Trophies and Dogs

The scene Harry found himself in would be considered most bizarre, if he'd been of a keen enough mind to pay attention to such things at the time.

Being as he was, full of fright and dreary nightmarish thoughts of expulsion from the school – and he'd only been there for a week, he silently bemoaned – he chanced another look around the interesting room, drinking it all in as though it was his last image of magic – a fleeting swansong that ebbed away into the mediocre muggle existence he had been subjected to all his life.

The room was large and circular with a domed ceiling, commanding in its beauty in an ancient hallowed way. The walls were covered with an array of portraits, depicting former headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts. Some of them, snoozing still, seemed oblivious to the commotion – though most of them had awoken upon their entry. Everywhere Harry looked, he found another little trinket emitting whizzing, pained little sounds, light puff of smoke, or some other fascinating exclamation – standing on small tables of wobbly little legs. In front of Harry, where Snape had placed him, stood an enormous claw-footed desk, and behind it a shelf that held a single lonesome item – the Sorting Hat.

And behind the desk sat Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, and gazed upon the proceedings as though they were only there for a spot of tea.

Ron stood beside him, bleeding from his nose and mouth onto the floor of the Headmaster's office. He looked ready to fight. Rave. Rage. And in a way it was all for Harry. Had been for him. The blood. The countenance. Every last bit of his defiance.

Dumbledore, taking one look at the boy, had set his nose straight with a wave of his wand. It did little to conceal the terrible look in Ron's eyes, amplified by the sputter of blood that had dripped onto his robes and the whiteness of his skin.

But it quenched his pained moaning.

Behind them, ready to yank them by their throats into submission should they prove defiant, stood the still-livid Snape, his breath hot and terrifying on their necks.

Off to the side – with Marcus Flint acting as a silent, dumbfounded spectator in between – stood Crabbe and Goyle, supporting a whimpering Draco Malfoy that had just been awoken to stand trial – or act as witness, Harry thought.

Snape had been busy, building a case against Ron and him, although Harry thought it was mainly against him.

"He's a danger to the rest of the students, Headmaster," said Snape, voice barely above a whisper. There was intent in his eyes, passion. Hatred. Why did he hate Harry so? "Barely more than a week into school and already he's stepped into his father's shadow. You cannot keep him here. Not in good conscience."

Dumbledore, who had been paying nothing but polite attention to Snape, now looked at Harry. Really, really looked at him. Searching. Harry held his eyes as best he could, finding openness to be the only way through this. He thought there was a gleam of honest, good-natured curiosity in Dumbledore's eyes, but it was far outweighed by something else. Something powerful, something magical. He could almost feel the small tendrils, like a pulse, of magic emit from the headmaster.

Then he looked back at Snape with that same polite attention, the moment broken, motioning with his hand for him to continue, as he spoke, "And what, Severus, do you recommend? Harry and Mr Weasley are, after all, students of your House."

Snape breathed – with pleasure. "Expulsion would be the appropriate punishment."

There it was – his greatest fear laid bare. Harry fought hard not to let even a flicker of terror coalesce in front of the headmaster or his Head of House, lest it be interpreted wrongly.

"You can't be serious!" Ron cried out. Harry thought he must either have been incredibly brave or foolish. Maybe a bit of both. Red-hot fury blinded his sense of self-preservation in a moment of madness, overriding his fear. "It was Malfoy who sta–"

"Ten points…" Snape cut in silkily, somehow breaking Ron's train of words apart before he got steam, "from Slytherin… Mr Weasley."

Okay. Blinking, Harry swallowed dry, stale air – only to realize it wasn't the air, it was his throat. Okay. He didn't think anyone could have ever concocted a situation where Snape would relish the opportunity to take off house-points from Slytherin.

The game had changed. No certainties, it seemed, were left.

