Friday the thirtieth of October was the second worst day of the year as far as Harry was concerned. While the lessons this year on a Friday were generally interesting – honestly, how could Neville be so excited about a double period on plants – there was a certain tension within him that he just couldn't shake.
Perhaps it was the experience with the Troll from the last year that had him feeling this way, or perhaps simply his general sour disposition around this time, but something caused his shoulders to tense and his brow to furrow whenever there was a prolonged silence.
As a result, he had buried himself in the company of his friends – he laughed with them, though even to his ears it felt hollow and empty. He would make jokes, chase after Neville, and engage in every conversation he could, but none of it helped.
His schoolwork was progressing along just as well, if not better than it had in the last year – the little things he'd learned at Arpton had helped in his Charms and Transfiguration essays. Defence Against the Dark Arts so far this year had somehow been even worse than when Quirrell – Voldemort – taught the subject.
Lockhart would prattle on and on about just how fantastic he was and, the lessons had simply devolved into the irritating professor reading his books aloud. On no less than three occasions had they been hit with some form of Pop-Quiz about all the most useless things he could imagine. Why should he care that Lockhart's favourite colour was lilac?
Hermione, Daphne, and Tracey had, of course taken to the class like a fish took to water – though, when he'd glanced at the three of them in class, all had their chins resting on their hands and a far away look in their eyes. Hermione rarely ever even took notes in the class!
At first, he'd thought the girls under the effect of a potion or a spell of some kind – his own experience from the mirror enough to make him cautious of anything mind-altering. He'd watched them carefully, expecting some shift in their personalities or something. Instead, he'd found nothing different in any of them, except for their long sighs and fluttering eyes as Lockhart would focus on them in class. It was enough to make him sick with worry.
He had reached out to Amelia, hoping that her experience with her department in the Ministry would help him. At the very least, he thought that Amelia could begin an investigation into their odd behaviour. Amelia had replied, and he could practically hear her amusement through the parchment, telling him not to worry and that things would likely be different in a month or so – there were no potions or spells at work. Simply the minds of young girls.
What did that mean? The minds of young girls? How was he to help them overcome it and get back to their old selves when he didn't even understand what had gotten them into the predicament in the first place?
It had driven him mad over the last few weeks, and Neville hadn't been much help – his best friend hadn't even noticed a difference in any of them. Well, he'd noticed Daphne didn't hit him with a book as often, but that was about it. He really should have known better. If it wasn't a plant, Neville rarely took notice. However, even he was getting tired of not learning anything in Lockhart's classes.
Harry had caught Dean working on his Charms essay last Tuesday – and the idiot professor hadn't even noticed. He couldn't imagine the torture the OWL and NEWT students must be going through.
He sighed and smiled a little at something Daphne said – no doubt teasing Neville for something or another – he wasn't listening. He was simply glad to be outside, away from classes and obligations, wandering the castle in the early evening.
There was something peaceful about seeing the setting sun filter in through the large windows of the castle. The long shadows cast by the gargoyles and towers of the fortress with only the magical torches and candles to illuminate the dark corners.
While classes had finished for the week only an hour ago, the corridors were still full. Everywhere around them, students were whispering their plans for their Halloween – how'd they'd spend it in Hogsmeade if they were allowed to go, who they were spending it with, and what they hoped they'd get up to.
Harry would always find himself grimacing a little at the more outlandish, lewd hopes of some of the older students. He couldn't imagine getting up to anything in the darkened recesses of a place like Hogsmeade. He had grown up with Sirius, so he was well-versed in all things depraved – as much as he wished he wasn't – but to desire someone up against a building, or to laugh about wandering hands under tables? It made him shiver.
He felt his magic flare a little as they walked past the newest addition to Hogwarts from House Weasley – Ginevra, or Ginny, as her brothers called her. She was a little on the small side and had powerfully red hair that he'd only ever seen worn down. He had no doubt that she was a nice enough girl – but even he could see the vacant expression on her face as he would walk past. Yet another person wrapped up in the Boy-Who-Lived.
She squeaked a little as she looked up and saw him glancing in her direction. He gave a small smile and a polite nod, and the colour of her face became something akin to a tomato. He let out a little sigh, briefly noting the book she clutched to her chest, and was thankful beyond measure that the twins didn't treat him the same way.
Those two had been up to their usual mischief, though, this time they had been armed by the two surviving Marauders. Their pranks had echoed throughout the castle after only a month – and not once had they been caught red-handed yet. After all, while they were Wards to House Black, Sirius would never allow the two premier pranksters to get caught and bring shame to his house – he should have known from the start that Sirius would have passed on as much as he could to them.
They had taken to Sirius's advice like it was some sort of holy book. It had taken most of September for them to strike with their first prank, but when they did, it had been spectacular. Not many would have the temerity to go against Professor Snape, glorified bat that he was, but those two did.
It had been a simple morning two days prior. They had all been in the Great Hall when it had happened – the Potions teacher had swept through the room, his robes billowing out behind him, and taken his seat at the Head Table. There had been the usual silence and then a tell-tale rush of magic had echoed around the room.
At first, everyone had been confused. He'd even flicked his wand into his hand and looked around for a threat before he'd caught a glimpse of the professor, who had appeared irritated beyond measure. The professor was sitting in his chair, looking slightly worse for ware – as if he'd suffered through some great gale – but his hair had been positively gorgeous. It was no longer was it limp and greasy, plastered back and against the man's skull. Instead, it was voluminous, full, glossy, and in fine condition.
For a brief moment, he'd been jealous of the arse.
It hadn't taken long for the whispers to begin circulating the school – Professor Snape had his hair washed. There was something fantastic about the Hogwarts Rumour Mill. Of course, the twins avoided any punishment – they hadn't been in the Hall at the time and both had eyewitnesses that they were getting dressed at the time. It had been flawlessly executed.
Ginny scurried away. Her retreating footsteps snapping him out of his thoughts.
"Are you okay, Harry? You seem a little distracted." Tracey asked, bumping his shoulder as they stepped onto the grass of the courtyard – the leaves of the large oak tree having already faded to browns and oranges and laying on the floor in neat piles.
"I'm fine – just not a fan of this time of the year." He said, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly. "I'll be glad when it's all over with on Monday."
"We're all here if you need us, you know." She replied, hooking her arm through his right, and resting her head on his shoulder briefly as they walked. "I know it's not the same, but I lost my grandparents because of the war – I can't really remember them, but it still makes me sad when that time of year rolls around."
He smiled a little as they came to a stop at a nearby bench and gently patted Tracey's hand. The bench was one of several on the lawn, spread evenly around for students to be able to sit comfortably and enjoy the air while still offering some small modicum of privacy.
Neville was the first to collapse onto it, groaning and stretching his hands above his head – a number of audible pops from his joints punctuated the air. Tracey joined him immediately, before any of the others, disentangling herself from Harry's arm, shoving Neville along the seat a little with her hip.
"Anyone still seeing things a little funny from the fumes of that demonstration Professor Saller gave us at the end?" Neville asked, rubbing his forehead a little once he'd stopped stretching.
"No, but my ears ring a little from the explosion." Daphne replied, settling herself down next to Tracey as she took the last available seat.
"It was magnificent, wasn't it? Any of you notice Seamus perk up when it happened?" Tracey giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.
