The morning was bright and fresh – the sun was high, and not a cloud lingered in the sky; not even by the mountains on the far side of the lake where he knew the Dwarves resided. There was a chill on the air that he felt in his bones, and in the distance, he could make out the dark shapes of the Dementors as they patrolled the perimeter of the school.

He frowned at the sight of them, a chill running down his spine as the memory of their haunting moans, and their skeletal fingers digging into the skin of his arms, the feeling of inescapable cold that had spread throughout his entire body, right down into his bones.

He'd never felt anything quite like it, and, he hoped, he would never feel its like again.

It hadn't been the memory of the attack itself that had lingered with him in the week following the Quidditch match; it had been the haunting vision of his mother's murder right in front of him. He could remember it clearly, and it haunted his dreams – each morning he awoke in a terrible sweat, his chest lurching, and his throat constricted, while in the corners of his eyes, a green flash lingered.

Each morning it had been the same; he would awaken just as the sun crept over the horizon, and he would spend some time with Clara and Hedwig, who, unfortunately, were awoken by his scrambling from the bed and violent, shuddering gasps for breath.

He would spend some time with the two birds nestled into his chest, the backs of his fingers gently trailing down the backs of their heads, and for once, neither bird would vie for his attention over the other – it was pleasant, almost, and it soothed him to no end.

Clara especially had been quite attentive to him in the last week, always appearing when he needed her the most, and even going so far as to join him in the Common Room when he was working on his homework with his friends – Astoria had loved the appearance of the Phoenix, as had a number of the other first year students.

When she wasn't watching him carefully with those onyx eyes of hers and wasn't preening loose strands of his hair, she could be found on the back of his favourite chair, presiding over the Common Room like a queen presided over her court. She would sing in the evenings, and he would find himself relaxing at the noise with his spirits lifted – the magic of a Phoenix continued to amaze him.

There were other problems that had cropped up throughout the week, of course – more Familiars had gone for Scabbers, Ron's rat, and the pathetic creature looked about ready to have a heart attack any day now. Gone was the brown colouring of its fur, and instead there were more and more tufts of grey; for the life of him, Harry just couldn't work out why the Familiars of the school were suddenly trying to make a meal out of the rat.

The only thing Harry had been able to possibly guess at, was that it wasn't Ron's original rat, and his parents just hadn't told him – for all that Familiars received extended lives, they still fell to disease. It was entirely possible that the original Scabbers had befallen that exact fate, and his parents just hadn't had the heart to let him know. It wouldn't have even surprised him if Ron hadn't noticed the missing Familiar Bond.

Merlin, even Crookshanks and Piper had made a grab for Scabbers, and for the first time in his three years at Hogwarts, Harry had nearly thrown himself bodily at the youngest of the Weasley brothers. Ron was loud, brash, and opinionated – his disdain for Slytherin was well known – but, generally, he seemed a decent guy; he had a strange fascination with chess and Quidditch, but all in all, he was decent. Oh, he had faults – he was quick to judge, lazy with his schoolwork, gluttonous, and had a temper, but Harry couldn't hold any of those against the boy, especially the last one.

What he did take issue with, was when that temper was directed at his friends – Daphne, he knew could handle Ron's temper; Astoria, on the other hand, could not. Ron was one of the taller students in their year, almost half a head taller than Neville, and Harry not far behind his best friend.

When Piper had lunged at Scabbers, Ron had spun on Astoria, towering over her with a puce-coloured face, and furious eyes. Astoria, who had been sat on the sofa with her fingers carding through her Familiar's fur, had been shocked by Piper's sudden aggression, and when Ron had stormed up to her, he had towered over her tiny form.

Even when she was standing, Astoria had always been a little on the smaller side, and when he'd looked to the commotion in the middle of the room, she had looked positively tiny. Harry had darted between the two of them and made sure that Ron's ire had been directed at him rather than the shocked, and scared, even if she wouldn't admit it, first year.

Astoria had avoided Ron Weasley ever since, cowering behind Harry if the Weasley boy was ever in the Common Room, or quickly darting up the stairs to her bedroom.

When, a few days later, Crookshanks had taken a lunge at Scabbers, Ron's anger had been more vitriolic towards Hermione than any other – after all, compared to the other Familiars that had had a shot at the rat, Ron knew Hermione better and longer. Hermione, for her part, fired back with her own biting remarks and insults, much more than she had received, in Harry's opinion, and, when Harry interjected himself between the feuding Gryffindors, Hermione had simply picked up her Kneazle, and stormed off to her room, Ron doing likewise with Scabbers.

Gryffindor had been tense in the days following, and Harry was simply glad that neither his own Familiars, nor Trevor had gone for the rat. Even considering the possibility gave him a headache, and if he were honest with himself, he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to stop Clara if she got it in her head to go for the rat.

Thankfully, that hadn't happened, though he'd been sure to keep a close eye on Clara whenever she joined him in the Common Room and for classes. When he had woken up in the hospital, he'd been glad for her company – she had been a reassuring presence when he felt his world shifting around him.

Another that had been a comfort, had been Dobby – the incorrigible House Elf had busied himself with almost anything that he could, fussing over his pillows and his bed while he was in the hospital, and more than once in the nights since, Harry had stirred awake to the sight of Dobby fluffing his pillow mid-sleep.

It had an endearing quality to it that he couldn't ignore. The Elf had, in his own strange way, always looked out for him – he had gone against the very bond that kept him alive to warn him of the events of the previous year. Now, Dobby was his Elf, bound not to his Family Magic – something he wouldn't be able to manage until he came of age – but to him directly.

Dobby was his personal Elf, and much more than that, Dobby had quickly become a friend.

Something he had noticed throughout the summer was that the bond he had with Dobby wasn't unlike the bond he held with Clara and Hedwig – he could always get a general sense for the mood of the little Elf, and he would always be able to vaguely point in the direction he was in.

In the time he had spent in the hospital, Dobby had often lingered at the foot of his bed, sitting on crossed legs, and worrying the thin, flappy flesh of his ears anxiously. They had talked, and in Dobby he had found a wise, if eccentric, soul – Dobby's speech patterns, something all House Elves seemed to share, often made them come across like children, but every now and then, the wisdom of the race occasionally shone through.

It had driven home the responsibility he had to Dobby just a little more; Harry had always thought of the Elf like he did Lispy – she was family, but at the end of the day, she had always, to a degree, been responsible for his well-being. Harry had adopted that same outlook with his own Elf and regretted it immensely; for he had discovered that should he die, it was very likely that Dobby would not survive the experience.

With that little confession, Dobby had thrown himself, once again, into his arms, sobbing and squeezing for all he was worth, and Harry, stunned as he had been, had cried along with him, burying his face in the crook of Dobby's neck as the two of them rocked side-to-side. He wasn't sure if he'd been rocked by the emotions he had felt pouring off of the Elf, or if it had really driven home just how close to dying he had come, but either way, the result had been the same.

With Dobby, he had been able to, to a degree, sort through the experiences – he hadn't been explicit when telling the Elf just what he had seen and felt during his free-fall through the clouds, nor how the cold still lingered in his bones even now, but he had said enough. He had vented his stresses and worries, and Dobby had sat there with a small smile on his face, and wide, green eyes blinking at him, letting him have his say.

By the end of it, Dobby had simply offered him a hug and told him he was trying to grow up too quickly. It had been a shock to hear it from something no taller than a child, and it certainly wasn't the first time he had heard it, but the words had finally struck a chord with him – he imagined Sirius would have been proud.

His entire life had been defined by what would be expected of him as an adult – he had learned at Arcturus's knee how to tackle politics, he had learned his numbers so that he would be able to handle the finances of his House, he had learned how to read and write so that he could learn from the lessons of those that came before him.

From as early as he could remember, he had been defined by the inheritance that waited for him, for the people that would depend on him to keep them safe, to make sure they were provided for. It was an honour, and it was his responsibility to make sure he was up to such a daunting task.

He knew that, if things had been different, he would have had decades to prepare for what awaited him in three years time. He would have been able to watch his father manage the family, sit in on meetings as his father's right hand, and do business on behalf of him. He would have had time. Instead, he was a child, haunted by things that, by rights, he had no right to suffer through, and yet, he had.

With the nightmares of his mother's murder came other memories – the ambush, the Troll, the Mirror of Erised, Quirrell, Ruhxu… Sometimes, he wondered if his life would ever be like that of those around him. Quiet, peaceful… safe.

He was getting better at managing the memories that the Dementors had dredged up from where he'd firmly locked them away – he had not only spoken to Dobby of his troubles, but Sirius also. The two of them continued to talk through the mirrors they had, though they didn't talk for nearly as long as they had the previous year – truthfully, he wasn't sure he would even need to.

To begin with, Harry had been reluctant to speak to Sirius; he was still annoyed at the fiasco with the Duelling Club, and his goading him to duel, even if it had only been one-sided. In the last week, he'd heard countless murmurs and hushed whispers as he walked the halls of Hogwarts – students looking at him in a mixture of fear and awe; he'd heard of what had happened, the twins and his friends had only been more than happy to fill in the blanks for him.

If there was one thing that he'd been happy about, it had been that the only students in the building when Sirius had directed him to the platform had been his friends; Neville, Hermione, Daphne, and Tracey – all the others had left. He had no issue with them having witnessed it, not really. It had been the idea that others might have been in the building that had vexed him so, and if he were honest with himself, he hadn't been paying attention enough in the first place to have even known that himself. He had been angry, frustrated, and petulant for a number of reasons.

The main one had been his lingering embarrassment in front of Hermione on Halloween – he'd cursed himself silly in the days following, and then the opportunity to duel Cedric had landed in his lap. He had thought himself a contender to beat the older boy, and in his arrogance, and his inexperience, he had lost quite spectacularly.

But he hadn't seen it like that – not at the time, at least. He had spiralled in his own head and taken his frustrations out on those around him. He couldn't blame his friends for their frustration. He'd apologised to each of them the day before the Quidditch match, and he'd been forgiven soundly – Hermione had even hugged him; after she told him how much of a prat he'd been, of course.

So, Sirius had done what he had thought was right – he'd allowed him to vent his frustrations on the only target he knew would likely be able to stand up to the onslaught. While Harry knew how much he kept his magic held back, he knew he had more than the average power at his fingertips, and even he knew that allowing him to do such a thing to another student would have been reckless and dangerous.