"A clear disregard for authority," Snape continued, "a penchant for rule-breaking… cursing students, putting them on verge of death–"

"I did no such thing!" Harry said before he could stop himself, before he could stop his boiling rage from spilling over. This was a fucking train wreck still in motion. "Malfoy was never in any danger – the spell–"

"Shut up, Potter!" Snape snarled, spitting his name as though it was a curse, and Harry shut his mouth at once. Like it was spelled so. There had been utter, utter malice in his voice. Like he'd wanted nothing more than to see Harry gone from the face of the Earth. Like Harry was but a mere reminder of something he'd rather pretend didn't exist. Something stung in the back of his eyes, and Harry found, to his horror, himself fighting back tears from breaking out.

"As I was saying…" Snape gave him one last look; he wore a peculiar sort of smirk. Satisfaction. Relish. Harry didn't know what; he couldn't stand looking at him. "A clear disregard for authority. I cannot tolerate such behaviour from one of my students. I demand him expelled from Hogwarts."

There was a silence. It stretched ominously into a soundless scream of noise… and then someone broke the spell and huffed with indignation.

"Really, Severus, the boy has barely been here a week and already you've made yourself judge, jury and executioner of the his fate. Do the agony of the past truly cut so deep?"

"You shouldn't speak of things you don't understand, Minerva."

"Someone has to speak sense here – James died almost a decade ago. You shouldn't punish the boy for–"

"You have no part in this!" Snape rounded on her, red with fury, his voice a cruel whisper. "And don't you dare – do not mention his name!"

McGonagall stepped up beside Harry, unafraid and incensed by the look of her, dragging a slightly confused and deeply mortified Neville Longbottom with her; why the Gryffindor of their year was even there Harry couldn't fathom.

"Have you even seen him perform a piece of magic, Severus? Do you have any idea what kind of talent your House is sitting on?" She gestured to Dumbledore, who just sat there, inquisitive and nonchalant, staring at the proceedings happening in his office like it was an everyday occurrence. Like he'd been sitting there all day waiting for this. "That kind of talent… That… kind."

Snape almost – almost – blanched at the notion.

"Surely, you can't mean–"

"I do. Have you even seen him holding a wand? He holds it like he's done it for decades. You know how most children are with a wand. Like a toddler trying to run before learning to walk. He's not just gifted, Severus. He possesses a natural affinity the likes of which I've never seen."

Snape's eyes gleamed in the low light. Intrigued. And, if Harry's eyes didn't deceive him, a touch afraid. Just the smallest measure revealed.

Fear.

Fear.

What fear?

Fear of what? Of whom? Of him?

"You can't keep him from magic…" She cast her eyes briefly, tentatively, at Dumbledore. "Just as you couldn't have kept him away…"

Snape found his composure.

"So according to you, a remarkable propensity for Transfiguration and curses is adequate justification for putting another student's life at risk?"

"That's not what I said, and you know it. We're here to teach! Not judge on the feuds of first-year students."

"They must learn that their actions has consequences!"

"Yes, but not unreasonably so!" McGonagall, and she must have found it strange to be defending a Slytherin against Snape, wore a mixture of shock and anger in her eyes. "By your standards, you yourself wouldn't have made it past your first year! Or have you forgotten what you were like? We can't predict the future. What our students will become. We can only guide them in this moment. In this school."

"Enough – that's quite enough."

The voice, oh so softly spoken, broke the argument asunder. Startled, Harry turned his eyes to the owner of the voice, having quite forgotten he was there.

Albus Dumbledore.

Harry breathed deeply, steadily; he remembered the sense of old magic that had sent tingles down his spine when he'd entered Ollivander's shop.

Dumbledore had just laid claim to the air in much the same manner. Polite. Nonchalant. Powerful. There was a poised elegance in the way he held himself, robes deep purple, wand held loosely, delicately, between his gnarled fingers, twirling it absentmindedly. His control – and, yeah, he was in control – was immaculately wielded and clear to everyone in the room.

But Harry had paused, his eyes drawn to the headmaster's wand. It was quite long, but decidedly unremarkable, its shaft smooth and unadorned by markings. He felt eyes on him and looked up, meeting blue eyes.

Harry swallowed. He got the sense that he had done something wrong. Yet his eyes drifted back to the wand in Dumbledore's hands, lingering, something whispering – usurped from afar through a long winding tube-like passageway…

"Headmaster," said Snape, breaking the moment. He cast a loathly eye Harry's way, but he'd found strength in Dumbledore's interference and glared back. "Potter nearly killed Mr Malfoy, suffocating him – at least it will be perceived that way by… outside forces. Failing to respond – with any kind of response – will leave you open to… repercussions…"

Repercussions?