"That boy is far too excited by explosions and fire to be deemed healthy." Hermione sniffed, planting herself on a large rock with a small bronze plaque attached to it near the bench.
"Says the one that set Professor Snape on fire?" Daphne grinned, winking at her playfully.
Harry watched as the colour rose in Hermione's cheeks, and for the first time felt himself genuinely chuckle – it had been a good source of teasing over the last year, and Hermione knew they meant nothing by it. The contradiction that was Hermione Granger, though, fascinated him. She was an ardent supporter of respecting authority – which he understood and agreed with – but she would also go against anything and everything if it meant keeping her friends safe.
It was an incredibly humbling thing, to be counted among her friends.
"I did that to protect Harry, and besides, I simply singed his robes." She sniffed, crossing her legs, and smoothing out her skirt.
"Something which I am incredibly grateful for, of course. A conversation that we've had a number of times now, I believe." Harry smiled, inclining his head a little as he calmly stood before them.
"I'm sure Hermione would have made a fine Slytherin." Daphne grinned, looking at the girl in question. "Your determination to keep this idiot alive is something to behold." She said, pointing at Harry, who simply rolled his eyes.
"Did I ever tell you that the Sorting Hat offered me any of the four houses?" Hermione asked, and Harry blinked.
His own sorting, and by extension Neville and Daphne's, had been short, almost instant decisions that had happened with little debate. Admittedly, he could see traits in all of his friends that represented the houses of Hogwarts, but to be offered the pick of the lot by the Hat was impressive.
"I don't think so." Tracey replied, shaking her head a little. "I think yours was the longest out of everyone though."
"It said I'd do well in all of them." Hermione shrugged. "I chose Gryffindor because of the Headmaster."
"Dumbledore? Why?" Neville asked, leaning forward on the bench, and resting his elbows on his knees.
"Well, besides Harry of course," Hermione began hesitantly, nodding at him with a slight blush. "Dumbledore is the most famous wizard of our time – he was a Gryffindor when he attended Hogwarts. It's in-"
"Hogwarts: A History." The four of them intoned together, causing Hermione to huff and cross her arms, though Harry could see the slight up-turn of the corner of her mouth.
"You could quote that book verbatim." Daphne chuckled.
"Not as well as Harry could quote that book on human transfiguration." Hermione replied, piercing him with a look he knew all too well. Evidently, she'd been waiting to ask him about it for a while, and he knew better than most that with Daphne and Tracey there, he wasn't going to be able to avoid the comment.
"Human transfiguration? That's advanced stuff, Harry." Tracey said, her eyes wide. "We don't learn that until NEWTs."
"I want to be an Animagus." He shrugged, folding his arms over his chest. "My father was one, and Sirius is too."
"James was an Animagus? Why did you never say anything?" Daphne gasped, sitting up a little as her brow furrowed.
"I knew!" Neville grinned.
"You don't count – shush, the adults are talking." Daphne scoffed, waving a hand dismissively at Neville.
"You're twelve."
"What's your point?"
"You're twelve – you're not an adult."
"I'm mature for my age." Daphne sniffed, tilting her nose up in the air a little. "Now," She began, returning her attention back to Harry. "Why did you never tell the rest of us?"
"It never came up, honestly. Sirius gave me a book with the notes they passed with their ideas for names at Christmas."
"Names?" Hermione asked, tilting her head to the side as she shuffled to the side on her little rock and patted the space next to her. He sat down with little complaint and pursed his lips – Tracey and Hermione were watching him intently.
"Aye – names. Sirius is Padfoot, Remus is Moony, my father was Prongs, and Peter," He paused and spat on the floor at the name. "Was Wormtail. Together, they made up The Marauders."
"The Marauders? What did they do?" Tracey asked, and Neville snickered behind his hand – Neville knew almost as much as he did about their escapades throughout Hogwarts, and Daphne knew almost as much.
"You know the twins?" Neville asked, and Harry watched as the witches nodded slowly. "The Marauders are what they aspire to be."
Harry snorted as he watched Hermione and Tracey shiver involuntarily. "You know how Snape despises me?"
"Professor." Hermione muttered, elbowing him in the ribs a little.
"No – it's never once come up, honestly." Daphne sighed with a roll of her eyes. Tracey and Hermione giggled.
"Well, he was a regular target – my father and Sirius were never fans of his, but Sirius has never told me why."
"Makes sense he'd carry his grudge against him onto you – everyone says you're the spitting image of your father." Neville shrugged, leaning back on the bench, and crossing his ankles.
"Aye, I don't blame him. Some of the pranks they did crossed the line far more than I care to admit – Severus gave as good as he got, from what I've heard."
"He did pranks too?" Tracey gasped, no doubt having trouble reconciling her Head of House with a prankster.
"No – he simply threw curses at them or spiked their food and drink with a potion or two."
They fell into a silence after that. The sounds of the various groups of students that were still milling about and chatting bounced off of the stone walls, and a pair of small birds sat in the branches of the old oak tree and sang without a care in the world.
"You never told us what his form was." Daphne said after a moment, drawing his attention back to the friends.
"He was a stag – Prongs was a reference to his rack of antlers." He grinned, feeling the usual pang of loss in his chest, his grin was empty and he knew it.
"Sirius is a Grim, that's why he went with Padfoot." Neville added, thankfully drawing the attention away from him. When he felt Hermione's hand gently rub back and forth between his shoulders, he gave her a small smile of thanks.
"Remus? You said his name was Moony?" Tracey asked excitedly, looking at Neville.
"Remus is rather private with his – it's up to him to tell you that one." Harry said, stopping Neville from answering. He wasn't about to have Remus's secret exposed in the middle of Hogwarts. Remus had come a long way in the years he'd been caring for him, and while he was much more confident and sure of himself, Remus would always think less of himself because of that bloody disease.
Sometimes, Harry wished Fenrir Greyback would just roll over and die for what he'd done to his Uncle.
"So, what do you want to turn into?" Hermione asked, bumping his shoulder with her own.
"It doesn't work like that." He snorted, cocking a brow at her.
"What do you mean?"
"Animagus have their forms revealed to them – there's no say in what you become." Daphne answered. "You could be anything, really."
"That's fascinating." Hermione breathed. "So, in theory, you could be something as simple as an ant, or as large as a dragon?"
"Merlin, please be a dragon!" Tracey grinned, bouncing in her seat a little.
"Alright, alright – I won't be doing the transformation for years yet. And no, if I do get a dragon – not that anyone ever has, mind you – you can't ride me."
"And here I thought you were fun, Potter." Tracey huffed, folding her arms and pouting as she slouched down on the bench a little.
"Well if it isn't Potter, slumming it as usual with the Blood-Traitors!" Draco called, stepping onto the lawn at the far side of the Courtyard.
Harry didn't need to use his magic to know everyone in the Courtyard, regardless of whether they were in the wings or sitting at one of the many benches by the oak, was now paying very close attention to the Malfoy heir and himself.
"Cousin Draco." Harry sighed, standing, and taking a few steps toward the blonde boy – the twin gorillas of Crabbe and Goyle flanking his shoulders. Behind him he heard his own friends get to their feet.
"Cousin? You don't get to claim blood with me, Potter! You think I'd sully the likes of my blood with yours?"