Sirius had been an Auror, back in the war, and he was a powerful wizard in his own right – if there had been one person in the room with the ability to defend themselves safely, it had been him. And so, Sirius had backed him into a corner, and goaded him until he'd snapped – that he had passed out from the experience had likely been a stroke of luck for the both of them, and in hindsight, Harry was still a little shaken by just how much power he'd expended, and if the descriptions of his friends had been anything to go by, it had been quite the spectacle.

Apparently, each spell that had erupted from the tip of his wand had been almost blinding in its intensity, and with each parry or deflection into the shields surrounding the two of them, the building had trembled violently – it had been a miracle the entire thing hadn't fallen down around their ears.

The others, Lilith, the twins, and even Cedric, had all rushed back to the building at the sound of the deep, booming claps that his spells had sounded like, crashing against the shimmering duelling shield – they had thought that something was terribly wrong, not that he was venting his frustrations out on his Godfather!

When he had awoken, he had been bone-tired, but had stubbornly agreed to play in the Quidditch match, for whatever stupid reason he'd come up with. Even now, he still couldn't quite work it all out in his head. And what did he have for his troubles? Another stay in the hospital, the lingering effects of Dementor exposure, the haunting memory of his mother's murder, and a broom that had been reduced to little more than kindling!

That had probably hurt just as much as anything else, and it had taken half the bloody team to stop him from marching down to the stupid Whomping Willow and setting it ablaze in revenge – it had smashed a Nimbus to pieces without a thought because it was, quite frankly, an arsehole!

Harry had experience with Whomping Willows – there was the one on the Blackwall Estate, set on the bank of a pond, and it was often quite pleasant, if a little playful. The only time it got annoyed was when birds tried to make nests in its drooping branches; Harry didn't know why it was so against families of birds, but he suspected, though he had no proof, that it simply didn't appreciate the mess that came with it.

Neville and Daphne each had Whomping Willows on their lands as well – though Daphne had a small grove of them against a lake that sat on her land. All three of them had played near them as children, and not once had he ever come across one that was as foul tempered as the one at Hogwarts. Even now, he was still tempted to wreak bloody vengeance against the stupid thing.

At least Dobby had been kind enough to take the broom back to Blackwall for him after the team had handed him the remains, wrapped up as they were in one of the cloaks from the Gryffindor locker room. Sirius would know what to do with it – if it had been up to him, he'd have likely entombed it in the crypts of Arpton along with the rest of the honoured dead. It had been a bloody good broom. Arsehole Dementors. Fucking tree.

He kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot and scowled.

Hermione thought he was over-reacting, of course, but then, she gave him an earful each time she watched him fly – he was glad for her coming to all of his games, even though he knew she detested the sport, but he could do without the tongue-lashing he got for the manoeuvres he pulled, which had been absolutely nothing compared to the telling-off he got for getting caught by the Dementors.

It had been damned-near biblical.

She had been the first person he'd seen upon waking up, perched at the side of his bed with her trusty Hogwarts: A History tucked into her lap, and the necklace he'd given her around her neck. He smiled at the thought of it.

It had been a bracelet when he'd found it in Cochenwaith, and at the time he'd thought it perfect. But the longer he'd looked at it, and fiddled with the thin chain between his fingers, the more it had felt rather impersonal – all of his other friends had something from one store or another, but he'd wanted Hermione's to be more, even if she would never know.

It had been stupid, in hindsight, but it had also felt right. And so, with a little help from Sirius, and a bit of research into silversmithing, the two of them had transfigured it into a necklace, adjusting the design of the wolf's head to sit right, with the chain now attached between the ears, and removing the hoop beneath the chin. Only then had he deemed it good enough to give to his friend.

Daphne, of course, had been more than happy to join in berating him – her mood had been foul when he awoke, and his friends had been allowed back in the hospital; in fact, it had possibly been the angriest he'd ever seen her. Though, despite it all, she'd wrapped her arms around him, and hugged him fiercely – he hadn't been sure, but he'd thought he'd even heard a few quiet sniffles.

Neville had been stoic, his face stony, though his eyes had shown him the relief his best friend, his brother, had felt at his recovery. The two had hugged, and that had been that – no words had needed to be said.

Tracey was the one that had recounted the entire thing to him, of how he had tumbled through the lowest clouds, punching, and kicking the Dementor with everything he had, and how it had been Clara that had slowed him down enough that he hadn't ended up a smear on the pitch. She'd even told him how Sirius had thrown himself from the box and sprinted across the pitch as Padfoot, if only to get to him quicker.

Susan had been Susan – their relationship was still fresh, and while he did like her, quite a lot, in fact, there was still a lingering awkwardness. Oh, in their day-to-day, everything was fine, but in serious situations, neither of them quite knew how to act – something which Amelia had told him would come from time and experience as they grew.

When he had begged off of any more company, still feeling the lingering effects of the trauma he had suffered, his friends had allowed him his time and his space. In the following week, he'd appreciated that not one of them had brought it up, though he was sure they all knew how tired he was – he certainly looked it, though he had been glad it hadn't gotten anywhere nearly as bad as it had the previous year, and glamours were a thing of the past. Sirius and Remus had seen to that.

It had helped, not having it brought up every five minutes, though he hadn't been surprised when the school had begun to whisper and murmur around him. Though it, again, was nothing compared to the previous year – at least nobody was hissing at him this time, which had been fairly commonplace after his outing as a Parselmouth.

No wonder Lilith kept it secret.

He sighed as he glanced up at the building before him – in a way, it had been where a lot of his troubles in the past two weeks had begun. The building was the one used to host the Duelling Club and sat a comfortable distance from the Quidditch pitch – as it was about time for breakfast, nobody was out this early, and it afforded him a chance to gather his thoughts before tackling the day.

It had become a bit of a routine in the past week, to wander down here for a little bit, before retreating back to the castle to appreciate Dobby's food and see his friends.

To his right, he saw the familiar dark shape of Lilith's Jaguar prowling along the green grass toward the Forbidden Forest, no doubt off to hunt something, or just to stretch its legs, and high above him, various birds swept through the sky, tiny, dark spots against an otherwise clear and peaceful sky.

There was noise all around him, from the quiet panting of the Jaguar just on the edge of his hearing as it disappeared, to the calling of birds, and the barking of dogs as they ran this way and that, eager to burn off all the energy they could. In the distance, the slapping noise of one of the tentacles of the Giant Squid echoed across the grounds.

"Come out here to stare at your new friends, Potter?" The familiar voice called out from behind him. Harry sighed and closed his eyes at the disturbance, though he spun on the spot to look at the visitors.

There were six of them in total, though the one that had spoken was the grinning Draco Malfoy, his grey eyes sparkling with amusement and satisfaction. Harry doubted that it had been an accident, finding him out here on his own.

"Draco." Harry said with a single raised eyebrow, his eyes darting to those surrounding him – there were the two gorillas, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle. There were the others in Draco's little group as well, Pike Logg, Graham Montague, and Theodore Nott, all standing there watching him with satisfied smirks plastered on their faces.

"What was it that they showed you, hm? Nobody's said anything, really, but from what I've heard about your Defence classes, I've got my Galleons on that stuttering fool, Quirrell. Though, if I'm honest Potter, I didn't think anyone would be scared of a wizard that incompetent." Draco continued, lazily walking forward. Harry eyed his hands warily, ready to draw his wand in a moment's notice.

"Maybe Potter's just a c-c-c-coward." Pike mocked, and the boys around him laughed.

"Maybe he is, Pike. Maybe he is. After all, everyone knows how you got the jump on me last year – only brave when you catch someone by surprise, are you?"

"Oh, I'm more than brave enough for you, Draco." Harry sighed, feeling his shoulders tense. He dropped his satchel to the ground beside him and shrugged off his coat, draping it over the bag. "Smart, waiting until I'm here on my own – Daphne would've cursed your bollocks off."

"The bitch has nothing to do with this." Draco spat, marching up to him and standing nose-to-nose. Draco's upper lip was curled into an ugly sneer, his nostrils flaring. "This is about what you did, Potter." He said, jabbing a finger into his chest.

"I believe I remember you bringing that on yourself. Don't forget, I could have kept going." Harry said, leaning forward slightly and lowering his voice so that only Draco could hear him. "The only thing that kept you alive, was because you're Andromeda's nephew."

That wasn't strictly true, but the threat was made clear. In reality, Harry didn't know if he'd have continued in his beating of Draco until he was dead – he truly didn't. He had felt the regret and the disgust with himself in the hours following it, but even now, his feelings on it weren't any clearer to him now than it had been then.

"We've got your back, Draco." Montague said, confidently. Draco stepped back with a superior grin on his pinched face, and Harry felt the adrenaline begin to flood his system, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"It'll be such a shame, when someone discovers you out here – imagine what a sight you'll make, after you tripped and fell, over, and over, and over. The great Harry Potter, nothing more than a bloodied mess. We might just be able to lure a Dementor over here to finish you off."

"Gods, you love the sound of your own voice." Harry sighed, flicking his wand into his hand, and levelling it at the group. Before he knew what was happening, spell-fire was soaring toward him and it was all he could do to block and parry each one.

Montague was the first that Harry was able to return fire to, and the boy's wand was thrown from his hand and into the grass. Logg was next, followed by Draco himself. What Harry hadn't counted on, was Montague charging him once disarmed.

Montague was the new Keeper for the Slytherin team – he was large, broad, and fast. When his shoulder collided with Harry's stomach, the wind left his lungs in a painful rush. If it hadn't been for the wall of the building behind him, he was certain that he would have ended up on the floor where he would have been a sitting duck.

As it was, he was trapped between the wall, and Montague, who had his head tucked against Harry's hip and was pushing him against the building, even as Harry continued to parry what he could. He wasn't sure who had fired the spell, but eventually, his wand was thrown from his hand as he miss-timed a parry.

He grimaced as his hand flexed involuntarily, and he quickly directed his attention to freeing himself from the wall. Draco was advancing upon him, a satisfied smirk on his face. Harry glanced at the boy that had tackled him into the building and quickly drove his elbow into his spine as hard as he could. He managed it twice, and felt Montague slip from around him, stumbling away, when he felt Draco's fist connect with his jaw, throwing his head back against the stone behind him.

For a moment, all he saw were blinding lights and distant, twinkling stars. He spat blood out of his mouth, winced at the soreness of his tongue, and shook his head to clear the disorientation as best he could. When Draco went for another punch, Harry darted his left hand up and made sure to pin the limb against his ribs like Sulyard had taught him, hyper-extending Draco's arm.