"Your concern for my job warms my heart, Severus," Dumbledore said, though there was hardly a trace of unconcern in his words. "But let me concern myself about the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Harry and Mr Malfoy's altercation, though upsetting, of course, is hardly something worthy of greater scrutiny."

Ron's eyes boggled beside him, masking none of his disbelief. Harry managed, impossibly, to keep his show of incredulity to a minimum.

Snape wasn't so easily cowered, though.

"Headmaster, I implore you, Potter deserves–"

"I cannot nor will I ever agree to the expulsion of first-year students for something as banal as an occurrence of magical misadventures – young student, as you're aware of, Severus, has been known to find their powers… unpredictable, when provoked."

Snape looked beyond reason, beyond fury, beyond all thoughts of rationale. His skin had grown a sickly pale, contrasting fetidly with his dirty black hair.

"Misadventures? The spell Potter used was entirely deliberate; it was premeditated use of a dangerous curse that, if butchered, could have had far more lasting effects than what it did."

"Which I am sure will be chiefly upon Harry's mind the next time he discovers an enticing new bit of magic." Dumbledore peered at Harry over his half-moon glass. He had the feeling he was seeing right through him, skimming through all that he ever was and all that he'd ever be. Harry could merely nod in response. "Good. Very good. See, Severus, without the Headmaster's approval, no student of Hogwarts can be expelled. And I assure you; on this matter you do not have my consent. Mistakes are an inevitable part of growing up. And from those mistakes we must encourage a growth of character. More than one party, I dare say, can learn from this experience tonight."

Harry had a feeling that if you were not on the right side of Dumbledore's sight, he could be really annoying. Bordering on condescending. At this moment, Harry was mighty fond of him.

"You… you won't assign any… any kind of punishment, then?" There was resignation in Snape's eyes. But there was also defiance. It was the latter Harry found troubling.

"On the contrary," Dumbledore began, voice light, though the mask he wore on his face was anything but good-natured. "Events of this night – events that I perhaps should have foreseen – have lent a light with which we might decipher the future. No actions taken in this moment would resolve in a very bleak future, I think. I've had a couple of our house-elves prepare a new dormitory for Mr Weasley and Harry."

"You have what?" It was McGonagall that had spoken; Snape, in a stupor of what looked like sheer shock, seemed incapable of articulation.

"One of the room used for the housing of muggleborns in the past."

Ron looked like Christmas had come months too early.

Snape found his voice.

"You… that – you cannot do that! That's not punishment! The boy's delinquency must be punished. Headmaster!" It seemed Snape was making one final mad pursuit for what he called justice. "Skipping classes! Leaving books sprawled all over the library!"

Harry winced a little at every point of their long list of mishaps. And to think they'd only been at it for half-a-day.

"Roaming the castle in the middle of the night! Instigating duels! Harming students! Lying! Cursing!"

"I would have thought that you, Severus, of all people would understand just what kind of punishment forced isolation can be. Believe me, this is not something I do lightly. But I feel actions to the contrary – or no actions at all – would be a grave error of judgement on my behalf. Unless, of course…" He turned his eyes on the four Slytherins off to the side of the office, standing below a long row of past Headmasters. "Is it your wish, Mr Malfoy, to continue to share a dormitory with Harry and Mr Weasley?"

Malfoy, sickly pale, shook his head negatively. Frantically. "No – sir…" It looked like there was more on his mind, but the words eluded him.

Dumbledore beamed, as though Malfoy had impressed him immensely with his wit.

"Ah! Very good! Very good indeed." The jovial tone of the Headmaster's voice, coupled with Malfoy's sickly confusion, almost had Harry laughing outright. "One of the rooms that served the muggleborns of the past will be made habitable at once." He turned his eyes to Ron and Harry. "Your belongings, I imagine, will have been relocated upon your return."

Snape, throwing Dumbledore one last acid look, then at Harry, turned about and made for the staircase, gathering Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle and Flint on the way with a rough motion of his arm. Ushering them out, he stopped on the threshold and looked back.