"Are you forgetting we're both related to House Black? My grandmother was Dorea Black, you fool, and your mother, Narcissa, was bartered off to your father like a mule." Harry scoffed. "No doubt she deserved better than Lucius."
"Don't you dare say a word against my father!" Draco growled, stepping a little closer. His pinched face flushed red in barely restrained fury.
"I'll say whatever I'd like to about Lucius Malfoy, Draco, or have you forgotten exactly who it is you're speaking to? I'm warning you – never refer to my friends by that disgusting title again." Harry replied, his magic flaring up and roiling just beneath the surface.
He hadn't planned on getting this angry when dealing with Draco, but he wouldn't stand to have his friends referred to in such a disgusting way. Harry hated that term. With Lucius having supported the Dark Lord, despite later claiming to have been under the Imperius curse, Harry had little doubt that Draco knew exactly where that term had originated.
"You think I'm scared of you, Potter?"
"You should be – he's the heir to the most powerful family in Britain, Draco." Daphne said dryly. "You'd be a fool to be anything but cordial to him. Not only is House Black sworn to him and his house, but there are even more houses that stand with him, sworn and allied alike."
"Shut your mouth, Greengrass." Goyle snapped, the boy waddling forward to stand beside Draco.
Harry watched from the corner of his eye as Neville stepped between Goyle and Daphne, his nostrils flared, and fists clenched at his sides. "I'd suggest keeping your words to yourself, you mindless ape, unless you want to be picking your teeth up off of the floor.
"What are you going to do, you useless Squib?" Crabbe demanded, his large head knocking into Neville's lightly as they stared at one another.
"Call your boys off, Draco, and go back to your Common Room – you know just as well as I do that you won't come out of this as the winner." Harry said, making sure to keep an eye on both Draco and his personal henchmen.
"Harry – just ignore him. Let's get out of here. He's not worth it." Hermione said, placing a hand on his left arm. Instantly, he felt lighter, and his magic found itself firmly under his control once again.
He nodded and allowed her to pull him away, moving back towards the castle – their pleasant conversation now thoroughly ruined by the brat. Perhaps, in the Great Hall, they would be able to calm down properly and enjoy a different topic.
For a moment, he thought of just how proud Arcturus would have been of him. Despite their argument just before his return to Hogwarts, he still loved the man dearly, and in hindsight he should have known better than to assume Arcturus would have done nothing with the slight against his mother's name. He had been hot-headed, foolish, and above all else, childish.
They were almost off of the lawn when Draco's taunting voice stopped him in his tracks and the fury ignited his very core in a way nothing had before.
"Did you forget what day it was tomorrow, Potter? Going to disappear and cry over your Blood-Traitor father and his Mudblood whore? Give it a couple of years Potter – I'm sure this one will spread her legs for you too."
Harry's entire body felt tense, and a dangerous calm swept over him. His fingers trembled and twitched as physical sparks of crimson magic danced along them in thin lightning-like forks. His jaw clenched, and he felt his teeth grinding together almost painfully.
To his left, he watched from the corner of his eye, as Neville wrapped his arms around Tracey, who was busy kicking and screaming towards Draco. On the other side of him, Daphne had rushed to Hermione's side and had her firmly held in place.
Harry spun on his heel and flicked his wand into his hand, his eyes narrowing on Crabbe and Goyle instantly.
He marched forward and quickly flicked off a pair of Petrificus Totalus curses at the dim-witted boys. He watched, with no small satisfaction, as the idiots seized up, their arms snapping to their sides and the colour drained from their faces as they fell to the floor – both of them bouncing off of the stone he and Hermione had been sitting on.
Draco spun around as the two boys collapsed on the ground next to him. He looked back at him; his eyes wide with fear as the colour drained from his already pale face. Harry watched as Draco flicked his wand into his hand, but in his panic, he fumbled and dropped it into the grass.
Harry threw his wand to the side and leapt at Draco. He didn't care where it ended up – he could find it afterward. Right now, all he needed to concern himself with was unleashing the fury that was burning within his veins.
The two fell to the grass. Draco landed on his back, his arms splayed at his side – his eyes were clamped shut and his face twisted into a grimace as the back of his head collided with the dirt beneath him.
Harry, meanwhile, had landed on his knees and quickly moved to straddle Draco's chest. Instantly, Harry pushed down with his left hand on Draco's chest and pulled his right arm back, his fingers already curled into a fist.
He brought it down with a grunt, the wet thud of his knuckles on Draco's jaw fuelled him as his rage boiled and writhed. He pursed his lips as he sat back up and slammed his fist down again and again, each time his body fell forward as he put his entire weight behind the punch.
He channelled his magic through his limbs, like Felix had taught him over the Summer. Already his knuckles were beginning to sting from where he'd cut the skin on Draco's bloody teeth.
Beneath him, Draco wheezed wetly, but Harry's fury wasn't spent. It was as if in that moment, every obscene comment and slur against his mother came back to the forefront of his mind as he changed his grip on Draco.
His right hand grasped the front of Draco's doublet and lifted his head up a little. The boy's eyes were already swollen shut, his left cheek bruised and battered with a long gash that ran along his cheekbone with just the slightest hint of bone visible.
He swung with his left, and despite the power he channelled through his arm, it didn't have the same satisfying effect. Harry swung two more times, rocking Draco's body violently with each strike.
He sat up after a moment and lifted Draco with him before he shattered Draco's nose with a pair of rapid strikes that knocked him once more onto his back. Both of his hands were covered in blood – his or Draco's, he didn't know, nor did he care.
Harry held Draco's head firmly in place with a hand wrapped around the boy's neck and continued to strike him. The world faded away, and Harry lost himself to the wet slaps of his fist rocking Draco's head back and forth.
For how long he was at it, he didn't know, but eventually, the sight of a dozen or more feet in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked up.
All around him were the horrified and stunned faces of the students of Hogwarts. Had they remained there, transfixed by the violence he had unleashed on the Slytherin? He looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with his friends, and his first halted mid-swing.
Neville was tense, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching as he took Harry in. Harry looked down for a brief moment and noted that the front of his uniform was covered in a mixture of blood and saliva, as were his fists – he could even feel it slowly running down his face on his cheeks. He glanced back up at Neville and received a slight nod.
The girls were different. Tracey looked horrified from her place in Neville's arms. There were tear marks running down her cheeks and a trembling hand was covering her mouth as she sobbed. Daphne, who had known him the longest of the three of them and had even witnessed his anger at times during their long friendship, was looking at him warily, her face impassive.
He stood shakily and stumbled in the direction that he'd thrown his wand. The rage left him in a rush and he almost fell to his knees as he bent to pick the thin piece of wood from the grass. All around him, several of the older students surged forward, each with their own wands out and aimed at him.
Harry blinked and holstered his wand.
He stumbled past his friends, the exhaustion quickly catching up to him and he briefly caught sight of a trio of professors. McGonagall brought a shocked hand to her mouth as she caught sight of him and the boy he'd left in the grass. Dumbledore remained unreadable, just as he always did. It was the look of absolute fear in Lockhart's eyes that startled him the most – how did a man who had faced untold scores of dark creatures find him a terrifying sight?
He shifted and stepped around Daphne and Hermione, and his heart shattered as the two of them flinched away from him on instinct – Hermione even going so far as to turn her head into Daphne's shoulder to avoid his gaze.