With three quick, but powerful jabs, Harry shattered Draco's nose, the blonde's eyes rolling into the back of his head as he stumbled backwards, stunned, until he fell on the floor. Harry wasted no time, darting forward toward Montague – he was one of the largest, and unlike Crabbe and Goyle, he knew how to use his body to his advantage; the two gorillas were still standing where they were, pointing their wands at him with confused looks on their faces.

He tackled Montague and punched the side of the boy's knee, but that was all he managed. In the time it had taken for him to dislocate the boy's knee, to which Montague was rolling around on the floor, moaning in pain, Nott had quickly managed to close the distance and pull him off him.

With his arms pinned back – he had to give Nott credit for that – Harry managed to lash out one final time at Montague with the sole of his boot. The crack that Montague's skull made was more satisfying than he was willing to admit – especially as he was currently in a very poor position.

Two strikes connected with his stomach, courtesy of Pike, and Harry found himself doubling over, despite Nott's arms pinning his own back. In the corner of his eye, Draco stumbled to his feet and delivered a sharp job to his jaw, which made his vision swim for a moment.

He groaned, his hair falling before his face as he blinked furiously at the gravel path beneath his feet – both of his shoulders burned from Nott's grip, and his arms flailed wildly. His face contorted in pain as his head was yanked back by his hair, and he glared into the pale grey eyes of Draco with as much contempt as he could muster.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson, you filthy Half-Blood, about respecting your betters." Draco sneered.

Harry grinned for a moment, his mouth pooling with blood from where he'd accidentally bit his tongue. "Gods, you're an arsehole." He said, throwing his head forward and connecting it with Draco's face. The boy released his hair and grasped at his busted mouth, blood leaking from between his fingers – Harry grimaced at the feel of the gashes in his forehead from where he'd cut himself on the Slytherin's teeth.

With a grunt, Harry straightened himself and threw his head back against Nott's, feeling the crunch of his now-shattered nose against the back of his skull. A muffled howl cried out, and a moment later, Harry was released, falling to his hands and knees as his world span nauseously. He spat out another mouthful of blood and looked up just in time to see the meaty fist of Goyle before it connected with his temple.

He groaned as he fell bodily onto the floor, wincing against the feel of the gravel rubbing into the cuts on his face. He blinked as the world went in and out of focus, his breathing ragged and his muscles burning. Gods, he'd forgotten how exhausting it was to fight without magic.

Harry never got a chance to get back to his feet, as the next blow that landed against his body was that of a powerful kick, no doubt delivered by one of the three Slytherin's still in the fight, and that weren't busy clutching their faces.

Another kick landed on him, this time in his stomach, and he found himself vomiting onto the gravel as whatever contents in his stomach were expelled violently. When the next came, he managed to pin it against his side and give it a tug. With a startled yelp, Goyle landed on top of him, the air leaving the lungs of both of them, but he didn't let the opportunity pass him by.

With whatever strength he had remaining, and against the agonising protests of his body, Harry rolled himself over to straddle the large Slytherin, and rained as many powerful punches to Goyle's face as he could, only stopping when the boy's eyes rolled into the back of his head.

A kick caught him in the side of the head, and Harry rolled onto the grass limply, his vision spinning as he stared up at the sky above him.

"Harry!" Someone called, and before he could even formulate the words to respond, the sounds of fighting continued – only, he wasn't fighting, and nobody was kicking the shit out of him, so that begged the question; who was it?

He rolled onto his front, wincing as he pushed himself up onto unsteady legs and stumbled forward. He blinked the sweat, blood, and grime from his eyes and frowned at the sight of Neville raining powerful haymakers into Crabbe's face – to the side, Logg was out cold, and both Draco and Theodore were busy trying to pull Neville off of the Slytherin.

Neville dealt with Crabbe one last time, and busied himself with Draco, the two boys falling in a tangle of limbs and with a sharp cry, until Neville was on top, swinging with his fists as best he could. With his vision slightly steadier, Harry watched as Nott rushed Neville from behind and threw his best friend from the blonde Slytherin.

He stumbled forward, and with a cry, crashed into the dark-haired Slytherin and sent them both to the ground with a grunt. Harry rolled on top of Nott and gripped the front of his uniform with both his hands as he pulled him up. A second later, Harry smashed his head against Nott's face, stunning the boy, before throwing a pair of punches against his jaw that had the boy's eyes disappearing into his skull.

With a groan, Harry collapsed onto his side, his head spinning and his arms heavy as lead. He looked to his right to see Neville smashing his fist into Draco's face before shoving him away – all around the two of them lay the unconscious or groaning forms of those that had thought to beat him to within an inch of his life. He smiled up into the sky and found himself laughing moments later.

His hair was plastered to his face, matted with sweat, blood, and saliva. He carded his fingers through it and felt his eyes grow heavy – they were almost closed when he felt Neville shake him. "Harry, wake up – you need to stay awake." He said, his brown eyes darting over him.

"Where'd you come from?" He slurred, blinking slowly – perhaps he was a little punch-drunk.

"You really took a few hits, huh? Come on, let's get you up." Neville grunted, hooking his arms beneath Harry's armpits. "Work with me here, Harry." He groaned when Harry didn't immediately rise. After a moment, the two of them managed to get his legs beneath him with a little bit of a stumble, but eventually, Harry was on his feet once more.

"Wand – bag – coat." He managed, an arm slung around Neville's shoulders as the two stumbled toward the building, Neville making sure to kick a moaning Pike Logg who was trying to slowly get to his hands and knees; the boy fell over, groaning.

Neville led him over to the building and propped him up against the stone wall – the stone felt cool against the back of his neck and through the material of his doublet. He leaned to the side and spat out another mouthful of blood and spit. A moment later, Neville was in front of him once again, his satchel and coat slung over a shoulder, and his wand in his free hand.

"Come on, we need to get you to a Healer." Neville murmured, slinging one of Harry's arms over his shoulder. "Merlin, you're heavy."

"Thanks, Neville." He managed once they began making their way up the path. "Don't tell Daphne."

"Gods, no – I won't tell Daphne. Come on, I think that pretty Healer's on duty around this time; just bloody work with me here, and we'll have you sorted in no time."


When the two of them arrived in the hospital of Hogwarts, they were immediately accosted by Healer Dew, the blonde-haired witch was before the two of them instantly, her wand out and muttering curses beneath her breath as she fused over the two of them.

Perhaps it had been the blows to the head he had received, but he found himself going along with her instructions with much more willingness than he normally gave, despite the fact that it was his third visit to the ward in a fortnight.

"I'm beginning to think you are looking for a permanent residence in here, Mister Potter." She huffed, shuffling the two of them to a nearby bed and directing the both of them to sit. The moment his arse touched the soft mattress, Harry slumped into Neville's side, resting his head on the boy's shoulder as he blinked slowly.

"He got ambushed, Healer Dew." Neville supplied to his side; his voice sounded deeper. Harry tried to breathe through his nose but found he couldn't – it was probably broken. His mouth twisted, and he parted his lips to breathe, only for a faint trail of blood and saliva to leak out of the corner; somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he should have been horrified by the fact he was drooling, but he just couldn't find it in himself.

"Who by?" The Healer asked, watching the two of them with a sharp expression. Harry found himself tipping forward imperceptibly and was only steadied by the quick reactions of the Healer and Neville.

"Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Graham Montague, Pike Logg, Gregory Goyle, and Vincent Crabbe – they're all in Slytherin."

"Six against one?" She gasped, her eyes darting to Harry as she stepped before him, her fingers were cool against his skin, and he tried to smile reassuringly when her slender digits lightly probed his bloody face, though by her expression, it likely appeared more of a grimace than anything.

"I saw them going down there from one of the windows in the castle – Harry's been going for walks down to the Duelling Club building all week during breakfast."

Harry frowned at that, trying to push himself up to look at his friend – he'd never made a secret about it, but he hadn't realised that the other boy had been keeping an eye on him. It was strangely endearing. Loyal Neville.

"Did you alert anyone?" Healer Dew asked, her eyes, which seemed impossibly blue in that moment, darted to Neville, a severe expression on her face that he'd never witnessed before – not that he'd had a lot of experience with the woman; it was usually Andromeda or Pomfrey that had been on shift when he'd visited before.

"Some sixth year Hufflepuffs, and one of the staff on our way back – I passed a few students when I rushed down there. They were just watching." Neville spat, and this time, Harry was able to lift his head from his friend's shoulder, blinking at him in surprise before he began to tip backwards. "Harry!" Neville groaned, wrapping his arm around him, and hauling him upright.

"Keep him up for a few minutes while I get a potion to help." Healer Dew said, darting back to her office where the potions were kept. Harry frowned as he watched her go, her robes sashaying around her legs, and the heels of her shoes clicking against the flagstones.

He groaned as his head lolled forward – everything ached, and the adrenaline that he'd been relying on had left his system; he could feel every strike, every injury, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and go to sleep.

"Come on, you need to stay awake – you don't want to have the girls come in and find you out cold again, do you?"

He shook his head lethargically, his brows pinching in the middle at the thought of the girls finding him in his current state. Daphne would be absolutely livid, but Tracey and Hermione were much harder to gauge the reaction of.

His eyes swept over his knees – the material was torn, and a patch of skin was visible through a small hole. He frowned once again; he'd liked this pair of trousers. Dobby was probably going to give him Hell for ripping them.

A pair of feet appeared just before his own soil-dusted and scuffed boots, and his head slowly tracked upwards. The first thing he noticed was the long, straight, maroon skirt, and then the white apron – it hugged the hips of the owner and fit snugly around the waist before flaring out and conforming to the shape of their torso. His eyes darted higher, noting the high collar that ringed a long, slender neck, before meeting the bemused eyes of Healer Dew.

That's right, she'd gone to get a potion of something.

The Healer offered the glass vial to him, and he took it with trembling hands; the after-effects of the Adrenaline that had left his system, he realised, with a strange detachment. "Go, on, drink up Mister Potter." She smiled lopsidedly. "It'll help clear the cobwebs."

Another hand clasped his wrist, and he traced it back to Neville, who was nodding encouragingly as he brought it to his lips. Harry frowned, but allowed himself to be led along – his body wasn't complying with all of his demands, and that fuzziness in the back of his mind had lingered far longer than he was comfortable with.