"A hundred points will be taken from Slytherin."

"A hundred!" Ron repeated hollowly, face drained of colour.

Harry felt like he'd been punched in the gut; they'd be shunned in their House forever. It would put them well below zero and dead last.

"A hundred points – from each of you." Snape smirked cruelly, and it was perhaps the closest thing to a snake's smile Harry'd ever seen. Malevolent. Acrid. Filled with dark pleasure. A terrible, vindictive smile. "And I think a bulletin will be placed in the common room, declaring who's to blame and why… just to clear any confusion that might arise."

Shunned? No. They were dead.

And then Snape, with one last smirk, left them in silence, claiming victory in the end.

"Professor Snape is a – well, he's a very prideful man." Dumbledore looked sorrowful for a moment, but when he spoke, his voice was steadfast, but not unkind. "I think it wise, Mr Weasley, Harry, should you wish not to attend classes tomorrow that you perhaps might take the day off. You have my permission."

Ron, palsy white, stayed silent, looking at the floor as if committing its every detail to memory.

"Thank you, professor," muttered Harry, unable to look at anybody in the room. It wasn't even because he was particularly filled with guilt. There was dread. Yes, dread took up a good chunk of his being; dread of the future for obvious reasons, but that wasn't it, either.

It was that there was just… nothing there. At all. The stress and the adrenaline that came with the night had left him. There was nothing left to feel, preparing for the duel, practicing curses and shields, duelling Malfoy, the horror of – fuck the horror! – of seeing Malfoy falling, falling, falling… Snape finding them, yanking them along the darkened corridors by invisible ropes with his wand, finding them under the judgemental eyes of what seemed like hundreds of paintings in the Headmaster's office.

The Headmaster's office!

Harry was drained, completely knackered. Spent. He wanted nothing more than the day to be gone and forgotten.

"Good, good." Dumbledore turned to McGonagall and Longbottom – Harry breathed a sigh of relief as the attention of the room shifted – and watched as Longbottom became quite still, looking like he was waiting for the right moment to make his escape. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr Longbottom, that you had to bear witness to this spectacle. Severus can be a… as I said, he can be proud man at times. What are you business here?"

"I – I – slept, sir," he stammered.

"Sorry?" Dumbledore said, eyes kind. "You slept? Seems perfectly natural given the hour, my boy."

"No, I – I forgot the password…"

"Ah…"

Dumbledore, blue eyes twinkling merrily, turned to McGonagall.

She was brisk and to the point. Not at all amused.

"I caught the boy sleeping in corridor outside the Gryffindor common room. Apparently he forgot the password after being released from the Hospital Wing earlier this evening."

Ron tried gallantly to hide his cackles, choking it in his mouth. Everybody heard him; Neville deflated in on himself.

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Ah yes – forgetfulness happens to us all, I fear. Why, there was once a time where I could have sworn my robes–"

"Albus!" McGonagall cried, wide-eyed, covering at Neville's ears.

Harry's curiosity thwarted his dread, peaking up to listen, but it seemed Dumbledore remembered himself. Blinking, he looked round his office as though unsure what was wrong.

"Inappropriate audience?"

"Yes – by Merlin…"

Ron and Harry shared a look, and he was happy to find he wasn't the only one who seemed to have missed whatever it was McGonagall seethed at.

"Very well," Dumbledore said. He turned to Harry, serious all of a sudden. "I imagine professor Snape's gone by now, Harry. If I may leave you with a parting advise, I'd recommend you head straight to your common room. Please do not stray off course any further tonight and stay out of trouble."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir – thank you."

Dumbledore nodded, then turned to Neville. "All right, Mr Longbottom. Let's see if we…"

Ron and he left in silence, walking the halls and corridors of this magical place with raw exhaustion. It had been a long night, as mentioned; the clock was well-beyond two closing in on three, and in a few hours the castle would be bustling with renewed life.

Moonlight dressed Hogwarts up all prettily, caressing her elderly corridors with a soft touch, but Harry's adolescent mind found no wonder and awe forthcoming as he skipped past the Entrance Hall, heading towards the staircase that would lead them to the Dungeons.