"Mister Potter – my office. Now." Dumbledore commanded. He nodded mutely as he moved to follow. Dumbledore spun on his heel and created a path through the students, each of them taking an extra step back as he walked past them.
His limbs felt heavy and sluggish as he followed the Headmaster through the school corridors and up the many staircases to the seventh floor. All the while, blood dripped from his fingertips and splashed quietly against the stone beneath his boots. In the back of his mind, he could feel Clara's concern – her worry, and her righteous fury.
No doubt she was angrily hopping about his room where he had left her to rest for the afternoon – Hedwig, he'd sent back to Blackwall with a letter to Sirius and Amelia with a question about something or another – he could barely even remember what he'd had for lunch at this point.
The Headmaster snapped the password to the gargoyle at the base of the stairs to his office before leading Harry up the small spiral staircase and into his office proper.
It had been some time since Harry had set foot in the room – the last time having been shortly after being freed from the Mirror of Erised. He hadn't appreciated the beauty of it at the time, but even through his exhaustion he marvelled at the two-tiered office.
To his immediate left were the cabinets full of trinkets and magical artefacts, some no doubt gifted to the school over the years by their creators, and others created by the powerful previous Headmasters and Headmistresses.
Dumbledore's desk sat next to a roaring fireplace that bathed the room in a comfortable heat, and the huge bookshelves that sat behind it were stacked full of ancient looking volumes and scrolls. What he would give to be able to have access to the vast knowledge in this room.
Fawkes trilled from his small golden perch, his song sweet and soft as he shuffled about at the sight of Harry. He had become acquainted with the smaller Phoenix through Clara, and he found he got on rather well with the bird – he was much more gently inclined than his own, though whether that was down to where Harry had met Clara, or just her personality, he couldn't say.
Dumbledore sat in his high-backed chair and levelled a grave expression at him behind his half-moon glasses. "I trust, Harry, you understand the consequences of your actions?"
"I do, Headmaster." He replied, his voice was scratchy and horse. "I have no excuse and will accept any punishment you deem necessary."
"Will you indeed?" Dumbledore sighed and took off his glasses tiredly. Harry watched as the stern expression on the Headmaster's face was swept aside by the old man the powerful wizard had become.
Harry said nothing, instead choosing to simply stand there. What could he say? He'd seen the state that he'd left Draco in, and while he felt numb to it all. On some level, he understood that if he'd continued, he'd have killed the boy in his blind rage.
The echo of his anger stirred in his chest again as he thought of what Draco had called his mother, and what he'd implied of Hermione. How dare he claim such things? He found himself breathing in deeply as his magic stirred once again.
"I will say this once, and only once, Harry. Calm down before I'm forced to calm you down myself." Dumbledore rumbled, his voice brimming with power as the portraits on the walls around him whispered to one another frantically.
Harry blinked and felt his shoulders droop once again as he wrestled his magic under control. Normally, he was able to command it well enough, this time he had to clamp his eyes shut and beat the surging, wild power into submission; it railed against the cage he'd forced it into.
"You are an immensely powerful young man, Harry, and I think, perhaps, that your name will in one way, or another, go down in history. Which side of history you fall on will depend entirely on you, of course." Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers before his face as he rested his elbows on the arms of his chair.
"Sir?" He asked with a frown and shifted his weight from foot to foot.
"Did you know that I knew your grandfather and his wife, Dorea?" The Headmaster asked suddenly, raising a brow.
He shook his head silently.
"I thought as much. I taught both of them, here, in this school – both were remarkable individuals, and I was heartbroken to hear of their deaths."
Harry nodded his head slowly at the words. He knew his grandparents had been killed in Voldemort's war – they had died side-by-side battling the Dark Lord's followers. It hadn't been long before that, that Voldemort had begun the systematic extinction of the cadet branches of his family. His uncles, aunts, cousins – all murdered in one way or another until only his father had remained.
"Then it shouldn't surprise you to hear that I understand your anger – the Potter fury has long since faded from the minds of the masses, but some of us still remember."
"Sirius told me I inherited both of my parent's tempers." Harry replied evenly, wiping a drop of something from his chin.
"That it seems you have – Lily had a brilliant temper, and your father-"
"Could hold a grudge for years, yes. Like I just mentioned, Sirius and Remus have told me." Harry said, cutting the Headmaster off.
"Indeed. I wonder, Harry, did they also tell you of your responsibility as the heir to House Potter among your peers?"
"I know my responsibilities, sir."
"Do you think young Draco deserved to die for whatever reason caused you to leave him in that state? Would you have stopped of your own volition if we hadn't arrived?"
Harry simply shrugged – he had no idea whether he would or wouldn't have. All he could really recall with any clarity was Tracey's tear-stained cheeks, Neville's nod of understanding, and the way Daphne and Hermione had flinched away from him – the latter not even able to look at him. It made him want to be sick.
"Well? Would you have?" Dumbledore asked again, his eyes hard and piercing.
"I don't know – probably not, no." Harry muttered, glancing at the floor.
"And how do you feel about that?"
"Nothing. I don't feel anything one way or another about it." He grunted, pacing back and forth slowly as he glanced around the room. Above him, a portrait of Phineas Black stared down at him past his long, hooked nose. The portrait of him at Grimmauld Place was an arse – he didn't expect anything different from this one.
"That worries me, Harry." Dumbledore sighed, his voice tight with something that Harry couldn't place, nor did he particularly want to.
"Why should it? You are neither my guardian nor family – you are the headmaster of a school." He snapped, looking away from the portrait of the long-dead member of House Black. "I could have killed Draco and not have suffered anything for it legally – not after what he said."
"Enlighten me, Harry. I cared for your parents a great deal, and I care for you also. One day I would like to think you could trust me enough to confide in me."
"He called my father a Blood-Traitor and my mother a Mudblood Whore – then he went on to insinuate that Hermione was the same. What would any of the other families have done, Headmaster?" He asked, glancing at the man in the high-backed chair.
"Declared a Blood-Feud, most likely." He watched as Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose and slumped in his chair a little. "Were there any witnesses to this exchange? Outside of your friends, of course."
"Anyone that was in the Courtyard, I would imagine."
"Very well – I'll begin interviewing the students this evening. May I suggest-"
Whatever Dumbledore was about to say was cut off by the door to his office being thrown open, and the sneering visage of Professor Snape stormed into the room, his robes billowing and his sallow face the colour of the blood on Harry's knuckles.
"Headmaster, I demand this boy be expelled from the grounds – immediately!"
"Ah, Severus – please, come in."
"Professor." Harry said, inclining his head a little. Harry watched as Snape's eyes took in his appearance quickly before darting back to the Headmaster.
"Why is he not being expelled? He nearly beat a member of Slytherin to death with his fists like a Neanderthal. Instead, he is up here with you, looking as if he hasn't a care in the world! He attacked the heir to a Noble Family – this cannot stand!" Snape roared, stepping past Harry and placing his hands on Dumbledore's desk.
"Legally, Harry was within his rights to respond the way he did, if his claim proves to be true." Dumbledore replied calmly. "That isn't to say he won't go without punishment."
Harry inclined his head toward Dumbledore. He'd expected as much.
"So he gets away with nearly beating a student to death, in front of half the school?"
