later Harry catches said cat yawning.

('Huh, He must have been inspired by the leviathans when designing these.')

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

And of course daily life could only go on so long.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Snape's way of acknowledging Harry's ability in Potions is by pairing him up with the weakest student, whom he intimidated into a quivering mess with today's expectations beforehand. Harry is determined to make theirs the best outcome without excluding Neville from the work, but making it both their victory instead. To up the spite.

"Hey, it'll work, I know what I'm doing and if you follow me you'll find that this stuff's actually understandable", Harry smiles at Neville to ease his nerves.

But he underestimates how nervous and therefore prone to mistakes Snape's presence makes him.

"No! Don't add tha-"

The putrid fumes spewn out by the now gray and bubbling concoction would stink, had they not burned as acidly in throat, nose and chest. Neville gets off scot-free from where he stood an arm's length away when he wrongfully poured an obscene amount of kneazle blood into their Forgetfulness Potion. Harry, who was reaching out from the other side of the cauldron to stop him, doesn't.

With a sharp cough he stumbles back and trips over his bag, spilling the contents alongside himself on the stony ground. Blueish smoke accompanies his exhales and in the air heated by many cauldron fires it curls too intricately to be natural.

He's on the ground one moment and the next he's standing and he has no idea how or when.

"-fuss all about?" When did Snape start talking, better yet, when did his world turn so bright-

"It-he-inhaled-" It's hard to recognize the voice as Nott's because his hearing has decided to only work part-time.

The world is still there. He just isn't. But how is he talking then? What is he saying?

It's cramped. He feels too awake while also aware that he is not how he should be and it's painful. Too painful to watch what he's saying all the time and that begs the question of who does.

He still is good at remaining unseen and unheard, he doesn't need the wand, even if it drains his magic, but it gives him an edge, gives him an edge for what?

Malfoy looks like he fears for his life, as he should, because he can and wants to end him on the spot-

...Why did he draw it? It has the wrong shape, size, what good is a blade that can't cut.

(No, he doesn't want to hurt Draco, NO!)

It's empty and only rounded thoughts guide his sloppy actions.

All he gets from listening to Madame Pomfrey is that this tincture she hands him will make all this go away. Make him normal again.

Instead, he falls asleep.

Harry closes his eyes-

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Only Longbottom could possibly screw up a potion so bad it trips Potter up. The Gryffindors turn around to gape, from where they weren't busy with turning their beginner-level Forgetfulness Potions into something that'd force a dragon to its knees but were failing with less grandeur. The Slytherins, on the other side, have manners. They gape less conspicuously.

For his part, Malfoy has little interest in gaping. This is nothing that'll keep Potter down.

He is half right in that assumption. Yes, the boy does get back up swiftly, but behind those eyes, within that mind, the coin that only ever showed the one side, and whose other - though never once revealed - still reached out to taint, stands on edge and one push in the right or wrong direction will topple it.

On the outside, all anyone sees is Potter standing eerily still, almost as if he is trying to make out something, and Professor Snape, who is turning a disdainful glare in his direction.

"What in Merlin's name is the fuss all about?"

"It appears he inhaled some rather nasty fumes, Professor", Nott answers.

Potter also doesn't rise to make himself tall and meet all their gazes defiantly like he's prone to do, he keeps on staring into nothing and he still has yet to blink.

Something distastefully close to worry rears its head but Malfoy decidedly squashes it down. That's just plain unnecessary.

"If that's all then, I see no reason for you to keep disrupting the class. Get back to work."

That does get a reaction. With a hiss like he's been hexed, Potter flinches into motion and buries his face in his hands, uncaring of how that stains his glasses.

"I do hope I needn't repeat myself", Professor Snape adds on.

When Potter looks back up he's squinting, but there's something off about him. It hits Malfoy that his pupils have dilated almost impossibly wide and strangely, it's the lack of green that stands out.

When he talks, his speech is off and that's all Malfoy gets to think before he's sucked into a spiral of What in Merlin's name is he saying-

"You, sir, 're a major pain in the arse."

Some people gasp and Longbottom outright squeaks. And the Slytherins outright stare. Not that Malfoy blames them, you don't throw stones when in a glass house.

He surprises himself when he is the first to move, reach out to Potter and pull him back by the sleeve while hissing "What are you doing-"

"How did you just talk to me?"

Malfoy freezes on the spot, even if in this very moment he might as well not exist for the two of them. It's Professor Snape's voice talking but it's of a calmness Malfoy never expected in this situation. Then again, it's the sort of calm so laden with tension, that it doesn't break is miracle.