"Potter! Weasley!"

Ron, groaning, turned to behold the person approaching them. He was caught by a mild dose of giggles again upon recognizing him, the strange tale of misfortune still faintly amusing.

Neville Longbottom came to a halt before them, slightly out of breath from his run.

"Did you get the password, then?" Harry reached for a compassionate tone of voice, but found only tired amusement. Neville ducked in embarrassment, but Harry was too damn weary to care at this point.

"Is – is it true?" said Neville, ignoring his question.

"You'd have to be more specific, mate?" Ron drawled, leaning against the railing of the marble staircase.

"Did you really… duel with Malfoy?"

"And his goons and Flint, yes," Ron said with an indifferent tone of voice one would only use if they tried to play nonchalant about something they were immensely proud about. "But one could hardly call it a duel."

Neville, indecision clear in his features, finally cracked and slammed himself into Ron, who was nearest, hugging him.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

Harry blinked, surprised, then snickered at Ron's gobsmacked expression. He knew Malfoy had been especially vicious towards Longbottom. Yet, looking at the blonde boy before him, at the sheer force of his gratitude, Harry wondered that perhaps something more had happened.

"Yeah, eh, mate – could you let go now?"

He leaped off Ron as if he'd caught fire, his face crimson. Ron looked sort of odd, his face caught in between emotions.

Harry wanted to see his bed.

"Look, I'm sorry – Longbottom, was it?" He nodded in response. "Right. Look, we're in enough trouble as it is – as you no doubt realize – and we need to get back to our common room. Tomorrow – god, Ron–" Harry turned to Ron, sharing his dread with his eyes as they began walking away, "–tomorrow's gonna be absolute hell!"

"Goodnight, Longbottom," Ron said, following Harry as he'd already left Neville behind. "Say hi to my brothers, will you?"

"Yes. I will. Thank you. And thank you! Please, if you ever need…"

They descended the stairs and left behind the remnants of Longbottom sentence in the cold moonlight of the ground-floor. Down there, in the dark, where corridors became dungeons, where the air grew stale and dank, where only torches of fiery light illuminated their path in a stark contrast of trembling shadows, they found the path leading home. And soon they found themselves in front of an inconspicuous black stonewall – the contents of which were strictly forbidden for anyone not a member of the Slytherin House.

"Pureblood," Ron announced to it, looking to the heavens above with disgust. "As if that'd be hard to guess. They might as well put up a bloody sign. Free access for all who believe in the purity of blood!"

They entered the common room. It was, Harry had to admit, a rather grand place, if not with a slightly malicious nature. It was a lengthy, underground room, slightly oval in shape, and consisted of stonewalls and ceiling, from which there hung round lamps in chains, illuminating the room with a dark greenish colour.

At the end of the room there was a fireplace in which a fire crackled merrily despite the gloomy surroundings. Above it, elaborately cut, hung a mantelpiece with a meticulous painting of a snake adorning it. In its eye there was an emerald, shinning with an inner-light.

On either side of the mantelpiece were two double-clipped corner windows that favoured them with a view of the lake from beneath its surface. Through the one on the left you could see what looked like an underwater cave outside their dormitory, a black hole of a mouth swallowing light and water, and pointing directly at the windows.

Ron and Harry had already discussed what it might be and ways in which they could dive down and explore it; they imagined there must be endless ways with magic.

For now it stayed just a fine thought.

The fine-cut and deeply uncomfortable chairs that littered the floor of the common room were all vacated, as was the double sofas in the centre of the room, adjacent to the dark mahogany table, weighted by small cups and used plates, remnants of students having a grand old time.

Harry wondered, casting a glance at the only painting of their common room that depicted a human – off to the left-hand side, opposite the direction of the dormitories, where it stood quite aside everything else – if Malfoy and his friends had already been through here.

Harry frowned at the thought. Of course they had.

His eyes stayed on the painting, fascinated as always. It never moved. It never spoke. It was always so very still, quite like a Muggle painting – devoid of the kind of magic that breathed life into the historical figures, which roamed the walls of Hogwarts. It depicted a very pale, very ugly old man with a faint, thin white beard that reached his waist. He had a blading scalp, and his skin, which was very pale and sallow, was freckled by angry blotches. Like tiny pimples.