"If what Harry said is true, then he will face the appropriate punishment for attacking another student. No more – no less."
"Unbelievable!" Snape blew out with a gush of foul breath, pushing away from the desk and rounding on Harry. "You're just like your father – attacking anyone you fancy. You're nothing more than a beast."
Harry raised a brow slowly and took a step towards the professor. "I'm well aware of everything that went on between you and my father, Severus. Speak that way about him again, and I swear-"
"That is enough, Harry." Dumbledore said, standing from his chair as Fawkes fluttered his wings twice.
"You dare-" Snape began, and Harry noticed Snape's hand twitch ever so slightly.
"Severus – leave us." Dumbledore commanded. Harry watched as Snape's back straightened slightly and his jaw snapped shut with an audible click. The professor glared at the Headmaster for a moment before sweeping from the room with one last sneer.
"It is unwise to antagonise him." Dumbledore said once the door clicked shut.
"It's unwise for him to be a prick." Harry muttered in response, as he glanced at the door. When his eyes returned to the Headmaster, he saw the hard stare that was levelled at him. "What would you have me say?"
"I would have you be above such petty insults."
"I was raised by Sirius."
"And Arcturus. Remus as well – I can't imagine they would be too pleased to hear you speak of your professors in such a way, no matter your, or their, personal feelings." Dumbledore replied as he moved around his desk. "Now, in light of your actions, I believe a deduction of House Points and a number of detentions are in order – would you agree?"
"Aye, Headmaster." He nodded, flexing his right hand idly as the skin began to sting.
"Very well – return to Gryffindor Tower for the evening. I'll have the Elves bring you your food. Your first detention will be tomorrow night with Professor Lockhart. I'm sure missing the feast will weigh heavily on you."
"As long as you don't let another Troll roam the castle, Headmaster, I believe that I'll be fine."
"I can assure you, my boy – the castle will be more than secure without Professor Quirrell scurrying about." Dumbledore replied evenly, raising a brow slightly. "Now, why don't you get a move on and I shall begin interviewing the students as to the events of the evening, hm?"
"Yes Headmaster." Harry replied, bowing stiffly before striding from the room. As he quickly made his way down the short spiral staircase, he half expected to see Snape standing there, waiting for him. Instead, he was simply greeted with the empty hallway that would lead back to Gryffindor Tower.
He made his way there quickly, pausing his stride only long enough to announce the password – Bowtruckle Sneezes – and step through.
He came to a dead stop upon entering the Common Room, as it seemed almost every member of Gryffindor was standing waiting for him – most looked disgusted at the state of him, while others had much more guarded faces.
"Harry!" Neville cried, leaping to his feet, and rushing over to him. Harry grimaced as Neville gripped both of his shoulders and looked him over, crinkling his nose as he took the state of him in. "Are you alright? I tried to explain to everyone, but-"
"I'm fine, Neville. Hands are a little sore though."
"No wonder – you nearly beat the kid to death." A seventh year called out from the crowd. The boy was tall and well built, with the sigil of House Patt on his breast – a vassal of House MacMillan.
"That kid insulted the late Lord and Lady Potter, Arnold – shut your mouth." Neville snapped, turning around and glaring over his shoulder. Harry just sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Don't – just… don't." Harry muttered, waving the both of them off as he moved to step around Neville. He went to move towards the stairs, but found his path blocked by the other students. Neville was quickly at his shoulder once again. "May I pass?" He asked tiredly.
"That depends – will you attack us like a savage?" A girl sneered. He didn't recognise anything about her, and she was dressed in the Muggle-born uniform that Hermione and Tracey wore.
"Will you insult my parents?" He asked. His jaw clenched and unclenched as his patience began to wear thin. "Bollocks to it." He muttered, turning to the room as a whole. "You really want to do this now? Okay." He said, raising his voice as he looked at the rest of his House. "You."
He marched up to the young Creevey boy who had his camera in hand. He was nice enough and had a love for photography – Harry distantly recalled him mentioning he was a Muggle-born. The boy's eyes widened, and he took a step back.
"If your parents were dead, and were called a Blood-Traitor and a Mudblood Whore, what would you do? Do nothing? Shame." He stepped away and looked at someone else across the room. He marched up to them. "What about you, hm? Thought so."
He went back and forth between the members of Gryffindor, each of them refusing to say a word – Neville remained where he had been standing, his arms folded across his chest. "I thought as much. Quick to pass judgement, but I wonder what each of you would do in my place." He glanced back at the girl that had sneered at him. "Now, move." He growled.
The students parted and allowed him to move to the staircase. He took the stairs two at a time and slammed the door closed behind him as he stepped into the shared room that his bedroom branched off from.
He wasted little time in entering his own room, pausing only long enough to calm Clara and gather a quick change of clothes – a large, baggy shirt, clean underwear, and a new pair of breeches – before ducking back out to the shared bathroom.
He entered a shower cubicle quickly and began to strip the clothes from his body, throwing them into a small pile by the door before he unstrapped his wrist holster for his wand. Once divested of his clothing, he stepped under the shower head and ran his finger over the rune.
Harry stood there, his muscles trembling as the water ran down his body and into the drain between his feet. His head was bowed, and his hair hung in wet, limp clumps with his hands on the wall in front of him.
For a while, he tried to fight it, but eventually the pained sobs wracked his body and his vision blurred and he wept. He wept for his mother and father – for the hugs and kisses that he would never experience. He wept for how broken and twisted his anger made him feel. He wept for how his friends had looked at him like he was some sort of monster.
Why did nobody understand that he didn't want to be angry all the time? Why could nobody see how much it strained him to keep his magic under control? Most days he was so exhausted from keeping it controlled that he barely felt rested the following morning. Was it only a matter of time until he lost control again and hurt them irreparably?
Draco would be fine under Madame Pomfrey's care, he knew that, but what if next time he didn't stop? He'd admitted as much to Dumbledore that he likely wouldn't have felt much if he'd killed Draco, but now – now that everything was done, and he was finally alone…
He was a monster, and now the whole school knew what he really was. No wonder his friends had flinched away from him. They must have thought that they would likely suffer a similar fate. Only Neville – brave, loyal Neville – had rushed to him without a second's hesitation the moment he had arrived at the Tower. He hadn't seen Hermione in the crowd of faces, despite keeping an eye out for her.
He wanted to apologise – he needed to apologise. He would never hurt her – or Neville, or Tracey, or Daphne. They were his friends. They were pack.
He sniffed and lifted his head as the water began to run down his face, washing away his tears as his breath slowly evened out. No doubt Arcturus, Sirius and Remus would be disappointed – even Andromeda if she found out.
He pushed his hands from the wall and held them under the water. His eyes watched as the blood slowly trickled away and revealed the swollen knuckles underneath all the blood and saliva that had coated them. They weren't in such a state that he needed to visit Madame Pomfrey, and he could still open and close his fists well enough, so he hadn't broken anything.
He pulled himself together and finished showering quickly once his hands were clean, scrubbing himself twice over, as if that would help remove what he'd nearly done. With another swipe of his finger, the water halted, and he quickly dried himself with a spell and pulled his clothes on.
When he stepped back into the small common room, he found Hermione sat there, fussing over Clara with Neville. Both looked up at him – though it was only Neville that offered any sort of smile.