When the vial touched his lips, he wrapped his lips around the opening and threw his head back; the potion was sour and tasted of rotten eggs – his throat clenched, but he forced his body to consume every last drop; his tongue burned from where he'd bitten it, and one of his teeth felt like it was on fire.

With the potion down his gullet, he let out a relieved sigh and dropped his hand, the vial deftly plucked from his limp grip before the glass smashed on the flagstone floor – already he could feel the effects of the potion taking hold.

The world seemed more in focus around him, and stilled noticeably – while before the world had seemed distant, and everything had been like he was looking at it through a light fog, now, it was as clear as ever.

With that clarity, however, came the returning of other senses; his ears no longer rang, and the taste of the potion mixed with the coppery taste of his own blood within his mouth – and the feeling of every last injury he'd sustained that morning made itself known without the dulling of a head injury.

He hissed and winced, his hands reflexively darting to his face – Healer Dew laughed, a gentle tittering noise that he wasn't sure he'd ever heard before, and he looked up through his eyelashes to see her holding the tips of her fingers to her mouth in a poor attempt to hide her amusement.

"I think I preferred being punch-drunk." He moaned, groaning as the palm of his right hand grazed a cut along his cheekbone; he flinched. "It hurt less."

"And such is the cost of fighting, I'm afraid." The Healer tutted before shuffling to stand before Neville. Harry glanced at his friend, and noted, for the first time, the injuries he had sustained himself.

Neville looked rough – his bottom lip was busted open, and the left side of his face, the one closest to him, was black and blue, though there was little discolouration around his eye. Neville caught his glance and grinned goofily at him; between the two of them, Neville had always been the one to throw himself into danger and had always been a much better sport about his injuries than Harry.

At that moment, the doors to the hospital were thrown open, and a number of older students marched in, accompanied by a handful of professors – between the lot of them, they were all carrying the limp forms of the Slytherins that had attacked him; some were carried between people, while others were roughly thrown over a shoulder.

Healer Dew straightened herself and glanced over her shoulder – she was silent as she regarded the injured boys, and Harry couldn't see what kind of face she was making, though he suspected it was less than favourable. "Where would you like these boys?" One of the professors asked, his head tilting to the side as he shifted the limp form of Montague over his shoulder – Harry recognised the man; Professor Talo. He recognised him from the Duelling Club; idly, he wondered where his wife was.

"On the beds along the far wall will do just fine, I would think." The Healer responded, sniffing disdainfully, and waving a hand idly. "I take it these are the boys?" She asked, turning to glance at the two of them.

In the corner of his eye, which stung, Harry caught Neville nodding, and Harry joined him. "Aye." He muttered, fighting the urge to march over to them and continue to beat them as bloody as possible. Professor Talo nodded roughly and dumped Montague into one of the beds – he wasn't particularly gentle, and the boy in question groaned, though he didn't stir any further.

Along the wall, limp bodies were dumped onto the beds – more than one student and professor had a grimace on their faces as they regarded the unconscious boys; one girl in particular looked as if she wanted to take up what he'd started – he was half tempted to let her.

Professor Talo made his way over, slowly – he was dressed in a dark doublet with dark leather trimmings around the cuffs of his sleeves, the hem, and the collar. It hung loosely over his frame, though it clung to the material of his trousers as he moved, and his boots clunked ominously on the flagstones.

Harry met his bright, cobalt eyes, and almost flinched at their intensity – never had he felt a gaze like his; in one single instant, he found himself under such scrutiny, he thought he was laid bare before the man, every secret, every thought available to the man. For a moment, he considered that the man had talent with Legilimency, but when his eyes raked him from head to toe, rather than holding his eye, he dismissed the thought.

"You seem," The man paused, clasping his hands before him, and rocking back and forth on his heels. His lips flashed a humourless smile. "Worse for wear, no?"

"I've felt better." He shrugged – though his eyes quickly darted around the room. "Not as bad as the last time I was in here, though."

At his side, Neville scoffed.

"No, I suspect not, little one. Still," The professor cocked a single brow and held out a hand in the direction of the Slytherins. "You handled yourself admirably – not many could claim to be in as good health as yourself under the same circumstances."

"It's all thanks to Neville." He said, nudging the boy at his side, who sat a little taller when the professor directed his gaze to him instead. "I'd have been done for if it weren't for him."

"Neville, is it?"

"Neville Longbottom, Professor." Neville answered, the corners of his lips twitching upwards.

"Longbottom?" The professor asked with raised brows. "Very famous name in my homeland – you do your ancestors proud, boy."

Harry blinked and looked at Neville, who, if it were at all possible, looked to be even prouder than before. "If you don't mind me asking, professor – where are you from? I didn't know there were any other Longbottoms outside of England."

"Ah, a curious one." Professor Talo said, flashing a grin at Healer Dew, who smiled faintly and looked at the two of them with something akin to fondness in her eyes. "I too am rather… curious." The man shrugged, hopping onto the bed across from the two of them and clapped his hands. "I come from Norway and attended the school of Durmstrang with my wife and dear friend – you'd know him as Professor Kivi, if you take Divination."

"I have family in Norway?" Neville whispered; his eyes wide. He looked to Harry, excitement bubbling up within him.

"Oh no – the Longbottoms left Norway with the Great Army over a thousand years ago. They were mighty warriors, and powerful wizards – some say they were Chieftain Ivar's closest advisors. It matters not – your line has survived, while his has not."

"Woah." Neville breathed, his fingers dancing along the surface of his large belt around his stomach. "I had no idea."

"It was not well known." Professor Talo shrugged, casually. "You do your name proud." He added, offering Neville a single nod, and jumped from the bed, his jaw working side to side for a moment as his lips pursed. "If you would ever like to learn some of your heritage – come find me. I'll be happy to… educate you."

The professor flashed one brief grin, before bowing politely to Healer Dew, and marching from the room, the lingering students that hadn't left with the other members of staff that had accompanied the man following quickly in his wake. Harry's eyes darted to Healer Dew, who had her lips pressed together and her brows raised as she looked between the two of them.

"You've made a friend, it seems." She remarked, moving to a cabinet at the side of the bed where she began to retrieve a number of items; bottles and cloth for the most part. "I haven't heard more than five words out of him the entire time he's been here. His eyes are rather intense, wouldn't you say?" She asked over her shoulder.

"Aye." Harry muttered, a small shiver running down his spine. He looked at Neville. "You alright? You look like shit."

Neville snorted – or, at least, tried to; judging by the crooked angle of his nose, Harry theorised it was just as broken as his own. "Pot, kettle, black." He said, grinning at him as he nudged him with his elbow. "I'm just glad I got there in time to help."

Healer Dew appeared before the two of them, a brown bottle held in each hand, and a number of cloths tucked into her side, pinned by her elbow. "Now, who wants to go first?" She asked, her eyes darting between the two of them.

"Well that entirely depends." Neville offered, cheekily flashing a grin. "What's in the bottles?"

"Dittany."

"Not it!" Neville said quickly, and Harry scowled at him. The Healer beamed brightly and set one bottle and the cloths down, just as the door opened once again; Hermione, Daphne, and Tracey barrelled through the door, their eyes wild, darting side to side. He waved at them half-heartedly.

"Merlin's bollocks!" Tracey gasped, skidding to a halt, and covering her mouth with her hand. At her side, both Daphne and Hermione had similar expressions of shock and surprise on their faces. "What happened?"

"Got into a fight." Harry sighed, and winced at the shrill voice of Hermione.

"You what?" She shrieked, levelling a finger at his face – his eyes tracked it while she wagged it before his nose, her other hand placed firmly at her hip. "Harry James Potter, you should know better than to get into a brawl!"

"It wasn't my fault!" He cried, eyes darting to both Healer Dew – who was pointedly ignoring the conversation, busy as she was applying the Dittany to the cloth in her hand – and Neville, who was too busy cringing away from Daphne's glare.

"It's true!" Neville offered in a weak voice.

Daphne stalked forward, slowly – her hair, which was set into a long ponytail that trailed down her back, swayed back and forth with the movement. "And how, pray tell, is it not your fault? Hm? You two idiots can't go a week without ending up in here – and the pair of you have the audacity to wonder why I'm looking at becoming a Healer?" She snarled, jabbing Neville in the chest with a long finger.

"Oh, you are?" Healer Dew asked, pleasant surprise clear in her voice. "In that case, I trust you know how to apply Dittany?"

"I do." Daphne answered with a quick nod, and a tone of voice that was far too sweet. Harry's eyes narrowed. "Would you like some help?"

"I'd love some – why don't you handle Mister Longbottom, and I'll see to Mister Potter."

"You traitor." Neville scowled, his eyes tracking Daphne's every movement. Harry had to agree with him; there was far too much enthusiasm in Daphne's countenance, and the two of them knew from experience that Dittany felt awful – they were both in for a few rough minutes. Blindly, Harry gripped Neville's wrist in a silent show of solidarity and support. Neville gripped him back and gave him a squeeze.

Before Harry could say anything, the cloth in Healer Dew's hand met his face, and he yelped in both pain and surprise, almost falling backwards on the bed in a vain attempt to put some distance between himself and the offending piece of cloth. He scowled at the Healer, who pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side as her eyebrows rose – he grumbled as he sat up, tightly gripping Neville's wrist.

He hissed as he felt the gashes on his cheek begin to knit themselves back together – it was a strange sensation, that of his skin stretching and tightening before relaxing finally; it was the feeling of it stretching impossibly that hurt the most, and it continued to sting even after it was as good as new.

"Oh, don't be a baby." Healer Dew tutted with a cluck of her tongue. Behind her, Hermione shuffled around, having stepped back enough to allow the Healer room enough to do her job, though her ire was still quite evident in the way that her brows were pinched, and her lips were pressed so tightly together, they'd almost entirely disappeared.

"You haven't answered the question, Harry – what on Earth did you do to get into a fight this early?" She demanded, her eyes dark and voice frosty and tight. Harry cringed.

"I went to – ow – go for a bit of a walk, and Malfoy and his – Gods that stings – boys caught me. Neville came to my rescue." Harry answered, grumpily glaring at the Healer as she continued to dab at his cheek. "Merlin, you're not being gentle, are you?" He asked, darting his eyes to the Healer, who simply shrugged a shoulder and said nothing.

"Malfoy did that to you?"