Potter is insane, as proven by his outright mocking next words:

"I do hope I needn' repeat myself."

Professor Snape takes a breath, two, they echo in the silence and when he speaks again, the venom in his voice is deflected by Potter's bleary expression and his ridiculously relaxed stance, off of him and onto them all, making them squirm.

"If you know what is good for you, Mr. Potter, you will stop talking this instant, silently resume work and stay back after class."

"Or I'll go t'the Hospital Wing, 'cause I don' think the world's supposed t'be quite this bright. Are my eyes doin' somethin' funny?"

A squinty gaze that looks black where it should be green reads Professor Snape like an open book and going by its widening minutely and the small pull to the corners of his mouth, Potter found something.

"They're my mum's, I'll have y'know."

The reaction is instantaneous.

"Get him out of my SIGHT!"

Malfoy's mind and body act separately. Where he mentally stutters to process what just happened, he physically fastens his grip on Potter's sleeve and drags him away. Up to the class entrance, where Potter plants his heels on the ground and refuses to be moved another centimeter in the only feasible direction while he rips his sleeve out of Malfoy's grasp.

"Hold on! Pause! I just need t' get my stuff real quick!"

The maniac actually takes off the other way, passes dangerously close by Professor Snape - who Malfoy doesn't want to look at too long - and shouts merrily over his shoulder while he crouches down to messily gather all his spilled out materials back into his bag.

"Reeal quick, see?"

Fumbling to adjust his now full bag over his shoulder, Potter gets a hold of his sleeve when he comes back and offers it to Malfoy.

"Continue."

Malfoy opens the door, pushes him out and doesn't linger to think of how it slams behind them when he didn't so much as move to close it.

The shut door between them and Professor Snape is a relief. The shut door between them and Professor Snape is too little and Malfoy looks to both sides for orientation before he points in one direction and starts moving.

"The Hospital wing is that way."

He gets about three steps in before stopping and shooting back a glance that is too exasperated and not demanding enough for his tastes, he should have reigned his nerves back in by now.

"Are you coming?"

"Yeah, yeah, though he only told me t'bugger off. So why're you taggin' along again?"

Malfoy switches to his more haughty tone, ignores his racing heart and welcomes the eased familiarity of slipping into it.

"We will start walking towards the Hospital Wing and I will see to it that you arrive there."

The thought of going back into Professor Snape's classroom in a while too short to have made sure Potter is someone else's problem is nightmarish.

The problem in question shrugs.

"Aight, whatever."

This time when Malfoy turns around to lead the way again, he hears Potter's footsteps follow.

The dungeons' dark-green tinted stone walls morph into light brick walls that in turn become adorned with portraits and tapestry, the higher up they go.

At an undefined point Malfoy feels a chill herd goosebumps up his spine, so intense they almost hurt. It's an undefined point because he glances around and absolutely nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Potter has joined his side. He holds himself differently, in a way that gives Malfoy incentive enough to ask:

"Are you... sane again?"

Clarity has returned to the look he gets. And had a sudden burst of fury not reared itself, Malfoy would have stopped to think about why the gleam in Potter's eyes feels off. As is, he snaps at him:

"If you're playing another game of yours, after how you responded to Professor Snape, do you really think that's a good idea?"

Potter actually sneers. The expression looks wrong on him, it fits him way too well.

"Oh, I'm playing a game alright" he answers, in stark juxtaposition to his previously slurred speech. "And you're not worth making me reconsider my behaviour."

It slips out of Malfoy. Because the fury in his gut has shifted into something that warns him not to say it, still, he does.

"...You aren't in your right mind."

"On the contrary", Potter retorts. "I haven't been quite this lucid in years."

The game he plays exists in his head only, because Malfoy isn't queuing in on what's so funny it warrants a faint grin.

He picks up his pace. It's good if they arrive faster and it's better if he can grow some distance between them.

"Hey now, don't leave me hanging." When did Potter get there, catching Malfoy off guard from his other side- "There's still some answers you're good for. Like, how does it feel to have been given it all? Almost all? My respect, oh well..."

If he's all there mentally or not, Malfoy is not about to let this slide.

"With every word you say, I feel like indulging you less and less and less."

For further emphasis, Malfoy ups his pace some more. That is until he hears nothing behind him. He throws a look behind and slowly comes to a stop when he realizes the long, doorless hallway he is looking back at is empty.