"Here – let me take those. I think the two of you need to talk." Neville said, getting to his feet and quickly taking the bloody bundle of clothes from his hands. Harry nodded mutely, his hair swinging limply on either side of his face a little.
"Thank you." He whispered with a small sniff.
"I'm with you no matter what, Harry – we're brothers, remember?" Neville replied, wrapping his free arm around him, and squeezing tightly. Without thinking, Harry wrapped his arms around Neville and squeezed back, balling his fists into the doublet at Neville's back.
They stayed that way for a moment, with only Clara's soft chirps and the crackling of the fire to punctuate the silence of the room. They both pulled back at the same time, and Neville quickly moved to Harry's room where he threw his clothes into the basket before disappearing into his own.
Harry looked over to Hermione, who was perched nervously on the edge of the small two-seater sofa and fiddling with the hem of her skirt as she chewed on her bottom lip.
"Hello." He said softly, his voice cracking a little. He sat down on one of the plush chairs to the side and stared at the rug beneath his feet.
"Hey." She replied in a small voice – it was so faint he could barely hear it over the fire. Clara hopped over to him and nipped at his fingertips.
"I understand it, you know." He said after a moment, his eyes flicking up briefly to glance in her direction.
She sat there, her back straight, but her chin tucked to her chest. Her hair fell in thick curtains on either side of her face while her shoes worried at the rug anxiously. She didn't even look at him.
"I'm a monster." He said after a moment, and he looked back down at his feet. "I just… I just get so angry sometimes, and I can't control it. It's been bad ever since Voldemort." He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "I don't know how much longer I can cope."
"I nearly killed Draco." He added after a moment, pursing his lips and nodding his head. "Dumbledore asked me how I would have felt about that, you know. I told him I wouldn't have felt much of anything. At the time, it was true – but now…" He paused and sucked in a shuddering breath. "Now I'm disgusted by myself."
He looked up at her and felt the tears trickle their way down his cheeks as his throat constricted and his nose stung. "Please, Hermione – please say something."
She flinched and finally looked at him – her eyes were red, and there were visible tracks down her own cheeks. "What do you want me to say, Harry?"
"I don't know – anything!"
"Harry, I watched you nearly kill a boy because he called your parents names! How do you expect me to react?" Hermione asked, her voice raised and tight. Her eyes were wide, and her bottom lip trembled.
Harry sat back a little as his mouth opened to say something, but the words died on his tongue and he found himself frowning. "You have no idea what those words mean, do you?" He murmured, blinking away the tears that lingered.
"I know what whore means, Harry!" Hermione replied sharply, leaping to her feet. "Being called such a vile thing isn't sufficient to beat someone to within an inch of their life." She snapped.
"To the Hells with calling my mother a whore, Hermione!" He roared, jumping to his own feet. He grimaced as she stumbled back and fell back onto the sofa. A rush of air left his nose as he walked over toward the fire and glared at it, folding his arms over his chest as he chewed at his thumbnail.
"He called my father a Blood-Traitor. It's a slur – it means my father betrayed the magic in his blood. That he betrayed wizards and witches everywhere for the sin of falling in love with my mother."
He sniffed and cleared his throat.
"I could handle him calling my mother a whore – I've heard it muttered all my life. But I couldn't ignore him calling her a Mudblood." He looked over his shoulder at her, his gaze steely. Hermione had remained seated where she was, though her face was pale, and she held a hand to her mouth that trembled slightly.
"It's a way of saying that her blood was dirty, worth naught but mud – it's a foul way to refer to someone with non-magical parents. A Muggle-born."
He rounded on his friend, the familiar feeling of his magic surging with his passions.
"And then, on top of all of that, he said the same thing about you."
"You think I care what that spoiled, spiteful little boy thinks of me? Harry – you could have killed him!" Hermione frowned; her voice strained as she dropped her hand to her lap. "Do you think your parents would have wanted that?"
"I don't know what my parents wanted!" Harry bellowed, and in the corner of the room, a chair imploded in a shower of splinters and shredded fabric. Hermione squealed and covered her head instinctively.
"Even their Will, they didn't even write it in their own hand, just signed it – Merlin, I barely even have a letter from them! A handful of photographs, but that's it – how should I know anything other than what people have told me? The worst part is that I want to know, Hermione. I would give everything to have my father cheer for me after catching the Snitch, to have my mother run her hands through my hair and kiss everything better – but I can't. People like that worm Draco took that away from me!"
Harry sank to his knees, the anger rushing from him as he buried his face in his hands and began to sob. "I just want my parents."
He'd never felt so pathetic in his life. Not even the soft trills of Clara, as he felt her nuzzle his neck helped. He sat there, rocking back and forth a little as the sobs wracked his body painfully – his face felt hot and his nose stung painfully.
There was a shuffle of movement, and he thought he heard the door close. He wouldn't blame her for leaving – he was a ticking time bomb, just waiting to explode. Perhaps he should just leave and disappear somewhere. At least he wouldn't hurt anyone else.
He barely even noticed the arm that slipped around his waist and the head that took up position on his shoulder. He calmed eventually and lowered his hands and rubbed him on his thighs – the tears leaving dark marks on the material. He glanced to his left and saw the pleated skirt and Hermione's pale knees folded beneath her.
His nose scrunched on instinct as her hair tickled his nose and he looked away quickly.
"I don't think you're a monster, Harry." She said quietly after a moment. "I think you're a boy who's had terrible things happen to him – but you're no monster."
His stomach clenched involuntarily, and he felt the tears threatening to spill from his eyes once again.
"You're a good person, Harry – and an even greater wizard someday. Your parents would be proud." She continued, finally lifting her head from his shoulder, and looking at him with her chocolate eyes.
"How do you know?" He asked quietly, looking away and down at the rug beneath him.
"Because I know you. Yes, what you did today is terrifying, but you're a good person. These tears," she reached up and brushed his cheek, catching the steady stream running from his eyes. He fought the urge to lean into her touch. "They tell me that you have a good heart."
He wanted to agree, wanted more than anything to agree with her, but he couldn't. He didn't trust himself to believe her. Not then. Possibly not ever. After a moment, he pushed himself to his feet, Hermione only a second behind. "I should get some sleep." He muttered, looking anywhere but at his friend. It didn't seem right.
"Of course. I'll leave you to it, shall I?" She replied. He nodded slowly and moved to step toward his room, only for Hermione to wrap him in another hug. "You scared me today, Harry – but I'll always be your friend."
Before he could say anything, she let go and rushed from the room and clicked the door shut behind her. He blinked and glanced down at Clara, who simply stared up at him and cocked her head to the side and blinked.
He bent down and picked the bird up in his arms, the corners of his mouth twitching as she nuzzled his neck and nipped at his ear playfully. He knew what she was doing – he knew his first Familiar far too well – and gave her a gentle squeeze for her efforts. She may be a pain in his arse sometimes, but he loved her unconditionally, and she him.
Harry kicked his door open gently and stepped through, pushing it shut with the heel of his shoe until it clicked. With the door shut, he gently laid Clara on the bed got changed, tossing the used clothes into the basket by the door before he climbed under the cover. Clara settled herself on the pillow next to his head, her wing draping itself over his shoulder.
For how long he continued to stare up at the canopy of his bed, he didn't know, but eventually his eyelids grew heavy and sleep claimed him.