"Oh, aye – you can ask him when he wakes up if you want." He huffed, waving his free arm in the direction of the beds across the way. "He's over there."

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Tracey hurry over to the side and quickly inspect the boys, her face impassive as she glared down at each one. When she returned, she had an unreadable look on her face. "How many are here because of you, and how many because of Neville?"

He frowned and glanced at Neville, who shrugged. "I think I did two – maybe three. I wasn't really paying that much attention to be honest." He paused and glanced at Daphne, who had liberally coated her cloth in the healing potion. "Daphne, I swear-"

Whatever Neville was about to say was cut off when the Greengrass heir grabbed a fistful of Neville's tunic and paced the cloth firmly against Neville's cheekbone; the boy cursed up a storm, and with his free hand, slapped the mattress beneath the two of them – the hand that held Harry's hand in a vice-like grip threatened to snap his wrist with its intensity.

"Shut your mouth, Longbottom." Daphne hissed; her eyes narrowed in a fierce glare. "Just be glad I'm not doing you, Potter." She added, glancing at him long enough for the implied threat to sink in.

"Better you than me, mate." He muttered, wincing, and fighting the urge to bite his tongue as the cloth moved up to his eyebrow.

"Gods, Daphne – your bedside manner is shit!" Neville howled, glaring at the raven-haired Slytherin. Tracey, to the side, continued to look on, unimpressed.

"Well?" She asked, impatiently.

"I took out Montague for sure – dislocated his knee while I was at it. I shattered Malfoy's nose – Nott's too, actually. I think I did Goyle and Nott too. Does that sound right to you?" He asked, looking at the boy next to him, who just nodded with a grimace.

"In that case…" Tracey hummed, planting herself in a nearby chair and crossing her long legs, smoothing her skirt with her hands casually. "Nice one." She grinned, offering them both a wink.

"Tracey!" Hermione cried indignantly, folding her arms across her chest, and cocking a hip – it had all the tell-tale signs of an impending lecture. He fought the urge to smile, though by the look he caught Healer Dew giving him, perhaps he wasn't as successful at concealing it as he thought he'd been. Maybe that potion she'd given him was beginning to wear off? "We can't be condoning fighting – it's positively barbaric."

Tracey shrugged a shoulder and shifted in the chair a little. To his side, he heard Daphne scoff. "Just you wait until I get hold of them."

"Oh, you do care." Neville cooed, though the yelp that followed it was enough to prevent him from continuing that particular thought.

"I told you to shut it." She muttered, moving the cloth down to his jaw. Harry sighed and worked his jaw side to side slowly, wincing at the feel of it.

"Miss Granger, would you be so kind as to fetch me the orange potion from the table and my wand? I do believe that Mister Potter is in for a bit of a rough time once I've finished up with his cuts."

"Of course." Hermione said, quickly making her way to the bedside and picking the items up. Healer Dew continued to wipe along his face, though, curiously, she left most of his bottom lip clear of the substance. "If you don't mind my asking, why is the Dittany not enough?"

"Oh, I have to regrow a tooth or two, I suspect, and, judging by the blood he drooled all over himself, I suspect he also bit off part of his tongue."

"I what?" He gasped; eyes wide. On reflex alone, he ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, and, as the woman had said, part of it was missing – it wasn't a lot, but certainly enough to make his stomach suddenly lurch uncomfortably.

"He what?" Hermione cried, wide eyes darting to his face and darting all over it.

"Awesome." Tracey grinned from behind the two witches.

"Not helping Miss Davis." The Healer said, glancing over her shoulder, though when she turned to look back at Harry, he noticed the corners of her mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. "Now, bottoms up, Mister Potter." She said, passing the vial from Hermione's hand, to his own.

He grimaced at the sight of it, and his eyes momentarily sought out Hermione's own, the two of them locked in a silent communication that he wasn't even sure he knew the language of; her eyes were always so expressive – and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

Hermione was wringing her hands together, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and she was shifting her weight from foot to foot, which, he realised, had the pleasant side-effect of jutting her hip out. He blushed and downed the vial as quickly as he could, gagging at the viscous texture, and the overly sweet taste.

When he placed the vial down next to him on the bed, on the left, so as not to have Neville crush it by accident, Hermione darted forward, her hands wrapping around his free one – his right hand was still being crushed by Neville's impossible grip; Daphne was drawing out the Dittany for as long as she could; in another life, he thought she'd make an excellent interrogator.

Before him, Healer Dew fingered her wand and cast a quick spell – without warning, his jaw opened wide, and his tongue held itself down firmly; no matter what he tried, neither his jaw nor tongue would respond to his wishes.

At his side, Hermione gasped and covered her mouth with one hand, her wide eyes sparkling with what he thought to be unshed tears. "Who did it?" She asked, quietly – he shrugged in response; he truly couldn't remember, the whole fight had happened so fast.

"Brace yourself, Mister Potter – this won't be pleasant. I'm going to silence you as well, alright?"

He nodded, and his entire body tensed.

A moment later, he felt a spell settle upon him. His heart began to pump quicker. "Okay – tongue first."

Harry had picked a spot just above the Healer's head – he didn't want to see the spell that was about to regrow part of his tongue and a tooth; a tooth that he had likely swallowed during the fight. He couldn't remember spitting one out. The moment the spell began working, he howled in pain – his entire body arched, and his skin felt afire.

He could feel every nerve being replaced and repaired, the tissue of his tongue as it moved to replace that which had been lost, and he was sure that if it hadn't been held down by magic, and his jaw kept open, he'd had bitten it again, or even swallowed it.

It felt like hours, but in reality, it had really only been a little over a minute by the time it was over – his tongue felt like it had been held by red-hot pincers, and when he finally opened his eyes, which he hadn't realised he'd closed, his breathing was ragged, his shoulders heaving violently. Healer Dew pinched his chin with her free hand and tipped his head forward, inspecting her handywork with a critical eye. Merlin, he hoped she'd got it right the first time.

"Excellent – you won't be able to tell a difference, I should think. Now, time for the tooth."

Hermione gripped his hand in a vice-like grip just before his jaw lit up in agony – it was on the left side, toward the back, and he could feel the tooth form within his very gum before it slowly, agonisingly so, pushed its way out and settled into place beside the others.

Once she was done, she swiped her wand through the air, and his ragged pants filled the air of the Hospital Wing – he tiredly looked to his right; both Daphne and Neville were watching him, both with sympathy written on their faces. To his left, Hermione was biting both her lips, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, and her cheeks flushed. Behind Healer Dew, Tracey looked subdued and pale, a grimace on her face as she fidgeted uncomfortably.

"I'm never doing that again." He managed, his eyes half-lidded as he began to tip forward and to the left – Hermione gasped and caught him, and he smiled tiredly to himself as he felt her hands gently traced themselves through his hair, matted as it was, as she held her to him. He groaned, tiredly.

"You're not going to do that to me, are you?" He heard Neville ask.

"I'll knock a few teeth loose if you want a go." Tracey offered, and Harry huffed a quiet laugh, his shoulders jumping up and down twice before Hermione gently swatted his shoulder before continuing her gentle stroking of his hair.

"Maybe another time." He heard Daphne murmur; he glanced up to see her looking between both himself and Neville with a strange expression on her face – something he hadn't quite seen before and wasn't sure what to make of. Seemingly shaking herself, she took a step back from the bed and handed the used cloth back to the Healer, who took it with a thankful smile.

"Now, why don't we see about sorting those noses of yours out, hm?" Healer Dew smiled, looking first to Harry, and then to Neville. Both of them glanced at one another and grimaced. "Miss Granger, if you wouldn't mind releasing Mister Potter for but a moment…"

Hermione released him quickly, and for the briefest of moments, he contemplated inching closer to his fellow Gryffindor and trying to return to their previous position – the feel of her fingers had been relaxing, as had the steady rise and fall of her chest against his head. He looked to the Healer before him dubiously and clamped his jaw shut, the muscles flexing as his teeth lightly ground together.

"Episkey!" The blonde woman said, her voice clear and concise – a heartbeat later, and Harry felt his nose realign itself with a sharp crack, and his entire body jolted at the sudden feeling. "Much better. Now, Mister Longbottom?"

Harry took a breath through his repaired nose and allowed the tension to seep from his body – to his side, the spell was said once more, and a muffled curse from Neville followed. Hermione was right there before him again, holding his head gently against her and stroking his hair. It took a herculean effort not to melt into a puddle of goo at the feeling of it all.

"What's going to happen to them?" Daphne asked, and when Harry twisted his head to look in her direction, he saw the glare she directed at the Slytherins on the far side of the room.

"Well, seeing as to how both Mister Potter and Mister Longbottom are now healed, I'll be making my way through them all and healing them, as is my job, of course. I would expect-"

Before she could say anymore, the doors to the room were thrown open, and Sirius appeared, trailed by Remus, Augusta Longbottom, Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and Snape. He grimaced at the sight of the Potions Master – but at least with Sirius and Remus there, he doubted he'd be unfairly punished for the simple act of defending himself.

In no time at all, Sirius was before him, his hands placed gently on either side of his neck, while his eyes traced his face with a worried frown. It was a repeat of the previous week when he'd woken up, only this time, he wasn't suffering the lingering effects of the Dementors – well, not in the same way, of course.

"Are you alright?" Sirius asked, immediately, while next to him, Augusta fussed over Neville in a similar fashion – her usually stern countenance replaced by that of a concerned grandmother. "Does anything still hurt?"

"I'm fine, Sirius – tired, but fine." He smiled, reaching up and squeezing the large, calloused hand of his Godfather. "Neville rescued me." He added, nodding his head at the boy beside him. Neville blushed crimson and ducked his head.

Augusta, in a rare moment of pride, straightened herself and ran her fingers through Neville's hair, tucking the long, loose strands behind the boy's ears. "Of course he did – he's his father's son."

Neville had never looked so proud, sitting as tall as possible and puffing out his chest. Around them, everyone that knew of Neville's desire to live up to his parents smiled. There was nobody that Neville admired more.

"I'd expect nothing less." Sirius grinned, offering Harry's best friend a wink, before returning his attention back to himself. "What happened, Harry? I've only heard that you got yourself into a fight."

And so, Harry relayed the events that had led him to the Hospital Wing, making sure to highlight Neville's heroism, and the wonderful care of both Healer Dew, and Daphne in caring for the two of them – at one point, Hermione had perched herself on the bed beside him and drawn his left hand into her lap, which she stared at, distantly, and traced her thumbs over the back of idly. Every now and then, he would glance in her direction, but could decipher none of her thoughts.