Rumour had it that this was Salazar Slytherin himself. What became of him before his death. Ron and Harry agreed that it was a preposterous thought, but had nonetheless vowed to find a curse that could burn through its protective charms one day – just for educational purposes, of course.

"Oi!"

Harry turned to Ron's surprised gasp. There stood a little creature upon one of the chairs, a house-elf, and waited expectantly for their attention.

"I am to take Mr Weasley and Mr Harry Potter to their dormitory," it said with a clipped edge. Professional. Nothing alike the ones Harry had met a couple of hours earlier in the kitchen.

He smiled, tired. This day was, at last, nearing its end.

"Thank you, little guy."


"Dumbledore's…"

"Awesome," Ron breathed, awed, "And barmy, of course. But totally awesome."

They were lying in their new beds. Their dormitory, judging by the view offered by the only window in the room, was a couple of floors higher than the common room. Which Harry thought a bit strange when you considered the fact that they'd descended stairs to reach it. It was like they were a part of a ragged, rickety, underwater turret, for he could even see the twin windows of the common room a little ways down, off to the side, a flickering, fiery light pulsing through the glass.

Their room was rather sparse. They had two beds, both of which had green and silver silk hangings. A small bedside table between them, on which Ron had placed his wand and Harry had placed his glasses. A small, oval mirror, just big enough to reflect a single eye, surmounted the bedside table. Small Slytherin crests and snake-like markings beset the grey walls. Ron had already declared that they needed to find a way to change that, to liven up the place.

Harry quite agreed, considering they had to spend the next seven years here, but right now he just wanted to sleep. And yet he couldn't; there was something about the room, the legacy of it, which deeply nagged at him.

"Ron – what did Dumbledore mean when he described this as one of the muggleborn rooms?"

Ron sighed, shifting in his bed to look at him. "I dunno. Or I hope I don't know, I guess. I have an idea."

"What?"

"You have to understand…" Ron began, then paused, searching for the words, it seemed. "The Pureblood bigotry isn't a great part of our history. It wasn't until the last fifty years or so it really – how did my dad explain it? – grabbed hold in the general population, even more so when You-Know-Who came into power. Purebloods saw it as an easy way to gain favours and power in our society… I don't know; I think that's how my dad said it. There's probably more. Definitely…"

Ron paused, gathering his thoughts; there was a lot to make sense of.

"During the war with You-Know-Who, muggleborns weren't exactly welcome in Slytherin – for obvious reasons. They probably never were. But if muggleborns have a hard time today here – and most of them do, we now know – then imagine how they must have had it back when everything was going on – the few there were." Ron glanced around the room. "I think Dumbledore would have made these rooms to protect them from their housemates. Bill said the rumours of their treatment still ran around while he went to Hogwarts. Rumours about how muggleborns were treated back then." Ron actually shuddered at the thought. "It wasn't pretty. Nothing was back then."

"So even Hogwarts was involved in the war with Vol – sorry, Ron! – with You-Know-Who?"

Ron nodded. "Everybody was in some ways from what I hear. You might not like the way people look at you, and I understand – I really do – but there's a reason they look at you the way they do. You changed their lives. You changed all our lives. You saved us. To those that fought against him, my dad says you'll always hold a special place in their hearts. Gratitude, he calls it. What happened… was a bloody miracle."

Later that night, when sleep found Ron a willing victim, Harry lay in bed, staring at his wand, recalling with the kind of perfect clarity only regret can bring along, what with this stick of wood he could wrought into reality.

Was he awed? Yes. Was he afraid? Yes, though not as much as he felt he should have been. The thing about a young mind is that it's almost never capable of imagining all the ways in which it can corrupt itself.

And he was corruptible. Susceptible.

Magic was capable of greatness. And as he recalled Ollivander's words when he purchased his wand, when he contemplated the strange sorting he'd partaken – the almost prophesied whispers of the Sorting Hat – he understood that he, because of magic, was in possession of that same capacity for greatness.