Harry knocked on the door to the Defence classroom – the three thuds echoing down the empty corridor behind him.
The day had carried on for far too long, as far as he was concerned. He'd awoken that morning to the gentle pecks of Clara and gone through his morning routine without any enthusiasm – his limbs had felt like lead and he'd seen just how red and puffy his eyes were in the bathroom.
After that, he'd avoided most people. He'd remained in his room for the majority of the day, staring at the mannequin that held his armour in the corner of his room, his sword and belt hanging from the wall next to it.
He'd gotten up to look at it closely over the course of the day, wondering what his father would think of him wearing it and even going so far as to bring it to the school. He didn't expect to need it, but after the debacle with Quirrell and Voldemort at the end of the last year, he wasn't taking any chances.
Even now, as he stood waiting for the fool of a professor to answer the door, he could close his eyes and sense the animosity within the fortress. He had little doubt as to where that animosity was directed – he deserved it. He'd beaten the boy to within an inch of his life – all in a fit of rage because his parents had been called names.
It wasn't fit behaviour for the son of James and Lily Potter – nor a son of Sirius Black, or a grandchild of Arcturus Black.
His armour hadn't been the only thing he'd looked at during the day. Other times, he would stare at the tapestry Arcturus had given to him with his name written proudly in elegant script, while his face grinned up at him.
After everything he'd done – did he deserve to remain on it? He'd fingered his wand a couple of times and fought the urge to burn his name from it more than once. He'd never felt like such a failure and a disappointment in his life. Arcturus had taught him better than this.
Arcturus had made sure he'd grown up to be level-headed, to be able to rise above petty insults and wrap himself in skin made of the toughest Dragon-hide. Andromeda had made sure he had been loved unconditionally and known the love that Sirius, Remus, and Arcturus couldn't provide. She'd given him a close cousin in Nymphadora. Remus had made sure he always had someone to turn to, and words of advice should he ever need it. Sirius… Sirius had given him a life – he had loved him unconditionally and had always been there with his lop-sided smile and a wink.
So, he'd put his wand down and instead simply stared at the men and women who had moulded him into the boy he was – for that was all he truly was, no matter how much he tried to be an adult. He was a child. A stupid, stupid child.
He knew, logically, that House Malfoy could do nothing against him, but his actions would no doubt have consequences in the Wizengamot for the rest of his life. How willing would political allies be to stand beside a boy who had beaten another to within an inch of his life with his own fists?
He couldn't see many leaping at the opportunity.
It was more than likely that at least a dozen or more students from prominent families had already written home to their parents to tell them about the shocking events of yesterday. He expected it to be in the Daily Prophet by Monday, condemning him as a savage.
The door opened, and the face of Professor Lockhart appeared in the crack of the door, blinking down at him. "Yes, Potter?"
"Headmaster Dumbledore said I was to have detention with you." Harry replied.
Lockhart paled a little, but not before clearing his throat and nodded shakily. "Right – yes, dearie me, I must have forgotten. In you come, Potter."
Harry watched, expressionless as Lockhart opened the door wide enough for him to step through. Once he was through the door, the professor quickly closed it and turned to look at him warily.
"I think, it would be best if I hold onto your wand. Wouldn't want you to cast anything by accident, would we?"
Harry looked at him and frowned, but complied. He flicked his wrist and felt the wand jump into his hand easily. With a quick twirl of it in his fingers, he offered it to the Defence teacher handle-first. Despite this, he still noted Lockhart fingering the handle of his own wand idly as he watched him carefully.
"Here you go, Professor Lockhart." He said, frowning. What did the man think he was going to do? Throw a tantrum and curse him? He was a second-year student – what could he do against the likes of him?
"Yes, yes… Thank you, Harry." Lockhart said, snatching the wand from his hand before taking a careful step back.
Harry glanced around the room – he'd never been in the classroom outside of hours before. It was a lot less disorganised than it had been when Quirrell had the run of it. Instead of bookcases piled high with various scrolls and bunches of garlic, they were covered with dozens and dozens of portraits, all of Lockhart himself, all whispering quietly among themselves as they peered down at him. They looked rather disconcerting in the glow of the candles. How anyone could surround themselves with their own picture so much was beyond him.
"Do you have some task for me? I believe I'm supposed to spend a number of hours here." Harry asked, wandering over to the chair in which he usually sat – at the front, centre row, on the right-hand side, next to Hermione. Neville and Daphne would sit behind them, and Tracey would be on the left-hand side of the desk across the row from him. She usually sat with Susan.
"Nothing overly important, I suppose. I had planned on spending the evening responding to fan-mail – I suppose you can help me with that." Lockhart said, quickly walking back to his desk, which was piled high with stacks of letters and parchment.
Harry grimaced and eyed the piles of parchment that was stacked precariously on Lockhart's desk. Behind it, Harry caught a glimpse of the large, framed portrait peering down at him with a paintbrush in-hand. Merlin, he despised this man.
Rather than saying anything, however, he simply stepped around his chair and moved to gather a number of the parchments from the varnished mahogany table. He lifted them carefully, aware of just how much of a job it would be to pick any of the sheets up should they flitter to the floor. He began to move back to his desk when Lockhart's voice stopped him. "Oh, nonsense Harry – you can share my desk. There's plenty of room."
Harry was glad that his back was to the professor, because all the years of learning under Arcturus couldn't have stopped the grimace that spread across his face. Instead, he took a deep breath, and turned on his heel slowly with a small smile. "Thank you, Professor Lockhart."
The teacher gave a short nod and a small smile before he dropped his head back to the letters in his own pile.
The scraping of Harry's stool as he shifted closer to the desk caused him to wince in the silence of the classroom. During class, it seemed like a drop in the ocean, but at night when it was but the two of them? Thankfully, the professor didn't deign to look up from his letters and Harry could settle in and get to work. The sooner this was all over and done with, the better.
As his eyes skimmed the correspondence in his hands, he only half paid attention to it all. No doubt if Hermione were here, she'd have set up some organised method that made it so much more efficient. Neville would have likely gone with the motions, much like he was doing. Tracey would grumble and no doubt try to use a spell to make the workload easier, while Daphne would have probably given Lockhart a piece of her mind.
Who was he kidding? All three of the girls would have been sitting where he was making eyes at the fool. It seemed only Neville and he were the ones that had any sort of sense when it came to the man – Merlin, even Susan made eyes at him!
He felt his lip curl a little at the thought of it all. While Amelia may have said everything was just fine, he didn't trust the man. There was something about him that rubbed him and his magic the wrong way.
Even as he sat there, scribbling out a reply to some fan or another, he felt his upper lip attempt to curl itself.
Now that he thought about it, the only girl he'd not seen make eyes at the professor in one way or another was Luna Lovegood.
He pursed his lips and frowned as his quill halted momentarily at the thought of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl. She was the niece of the current Lord Lovegood and lived on the land that he'd recently purchased from House Weasley. He'd introduced himself the day after the Sorting Feast – she was a wisp of a girl, even at eleven, and had been sorted into Ravenclaw.
He assumed she was happy there, as he'd sat with a bemused expression as she'd skipped to the table. Hermione had been off in her own little world, and Neville had even pointed out a student or two that were sworn to House Longbottom that had been sorted into Hufflepuff.