"I trust, Severus, that you'll see the boys appropriately punished." Sirius said, directing his cold gaze to the Head of Slytherin House.

"Once I have conducted my own investigation, I assure you, Black, I'll take the steps I deem appropriate." Snape answered him coolly, hands clasped before him, and peering down his hooked nose as if he'd discovered an unpleasant smell.

"And I'll be sure to lend the appropriate oversight to your investigations, Severus – after all, it was one of my House that was attacked so viciously. Why, if it hadn't been for the quick and decisive actions of Mister Longbottom, I dread to think as to the state we'd have found Mister Potter in." Professor McGonagall huffed, looking at her colleague severely.

"Now, now, I'm sure with the due diligence, and the testimonies of everyone involved, we should be able to come up with a path of action suitable to all involved. As for Mister Malfoy and his associates, I believe, due in no small part by the words of a few distant witnesses to the altercation, that his guilt, and those of his friends, as the instigator of this confrontation is quite clear." The Headmaster said, his voice low, though Harry thought it must have carried to every corner of the room. Harry blinked up at the man and swallowed; the Headmaster inclined his head slightly and peered at him over his half-moon spectacles, a small, kind smile peeking out from the recesses of his long, white beard. "As fighting is against the rules of the school, I believe that a deduction of twenty-five points for all involved would be appropriate, and the boys of Slytherin to serve a month's detention with… Oh, Professor Flitwick, should be in order."

"And what of Mister Potter's actions, Headmaster? Despite defending himself, he has grievously injured six of my House – their families are all of Noble stock, as varied as they are. I'm sure that Lucius, especially after the events of the altercation of last year, would be more than displeased at the news of his only son and heir's condition." Professor Snape asked, his black eyes settling on Harry, ominously.

"Your continued breathing offends me, Professor Snape." Augusta snapped, stepping between both Neville and Snape – because her back was to Harry, he couldn't make out her expression, and instead, opted to share a dubious look with Neville. Across from the two of them, when he checked, both Daphne and Tracey wore expressions of barely controlled fury, while Hermione remained quiet at his side. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze that he hoped reassured her.

"I can only apologise for something out of my control, of course." Snape said, dryly. "However, it does not solve the issue that there is a recurring theme of violence between a member of my House, and Mister Potter – I wouldn't be surprised in the least if Lucius brought the matter to light in the Wizengamot Chamber."

"Careful, Severus – don't forget who you're addressing." Sirius said, dangerously. Harry glanced at his Godfather and reached out to take his wrist – when Sirius looked at him, Harry shook his head slowly.

"It seems that the youngest of us all is the most level-headed." Said the Headmaster, cocking an eyebrow at the assembled adults. "There is irrefutable evidence to show that Mister Malfoy and his cohorts instigated the confrontation – however, I think I can propose a solution that would work in everyone's favour."

"And what would you suggest, Albus?" Professor McGonagall asked, just as Snape opened his mouth to say something again, and Harry felt a small spike of satisfaction at the grimace that appeared on the Potion Master's face as a result.

There was a beat of silence for a moment as everyone looked to the aged wizard, and Harry saw the mischievous glint in the old man's eyes. "The point deduction shall stand, as it's the punishment for fighting on Hogwarts grounds – but for it being a repeat offence, I think a detention with Professor Lupin every Tuesday night until the end of the year should suffice?"

Harry blinked as the words settled in his mind – he would have detention with Remus every Tuesday until the end of the year? But that meant he wouldn't…

Oh!

He had to fight the urge to smirk as he bowed his head politely and accepted the punishment without any objection – around him, his friends looked to have followed his train of thought, each of them, besides Hermione, barely repressing their satisfied smiles. Tuesday evenings had already been set aside for them to learn the Patronus Charm with Remus, following the events of the Quidditch game.

"That is satisfactory with me, Headmaster – I'll be sure to make myself available for the rest of the year, of course." Remus said, bowing his head deferentially.

"Now see here-" Augusta began, though she stopped abruptly when Neville placed his hand on her arm, shaking his head as she looked at him.

"It's alright, Gran – if Harry's fine with it, it's alright."

Snape scoffed and rolled his eyes with a sneer. "Detention with Professor Lupin hardly seems a punishment. I doubt that Lucius will accept this willingly."

"He'll have to – he's no longer on the Board, and he has no say in how this institution is run." Sirius said, folding his arms across his chest imperiously. "I think it a fine decision, and as long as Harry is okay with it, then I am too."

All the eyes in the room looked to him then. "I'm okay with it." He shrugged. "Are all of them going to have a month's detention?" He asked, cocking his head, and frowning slightly.

"Yes, Mister Potter." Professor McGonagall nodded, resolutely. "Though, I would suggest we split them up among the staff – we have the means to do it, Albus." She added, looking at the Headmaster, who nodded his head.

"I agree – we'll work out the particulars another time. Now, I suggest we allow Mister Potter and Mister Longbottom a chance to gather themselves in the presence of friends and family – Remus, I do hate to have sprung this on you so soon; I trust it hasn't interfered with your schedule?" Headmaster Dumbledore asked, smiling kindly as he looked to Harry's favourite professor.

"Of course not. I'll be sure to adjust my schedule accordingly – why don't we start it tonight? Say, every Tuesday evening at four o'clock, until dinner, in my classroom." Remus smiled, offering Harry a subtle wink. Harry nodded, and one-by-one, the adults left, leaving only Sirius, Augusta, and Remus behind – Healer Dew quickly made her way to the far side of the room and began to work on the injured Slytherins.

With the room descended into some semblance of quiet, Harry swept his eyes over those before him – Sirius was looking at him intently, and Augusta was quietly murmuring into Neville's ear as she wrapped her arms tightly around him, her hands stroking the hair on the back of his head.

"That was a good prank – I didn't think Dumbledore had it in him." Harry said, quietly, looking between the two Marauders before him. Both men snorted, though it was Sirius that answered him.

"You'd be surprised what the Headmaster is capable of at times – I may not agree with the way he goes about things, but you can't deny he's an intelligent man. I'm surprised he knew of your plan to meet tonight, though." Sirius said, glancing at Remus over his shoulder.

"He approached me the other day about teaching Harry the charm after what had happened – I told him we'd already planned it; probably heard about the time and day from the portraits. We've discussed it fairly publicly in the days since – it was never any great secret." Remus shrugged, though he offered a smile to Harry. "I'm glad you're alright, Harry – but if you'll forgive me, I should probably go and make sure the professor I snagged to watch over my class hasn't run afoul of my second years."

"Moony, all grown up." Sirius grinned, rocking on his heels. "So respectable."

Chuckling to himself, Harry nodded and shooed him away with a wave of his free hand. "Go on, Moony – I'll be alright. I'll even watch the Mongrel."

"That had better not be me you're referring to." Sirius huffed, though there was no genuine anger or hurt in his voice. Remus simply grinned and offered a polite farewell, which everyone, including Healer Dew on the far side of the room, returned.

Harry looked to his left and gave Hermione's fingers another squeeze. He smiled slightly when she looked up at him, her brown eyes were wide, and something in his chest felt tight and uncomfortable. "You alright?" He asked, quietly – around him, he heard Sirius quietly begin talking with Daphne and Tracey, and Neville was still occupied with Augusta. "You've been a bit quiet."

"Have I?" She asked before heaving a great sigh, her shoulders slumping. "I suppose I have. I just keep thinking about what could have happened if Neville hadn't been there – Merlin, you looked better after that whole thing with Quirrell."

Harry shrugged, withdrawing his hand from her lap, and wrapped it around her back to rest on her far shoulder. She tipped into him, slowly, and laid her head against his shoulder, her thick hair tickling his nose and top lip as he lightly pressed the bottom of his face into it – she smelled of eucalyptus and rosemary mint, and he smiled against her hair. "I'm fine." He whispered, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. "Neville saw to that."

"That's not the point." She huffed, and she jabbed him in the side with a finger – he winced against the bruises but said nothing more. "You could've been really hurt, Harry."

"I could have." He conceded. "But I didn't. Take it from someone who knows, thinking about what could have happened rarely works out well in the end." He said, squeezing her against him slightly – he could get used to this feeling, of Hermione resting against him, her head on his shoulder and the smell of her shampoo drifting across his nose; for a moment, he had to ask himself just why they'd never done this before. It was brilliant.

"I'm sorry." She offered in a quiet voice, her hands gathering themselves in her lap, fiddling with the folds of her grey skirt.

"You've got nothing to be sorry about." He shrugged. "I'm the one that got my arse kicked, and the one that gave you the fright. If anyone should be sorry, it's me."

Hermione sat up then and looked at him – there was something unreadable written across her features; her brows were pinched, and her nose was slightly crinkled in that way it got whenever she was thinking a problem through – usually whenever she was writing an essay – and her jaw was set stubbornly. "Well," She began slowly, a single brow arching as she looked at him evenly. "I think that, seeing as you can't be trusted to be on your own at the moment without getting into some farce or another, I'll just have to keep my eye on you for the foreseeable future." She decided, nodding her head at her own logic.

Harry chuckled, and his bottom lip only slightly stung from the remaining cut on it – he didn't fault Healer Dew for not treating it with the Dittany; that particular healing potion should never be ingested, and the risk was too high if it had been placed on his lip. At the least, the swelling wouldn't appear, the treatment of the surrounding skin and the rest of the treatment she had made him suffer through would have seen to that.

"I'm serious." Hermione huffed, tipping her nose into the air slightly.

"No, that's him." Harry grinned, hooking a thumb at the Marauder, who, when he glanced over, was grinning, and wiggling his eyebrows at the two of them childishly, while Daphne talked about something. Hermione swatted his thigh and scowled at him. "Okay, okay – I won't leave your sight."

"Promise." She insisted, jabbing the same thigh.

He rolled his eyes, but his lips still twitched upwards. "Marauder's Honour." He intoned solemnly, holding his free hand up in the air. "I solemnly swear not to become involved in some farce or another, lest I incur the wrath of one Hermione Granger."


The rest of his day had passed quickly after his stint in the Hospital Wing, which, thankfully, hadn't taken long at all – once the Headmaster had left, he'd spent just under an hour with his friends, and with Sirius and Augusta, all of them talking with one another and enjoying each other's company.