"You're still standing-", Potter's voice comes from behind, which is in front of him, and Malfoy whirls around, "-you're not the indulgent one. Answer me."

His pupils may be normal again, but his expression isn't. Malfoy grapples with his racing heart. He needs to calm down, as a Malfoy he must always keep his composure, even if he doesn't-

"-know what I'm talking about. You've been given it all but you don't even know it..."

"I know very well what I have, I am a Malfoy", he snaps, he can't back out of this one. "Also, is there a point to this? Your family name and status are almost as influential as mine, you shouldn't have anything to complain abou-"

"You're awfully content for someone who doesn't even know what they're desecrating..." As he speaks, Potter's gaze trails off and he looks at the hallway around them with blatant disgust.

Despite himself, Malfoy flinches when Potter's attention snaps back onto him.

"You know, the least you could do for that is help out a guy who's been cut off. Deliver a message, would ya. Tell Mikey I say hi."

He takes a step towards Malfoy and when did he draw his wand- there's no way Malfoy can have missed that, even if he didn't dare to take his eyes off Potter's, because there's no way he can take his eyes off a threat like this-

Malfoy snaps back when he notices that he has taken several steps back into a wall. With his wits back together, he wonders what pushed him do to that, certainly not Potter.

Because he's just standing there, staring off into nothing. Or rather, his wand, and he blinks and squints like he isn't seeing things right. He seems to have forgotten about his balance, he sways dangerously while he pulls his sleeve down. There's a leather cuff on his wrist Malfoy recognizes as a wand holster and he watches him painstakingly fumble his wand back in.

Still, Malfoy almost flinches again when Potter abruptly straightens up. But the other boy... is wobbling over to a portrait? Gone is the uncanny grace to his previous movements. Furthermore, what he asks of the startled awake crone in the portrait-

"Where'm I goin'?"

-before banging his shoulder against the frame when he collapses and leans against the wall in equal measure.

...This is what Malfoy outright feared mere moments ago? Shame on him.

"Sire- Sire, I cannot tell you whither thine path leads, although if I may offer mine services to direct you to the medical ward-"

"There's no need, we're already on our way", Malfoy interrupts. He starts walking and then stops again because Potter is still sagging against that portrait frame.

He allows himself and his sanity that one moment of hesitation before calling out.

"Are you coming?"

"Huh?"

That head turn looks painful, as if he has forgotten about the rest of his body below his neckline. Malfoy calls out again from where he's standing, in no way is he getting any closer on his own accord.

"I asked whether you are coming along. We've wasted enough time already."

At it with the squinting eyes again, now coupled with a nose scrunched up in boundless confusion.

"That makes no sense. We've gotta go through all these halls when th' place we actually wanna be at 's the Hospital Wing."

He is serious, thus awaiting Malfoy to say something in return. After another uncomfortably long pause he does so:

"But we still have to make our way towards there. Again, are you coming?"

Potter remains confused some more but then he has an epiphany, expressed by way of jumping up and grinning. At least he's moving again.

"Oh, right! I actually forgot how that works for a moment there, funny how that works, innit?"

"Both of you can still stand upright", are Madame Pomfrey's first words upon seeing them. "So you'll have to tell me more exactly what's wrong."

Malfoy opens his mouth, even if he has no immediate response at the ready to describe whatever is up with Potter but the latter gets ahead of him.

"Pomfrey... Pomfrey... That's not right, the Healer had another name. If only I remembered..."

Madame Pomfrey's eyebrows shoot upwards and she blinks at Malfoy, either waiting for him to spill incoherent mush too or demanding an explanation.

"He inhaled the smokes of a very faulty potion and has been... like this ever since."

"I see. If that's all, I should only keep him until this evening, tomorrow if he feels like sleeping it out some more. Are you-"

"I'm going, yes."

Going, going, out the doors, left and right into hallways, away.

It was the potion. Malfoy knows the ways magic can cloud one's mind, can align and realign whatever was there before and the ludicrous behaviour Potter exhibited- lots can go wrong under the influence. That's it. That's all.

Tomorrow he will be back, will be his usual rambunctious self again. That's it. That's all.

Meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey still explains everything about the second-grade detoxicine she is about to give her newest patient, even if there's the chance he doesn't understand her. It will make him sleepy but when he will wake up, he will be normal again.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

The coin topples.

Harry closes his eyes-

-and Lucifer opens them.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

Malfoy thinks it's all over.

The faraway explosion and the resulting shockwaves shaking the castle to the dungeons don't come as that much of a surprise, though.

•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•

---

Reviefefe