When he'd gotten the chance to speak to her the following day, she had been staring dreamily up at the clouds once classes had finished for the day. He'd seen her only by chance and had quickly excused himself from his friends.
They'd been walking back to the main keep of the castle when he'd caught a glimpse of Luna sitting in one of the large windows along the corridor – that dreamy, far away look he'd come to expect from her, on her face.
She'd said hello before she'd even seen him. Her voice had been soft and melodic, with just the faintest hint of the southern, Devonshire accent he'd come to expect from House Lovegood – which was interesting, seeing as the family were about as Welsh as the Welsh got.
He'd felt his magic tingle as something swept over him, and in that moment, he'd never felt more exposed in his life. He remembered the feeling of the Kneazle Magic as it inspected him, but this had been something completely different.
Her words had been pleasant, and after a short conversation, the two had parted as acquaintances, if not friends – though it was easy to imagine her becoming a friend. There was something about the girl that relaxed him, that made it easy for him to talk to her and not be judged.
Harry had also made sure that she knew that if anything were to bother her while at the school, she was more than welcome to seek him out – he would always be available for the families of those that his House presided over, no matter how small the matter.
Upon re-joining his friends, Neville had shoved his shoulder and made some jokes about being surrounded by more girls than he could count, and Daphne had put a stop to that, making her own joke about how Neville thought he could count. It had been a pleasant day, and he smiled at the memory of it.
Now though, he hadn't seen Tracey or Daphne all day – though Neville said that both were fine and would simply need time to come to terms with what he'd done. He hoped they would, though he wouldn't blame them if they wished to distance themselves a little.
Word had spread throughout the castle as to the state of Draco. The Prince of Slytherin, as his fellow housemates mockingly referred to him as, would make a full recovery with only having to spend the weekend under Madame Pomfrey's care.
Dumbledore had kept his word and interviewed the students that had witnessed the exchange, and it seemed the school knew why Harry had leapt at Draco – at least, according to Neville. It hadn't stopped the stares and the hushed whispering when he'd stepped into the Gryffindor Common Room on his way to his detention.
Apparently, according to Neville – Lucius Malfoy himself had visited the school last night. Neville had overheard a pair of Prefects talking about it at breakfast. According to Neville, the Hufflepuff fifth year Prefects had been the one to escort him to Dumbledore's office, but what had been said was anyone's guess – though it had been noted that he hadn't bothered to visit Draco.
He couldn't imagine not being visited by his family. He knew that he couldn't expect them to be there all the time when he was there for an extended stay – they all had responsibilities that demanded attention and could only be put on hold for so long. But to not even get a passing visit? He may not like the boy, but he was beginning to understand why he was such a prick.
"Harry, Harry, Harry…" Lockhart drawled, causing his head to look up. Harry blinked and noticed just how low his pile had gotten. "Can you possibly imagine a better way, to serve detention, than by helping me answer my fan-mail?"
"Not really." Harry scoffed, sitting back on his stool a little as he stretched.
"Fame is a fickle friend, Harry. Celebrity is, as celebrity does. Remember that." Lockhart said, nodding his head slowly, as if he'd just imparted some wise words of wisdom.
Harry was just about to ask what he was on about when he suddenly gripped his head with his hands on either side of his head. A pressure formed behind his eyes as it sounded like the wind was rushing by him.
"Come to Ruhxu… Ruhxu is free… Ruhxu has been commanded…"
He stumbled back from the stool and looked around the room as he winced – the voice was so loud! Lockhart looked up from his desk in alarm and had his wand in his hand in an instant, but Harry didn't care about any of that – he just wanted the voice to go away!
It left him as suddenly as it had arrived and he breathed a sigh of relief and sank to his knees, his breath coming in short gasps.
"Harry – what was that?" Lockhart demanded – the tip of his wand trembling slightly.
"Did… Did you not hear that, Professor?"
"Hear what?"
"That voice! It was so loud; I could barely hear a thing." Harry groaned, falling forward to rest his hands on the stone slabs before him.
"Voice? What voice?" Lockhart asked slowly, his eyes darting about the room uncertainly as his wand lowered a little. "Perhaps you're imagining things, Harry – a little drowsy and all that." Lockhart continued, though his voice was wary and shaky to Harry's ear. "Yes – off you go, Potter. You've more than served your detention, I think."
Harry frowned at the quick dismissal and the way that Lockhart was looking everywhere in the room but at him. "If you think so, sir – I'll need my wand back, though."
"Yes, yes – of course. Go on, off you get."
Harry took the wand that was pushed into his chest as he was led from the room. It felt like he'd blinked, and he was suddenly in the corridor with his wand in hand as the door slammed shut behind him.
He frowned and glanced over his shoulder at the plain door – what had all that been about? There was no possible way that Lockhart hadn't heard that. He glanced up and down the corridors and heaved a sigh – it was no doubt approaching curfew, judging by the dark sky and the pale moonlight filtering in through the tall windows.
He stowed his wand away on his wrist and began making his way back to the Gryffindor Tower, his heels click-clacking against the stone beneath him.
There were a few times when he thought he heard something distantly, or he felt like he was being watched – but each time he would turn around to check, there would be nothing and nobody there. It was unsettling.
He was just about to turn to check once more – his magic was flaring danger now – when he was stopped short by the sound of water beneath his feet. He glanced down and noticed the entire corridor was flooded before him. Had a pipe burst?
He continued onward and rounded a corner and gasped at the sight of a pair of feet on the floor at the far end of the corridor, just sticking out of the corner. He rushed forward and flicked his wand out into his hand as his eyes swept back and forth. He skidded to a halt, the water splashing about him in small waves and splashing up the far wall as he took the girl in.
She had blonde hair and was soaked through, and her skin was as pale as a corpse while her eyes stared up at the ceiling in horror. He dropped to his knee quickly and pressed his fingers to her neck for a pulse and breathed a sigh of relief when he found one.
"Clara!" He called into the corridor; the familiar ball of flame burst to life just above his head as she flapped her powerful wings. "Get Professor Dumbledore – there's been an attack!"
She disappeared almost instantly, and reappeared with the Headmaster, who looked around in befuddlement for a moment before his face turned to stone as he took in the sight of Harry and the girl he was knelt over.
"Harry – what's going on here?" He asked, kneeling to take a look at the girl.
"I don't know, Headmaster – I just came from detention with Lockhart and found her. Will she be alright?"
Dumbledore didn't respond. Instead, he knelt and started waving his wand over the prone figure, chanting under his breath in a language that Harry had never heard before.
Panic and fear rose in him like an angry beast. Who had done this?
"Petrified," the Headmaster sighed, leaning back and rolling his wand arm's wrist. "Powerfully, too."
"Headmaster?"
Before the headmaster could respond, there were dozens of students around him, and even Clara's cawing did nothing to keep them from getting too close.
"Potter! It's Potter!"
The whispers rippled through the students, and he heard more and more arriving from every direction as members of the staff pushed through the crowd.
"That's Penelope, that is!"
"The Ravenclaw Prefect?"
"Did Potter kill her?"
"That'll be enough of that!" Dumbledore bellowed, silencing the students as Professor McGonagall arrived.
"Oh my – Albus…" She muttered, her hand leaping to her mouth as she stared up at the wall. Harry's gaze followed hers, and he gasped at the words written – in blood.
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