Augusta had shed the imposing façade of the Regent of House Longbottom, and had, instead, become the doting grandmother in that time – it had been a side of the woman that he'd never glimpsed in all his years of knowing her, and even Neville, it had seemed, had been slightly taken aback by her changed demeanour – not that he entirely blamed the woman.

He and Neville had always gotten into trouble over the years – be it getting stuck up trees, falling in streams and scraping their knees, or taking a gentle tumble down the stairs because they were rushing about the house. Usually, it had been Sirius that had doted on the two of them. From as early as he could remember, it had always been Sirius that would be there with a gentle hug, and a quick spell to fix whatever hurts the two of them had.

Not once could he remember Augusta fussing over Neville – in the beginning, Augusta had been terrifying, a stern-faced woman that always expected perfection from her grandson, though, in recent years, that had slowly faded, and Harry suspected he had finally seen glimpses of the woman Augusta had been to Frank.

Harry had seen the portraits and the pictures – Neville was the spitting image of his father, and to look upon him must have taken everything the woman had. He wasn't sure what had triggered the change, but he could still remember the first time she had encouraged Neville.

The two of them had been in one of the many greenhouses at Long Valley Keep – Neville had been showing Harry his favourite plants, and the House Elves had been popping around the two of them, tending to them as best they could; both he and Neville had been a little too young and short to help them, though Harry was still convinced he'd killed half of the plants in there.

His love of plants had always been something that Harry had admired about his first and best friend – Neville could be brash and loud, but he'd never seen someone so gentle as Neville was with plants. His touches on their leaves would be feather-light, and he could coax the most disease-riddled flower back from the brink and have it blooming brighter than ever in no time at all.

On this particular occasion, Neville had gathered up an orange rose, whose petals were rimmed in a brown so deep it appeared black and had presented it to Augusta as a gift – as a thank you for always wanting the best for him. At the time, Harry had thought it foolhardy – he'd been on the receiving end of Augusta's stern glare on more than one occasion by that point, and he'd even suggested they leave it with a note, but Neville hadn't listened to any of it.

Neville had marched into Augusta's study with his shoulders squared, his head held high, and his jaw set. She had been in a meeting with Arcturus over something that he couldn't remember – he could still hear the deep, chuckling laughter of Arcturus behind his hand, and the way his eyes had sparkled at the sight of the two of them.

His best friend had marched up to Augusta and handed it to her then and there – for a moment, she had been utterly speechless, but she had cleared her throat and accepted the gift gracefully before gathering Neville into her lap and peppering his chubby cheeks with kisses. After that, he and Arcturus had left, though he hadn't understood why they'd had to suddenly leave at the time, and the following day, Neville had told him everything his grandmother had said to him; for the first time in her life, she'd talked to Neville about his father, and he had never seen the boy quite so happy and proud.

They had been five.

Daphne had been introduced to the two of them a year later, and even all these years later, she remained much the same as she had been then. If it had been Sirius that had originally looked after their bumps and bruises, it had been Daphne that had taken over.

Almost from the moment they had met, Daphne had made it her mission to look after the two of them – she made sure they remembered to eat, to drink enough when they were playing in the sun, and she was always the first to climb up the tree to help them down when they got stuck.

In the beginning, Daphne had been much more similar to Astoria than she cared to admit – oh, Daphne had always liked to play the epitome of the dutiful heiress, but she had gotten into just as many scrapes as he and Neville over the years.

She had mellowed, of course – they all had, as they'd gotten older. No longer did they run around the gardens of Blackwall, or roll down the hills surrounding Long Valley Keep, or swing from the branches of the Whomping Willows of Tailte Glasa, Daphne's home. They didn't fight with sticks, swinging them back and forth at one another pretending to be great heroes of the past; they were simply Harry, Neville, and Daphne, the three very best friends that anyone could ask for.

It hadn't been long before she had begun to berate them for getting into trouble, and more than once, he'd been sat on the grass as she wrapped a little bandage around his bumped elbow, or a scraped knee.

So, knowing that, he shouldn't have been surprised at her frosty demeanor for the rest of the day. They had been released just before the start of the second period, leaving the two of them just enough time to wash themselves in the Gryffindor dormitories and get changed.

When they had returned, to find the girls all standing outside of the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower, all with their bags slung over their shoulders, and impatient looks on their faces, the five of them had quickly made their way to Alchemy; privately, Harry was glad that he no longer taught by Professor Saller, but instead had Professor Bradford teaching them.

Unlike Professor Saller, who was… quirky, and a rather whimsical teacher, flitting about from topic to topic on various tangents, Professor Bradford was a lot more like Professor McGonagall in the way he taught.

His method of teaching made sure they knew everything possible about whatever it was they were working on long before they got to the practical lessons – anything not covered in their limited class time was assigned as homework essays for self-study, and more than once he and Hermione had found themselves either in his office asking follow-up questions, or in the recesses of the Library with their noses buried in as many books as they could find.

When they had arrived at the class, it was only a few minutes late, but, it seemed, the professor was well aware of the reasons for their tardiness – no points were deducted, and, judging by the surreptitious glances he received throughout the two-hour practical lesson, in which they were attempting to transmute wood to stone, and that stone to metal; a three-stage transmutation that they had been preparing for three weeks.

After that class, it had been lunch, and it hadn't taken long for Luna and Arlo to visit him – the worried frown on Luna's face as she had gently tilted his, and Neville's, head this way and that, her pale, silver eyes searching for any imperfection she could find. She'd frowned at the found on his lip, but declared that he looked exceptionally ordinary, even as she planted herself on the far side of Neville, who he had made sure to elbow in the ribs for snickering under his breath. Arlo and slid onto the bench beside Tracey.

Lunch had passed with a few more visitors – Susan had rushed over and checked him over herself the moment she had entered the hall, before all but declaring war on House Malfoy; he'd laughed, but inside, it was nice to see the change in their relationship. The first year, he had barely known Susan – she had been one of those swept up in the Boy-Who-Lived nonsense, and in their second year, while she hadn't said anything against him, she hadn't spoken in his defence either; now, her opinion of him was clear to see, and it warmed his heart. She'd planted herself next to Daphne, her friend, Isao, sliding in beside her, though they didn't share anything more than a polite smile.

Sometime around when Luna had created a small trebuchet out of carrot sticks, Cai had appeared – his shoulders had been stiff, and his back ramrod straight as he stared a little past Harry's shoulder, his hands clasped at the small of his back. The Ravenclaw had been tense with worry, that much had been obvious from even a cursory glance, and behind him, his friends had whispered quietly among themselves.

Even his friends had halted their conversations and watched with curious eyes.

Harry had gotten to his feet, clasped the boy as best he could on the shoulders, and made sure that he knew, in no uncertain terms, that it hadn't been Cai's fault he'd been ambushed the way he had. Cai came from a land beyond England, where life was tough, despite the comforts afforded them by magic. It was a land where, even he knew, people aged before their time – it was a hard place, something Harry knew from personal experience.

Hogwarts was no doubt a strange place to the heir of House Griffin, and if he was to attend the school until he graduated, he wanted the older boy to be able to relax, and, if something should befall him like it had today, he didn't want the boy to blame himself for it. The only ones responsible were still under the care of Healer Dew.

After lunch, they hiked their way up to Magical Languages – Daphne and Hermione had a class with Professor Dots, while he, Neville, and Tracey had their class with Professor Valencia in the classroom next door.

Hermione absence in the following hour had been keenly felt – she had stuck to his side the entire day like glue, and the faint aroma of her perfume and the subtle scent of her shampoo had lingered just below his nose the entire day; he had breathed easier in her presence, and as much as he tried to focus on the class, he had spent much of the lesson thinking about the girl.

He'd imagined how her nose would crinkle when she was concentrating on an answer, or how she would stretch her arm and wiggle her fingers when she knew the answer to a question – in the beginning of their friendship, he'd thought it an amusing trait; she was clever, impossibly so, and there was little she loved more than solving a problem and sharing her knowledge.

It wouldn't have been a stretch to claim that she knew more spells than any of their classmates in their year; her thirst for knowledge was one of the qualities he found most attractive – not that he'd been able to tell her as much, obviously.

He wasn't stupid.

Merlin, even the thought of admitting as much to her, had made him feel his cheeks warm, and his legs to fidget beneath the desk; something Tracey had noticed and wiggled her eyebrows at with a satisfied smirk. Honestly, sometimes it was like she knew what he was thinking.

Bloody, mind-reading Slytherins.

With the conclusion of their lesson, came the beginning of their final one of the day; Defence. It had been a simple theory lesson, going over the dangers of Redcaps and their distant cousins, Leprechauns – the latter, while sentient and intelligent beings, were not considered in the same dangerous category as Redcaps, but had been known to trick more than one unsuspecting wizard over the years.

He'd paid rapt attention in the class, though he'd often found his thigh bumping against Hermione's own beneath the desk – unintentionally, of course, and he'd apologised each and every time it had happened, stammering the words out under his breath as he stared at the parchment before him. Twice Hermione had giggled softly into her hand, and both times he had glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and found her eyes sparkling in the warm afternoon light.

When Remus had eventually called on him to answer a question, he'd squeaked the answer out, and fought the urge to bury his head in his hands when he saw Remus's amused grin, his eyes dancing between himself and Hermione. Thankfully, he'd said nothing on it, and moved on, though he'd suspected Sirius was likely to hear about it by the end of the day.

Once the class had finished, he and his friends had lingered – officially, his detention had been scheduled to begin an hour after class. Unofficially, the closing of the class marked the beginning of his next one; the class that would teach him how to defend himself against Dementors.

They had cleared the tables and chairs to the side of the room with some quick flicks of their wands, and Remus had made sure to lock the door so that they could focus and concentrate uninterrupted before heading down to dinner.

With the floor nice and open, Remus had summoned a handful of blankets and cushions, which looked suspiciously familiar to those that Professor Selket had made them use in their first year during Introduction to Magic. Moments later, the smell of burning incense had filled the room, and they'd all settled comfortably and closed their eyes.

At first, everything had been silent – Harry was used to slipping into a meditative state; they'd practiced it enough in their first year, though he suspected more than one student had allowed themselves to fall asleep during those classes.

Introduction to Magic had been one of the classes that had given him the confidence to begin to use his magic in a significant way – all his life, it had always been about control, never letting it slip, never letting his magic escape his iron grip. The most he had ever used it for had been activating the occasional rune or the summoning of a towel from the rack in the bathroom.

But because of that class, it had given him the confidence to channel the energy through his wand, to allow it to shape and effect the world around him. There had been moments where his control had slipped, and he'd used more than he'd intended – his session with Sirius on the Duelling Platform was more than enough of an example of that. Even the incident with the Mountain Troll in their first year; he hadn't wanted to kill the thing – just get it far enough away from him that it wouldn't kill him, or, more importantly, Hermione.

So now, as he knelt on his soft pillow atop his blanket in the middle of Remus's classroom, the earthy fragrance of the incense, and the steady, heavy thuds of Remus's boots on the wooden flooring as he paced the room, Harry found it almost second nature to immerse himself in the waves of the Wild Magic that ebbed and flowed around them.

Hermione was the first he felt – for all that her mind never seemed to rest, her magic was, by contract, calm, controlled, dare he even consider it, regal in its feel. He could feel her brush against him hesitantly – in the evenings where they didn't collapse into bed the moment they wandered up to their beds, it wasn't uncommon to feel Hermione's magic brushing against his own as he got a short meditation session in before crawling under his sheets.

Neville, unlike Hermione, was as solid as stone – his magic was firm, resolute, and brimming with unbridled strength. He was the second presence he felt, bumping against his awareness with all of the subtlety of an Erumpent in a potion's factory.

Tracey was next, her magic wild and untamed. Much like her insatiable curiosity, her magic flittered about around her with wild abandon, and he smiled at the feel of it – even immersed in his magic as he was, he could feel the tingling of his skin as her attention flittered to him; almost as quickly as it had begun, it was gone, something else having caught her interest in the room.

Daphne was last – of all of the people he knew, it had always been Daphne that had struggled to find that required meditative state. When she finally brushed her magic against his own, it was hesitant, sheepish, and tender – this was the girl he knew beneath her cool, calculating demeanour. The girl that always made sure his bumps and bruises didn't hurt, who made sure he ate and drank enough, and had been scared half to death of he and Neville rejecting her all those years ago.

"Can anyone tell me," Remus began, his voice distant but no less clear in the meditation. "How one would defend themselves from a Dementor?"

"Run?" Tracey asked, dryly, her magic shimmering with her amusement, and he imagined that if he were to open his eyes, he'd see her lop-sided smile on her lips.

"Yes, very good, Miss Davis." Remus chuckled. "Unfortunately, a Dementor can travel much quicker than the average wizard or witch."

"The Patronus." Hermione said, her magic swept the room as Remus confirmed her answer with an enthusiastic clap of his hands.

"Yes – excellent Miss Granger; I take it you discovered it in one of the many volumes of the Hogwarts Library. Yes, a wizard's Patronus is able to drive off a Dementor, and even, in some rare, recorded cases, destroy them." Remus paused, and Harry sensed he'd come to a halt at the front of the classroom. "However, those are only exceptionally powerful individuals – it takes a lot of power to form even the faintest wisp of a Patronus, and more still to form a corporeal one. But power alone is not enough – Miss Granger, did your book allude to the requirements of the Patronus Charm?"

"No, Professor." She answered – her magic resonated with her disappointment and her personal frustration at not knowing an answer. He brushed his magic as gently against her own as he could, smiling faintly to himself as he felt it settle almost immediately.

"I'm not surprised – the Patronus Charm is a piece of very specific magic designed for a singular purpose, and not very many wizards and witches can manage it; however, I have full confidence that each of you in this room are able to cast it. It may not be today, or maybe even this year, but if you dedicate yourselves to achieving the mental discipline that is required, I have every confidence that each one of you shall succeed."

"Is that why we're meditating?" Daphne asked, her voice low. "For the mental discipline?"

"Very good, Miss Greengrass." Remus answered, his meandering steps echoing in the room slowly. "The Patronus is powered by two different things – your magic, of course, and positive emotion. The stronger the feeling, the better the results. Now, I want each of you to spend an hour thinking of the things in your life that have made you the happiest, and afterwards, we'll try to cast what we can. I suspect you'll all be quite ready for dinner once we're done here."

Harry nodded to himself and allowed his memories to flash before his eyes – there were dozens, hundreds even. Tiny moments frozen in time, each one bubbling to the surface on the coattails of the previous.

He thought about the first time he could remember seeing Sirius as Padfoot – the way he had wrapped his chubby little arms around Padfoot's neck, and how his fingers had buried themselves into his fur, only for a moment later to be wrapped around Sirius instead of the large canine.

Or the first time he had met Neville, the two of them becoming the best of friends within moments – the two of them had both been shy at first, but the then-larger boy had quickly dragged him to see his plants, and Harry had enjoyed every second of it.

Remembering the first time he had met Neville dredged up the memory of his first meeting with Daphne – she had been so small, looking back on it, though they all had been. She had been wearing a dark dress, and she had been clutching a thick book to her chest, her fingers and knuckles white from the strength of her grip; her arctic eyes, which had been startling even back then, had been wide as she flittered them between himself and Neville. Not long after that, the three of them had been playing, laughing with one another as they ran around the gardens of Blackwall.

There was his first meeting with Clara, when he had discovered her in the bush, tiny as anything, and small enough to sit in the palm of his hand. She had been a hideous little thing, with overly large black eyes, a stunted beak, and barely a feather on her. She'd changed his life from the moment she'd entered it.

With the memory of Clara came the image of Arpton – its high curtain walls, strong towers, and imposing silhouette that could be seen for miles around atop the cliff it sat on, flanked on either side by a pair of waterfalls. He could hear the clanging of the forge, the shouting calls of his Household Guard, the mouth-watering smell of freshly cooked meats, and above it all, he could see the sigil of his House, woven into fine banners that hung from the walls proudly.

Though, with the thought of Arpton came other thoughts – those of the Hall of the Honoured Dead, and the Crypts below. The long dead Kings of his family, and the powerful Lords that had succeeded them, and among them, his parents.

He imagined the voice of his mother – something he'd heard for the first time, truly, thanks to the Dementor's attack during the Quidditch game. He'd always imagined her voice had been warm and soft, but he'd never expected the underlying ferocity, even in the face of her own death. She had been a remarkable woman, and there was none that he wanted to live up to more than her.

Momma loves you – Dada loves you. Harry, be safe, be strong.

It wasn't happy, exactly, but the emotion he felt from hearing the familiar words, of remembering her eyes as she knelt before him, the bars of his crib the only thing that separated the two of them. The Dementors hadn't just made him remember the events leading up to his mother's death, but everything about it – he could remember the distant sound of spell-fire from downstairs, the smell of burning ozone wafting up to his nursery. He could remember the way the tears had tracked down her face, and the stubborn set to her jaw as the stairs creaked with the slowly advancing steps of the most feared man in hundreds of years that had come with a singular purpose – the murder of Harry's family.

Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off-

His father's voice echoed in his mind, and he took a shuddering breath – it was the only time he could remember hearing his father speak. No, the memory wasn't happy; it was too much, and far too complicated for him to categorise it with something as mundane as happy – but it was powerful, and what better way to utilise the memories the Dementors had restored, than to turn them against them?

Slowly, his eyes opened, and he felt his magic thrumming beneath the surface of his skin – the hairs on the backs of his arms stood on end, charged with the energy that coursed through him. Around him, his friends were coming out of their own meditations; Neville looked happy beyond belief, as did Tracey, while Hermione and Daphne simply looked contemplative.

"Well, why don't we try the incantation – on your feet, come on, that's good. Now, repeat after me; Expecto Patronum. You have to be very clear in your pronunciation."

"Expecto Patronum." They chorused back, and the very air itself trembled in response. Remus grinned widely, clapping his hands together and giving them a quick anticipatory rub.

"Alright, wands out – we'll start with Miss Davis first, I think."

Harry flicked his wand into his hand and immediately felt the magic of the wand react to his own – truly, he couldn't imagine any other wand core than Clara's tailfeather. He watched as Tracey levelled her wand and called the incantation. A sudden wind whipped her skirt around her knees and caused her hair to dance wildly; the tip of her wand lit up with a brilliant silver-white light.

A few seconds later, her arm began to tremble, and she dropped it to her side and sank to her knees, panting from the effort and clearly exhausted – despite all that, however, there was the biggest grin on her face that he had ever seen, and moments later, he was clapping and applauding her incredible effort.

Neville was next, and like Tracey, his wand lit up, though if Harry were to guess, the light on the tip of his wand was a little brighter than Tracey's. Like the girl before him, Neville collapsed shortly after, falling on his arse, sweat beading on his forehead, and panting violently.

"Very well done, Mister Longbottom – Miss Greengrass, if you may."

Daphne nodded to herself and repeated the incantation – her spell lasted a few seconds longer, though her light wasn't quite as bright as the previous two, however, unlike both Tracey and Neville, who were both still panting from their efforts, Daphne somehow managed to remain on her feet, though she did briefly double over to recover her strength.

With Daphne's breathing evened, it became Hermione's turn to try the charm, and it was difficult for him to tell whose was brighter between Hermione and Tracey as both were fairly similar, though, like the first of the two Slytherins, his Gryffindor Housemate was quick to drop to her knees, her hands, which had darted out to catch her, the only things that kept her from tipping forward.

Finally, it was his turn – he wasn't sure what he expected from the attempt, but regardless, he levelled his wand, and, thinking of those desperate words of his parents, he called the incantation. "Expecto Patronum!"

At first, nothing happened, and then, slowly, a wind began to pick up in the room – parchment was strewn across the tables and floor, his hair, which he'd left loose, whipped about his face, and he faintly caught sight of Remus holding his hand before his eyes in an attempt to shield himself from it. Above him, the hanging skeleton danced back and forth, its shadow dancing back and forth on the dark floorboards.

But what really drew his attention was the fine, silvery mist that poured out of the tip of his wand – he barked out a surprised laugh and gathered a little more of his magic, willing it to form something more than a fine spray of lazily floating particles, but nothing else happened.

When he allowed his wand to drop, his arm trembling from the effort, he blinked and slumped to his knees and, eventually, onto his back, blinking blearily up into the ceiling. He wasn't tired, just… stunned, but even that word did little to describe his state of mind.

In that moment, as he lay there, catching his breath against the cool floorboards of Remus's classroom, he couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be so helpless again if he came face-to-face with another Dementor.

And he had his parents to thank for it.