And that scared the shit out of him. He'd never even considered being great – never even considered pursuing it – when he first received his letter from Hagrid. The only thought he had was that he couldn't wait to see the backs of the Dursley's. When he met Ron, a weight had fallen from his shoulders and it was like all he could have asked for had already been given to him.

But now…

Malfoy, trembling under his wand…

Oh. Well.

The world would still stand tomorrow.

The sun would rise.

Malfoy was gonna be fine.

Damn it.

Harry yielded.

Barely perceptible disgust filled him as he gave in to the deeper emotion that was there… in his hearts of heart… the one he'd locked away so deep even he couldn't sense it… fascination. Satisfaction. There was a power in that show of skilled dominance. A raw power he had enjoyed wielding – in the face of Malfoy and his friends, his skills were unequalled.

Albus Dumbledore.

A sigh. Damn it all to hell.

And now he lay there, in his new bed, in his new home, wondering if Dumbledore had seen through the insecurity to the more sinister emotion breeding just beneath the surface. The enjoyment.

No, he told himself, gripping his wand tightly and turning over in his bed, the fact of the matter remained. As it must. He didn't enjoy it. He didn't! There was no real gratification from his enjoyment – no catharsis of emotions.

But there was understanding.

He was alone. Beset, it seemed, on all sides. By Snape. By Malfoy. The only people that had shown him any kind of good will, and that had been limited, were people from other Houses. Friendliness? Hardly. Eagerness. Yes. Curiousness? Yeah. There had been a lot of that – a lot of craned looks around corners. But that was not strange, given the impossibility of his past. Of which no one seemed able to explain.

Scholars had written books of theories about that night, about him, about what in particular that set him so apart. What made his existence beyond the age of one a possibility? No concrete answer, as far as he could gather, had arisen in any research. How they'd made their research without ever consoling him was beyond Harry, but that wasn't a thought worth chasing at the moment.

Of course! Of course he was gonna be looked upon differently. He was different. How had he survived, when his parents had died, like so many before them, to Voldemort's wand?

And there came an expectancy with his past, with his fame. When he'd performed well in class, outmatching everybody with an ease that both puzzled and exhilarated him, people only looked on like it was something they had expected all along. Envious expectancy.

He was, however, wrong about one thing. As the snores reminded him, he wasn't alone anymore.

Harry had Ron Weasley now.

Sighing, he ducked into his bag and fished out his list of Duel Spells, knowing that sleep wouldn't find him for quite a while.

Twirling his wand, a light bursting at the tip, he skimmed the pages.


As Dumbledore requested, Harry slept in. As did Ron.

Blessedly, none came to wake them. Most likely because no one knew where to find them.

Harry swung his legs out of his bed, grabbed his glasses, and went to the loo.

His memories of yesterday seemed befuddled, coming to him like they belonged to another mind. There was a distorted sequence of events, all of it muddled into one large package of misdeeds. Discerning one episode from another was a daunting task. So much had happened.

Oh, and there was also a crack in the mirror. Staring into the face of an eleven-year-old Harry Potter, a crack broke his face into two elongated faces, lower and upper, jaw and forehead, comically stretched.

"Ron!" Harry shouted, noting he'd left the door ajar. His wand was pointing at the mirror, awaiting the information from Ron. "How do you repair things?"

There was an eloquent groan coming from the dormitory.

"Merlin – what time is it?"

"Late. The spell?"

"Ah – bloody hell, Harry, I don't remember. I'm sure it makes sense once you hear it, though."

Harry furrowed his brow, wacked the mirror with his wand and intoned, "Repair."

Nothing.

Harry sighed, pausing in his train of thoughts. Repairing. Mending. He considered the broken glass in front of him. Considered its function, its shape… Gliding his hand over it, he even considered the feel of it.

At the best of times, magic could be damn intricate. Spells were meant to aid the wizard or witch, focusing their intent into a concrete result, making a focal point for their wills to bend reality. But even in his younger days, Harry instinctually knew that magic wasn't so intricate, and it wasn't so simple, and that it was not merely tied down to knowing the right spell for the job.

Magic, he somehow knew – as though it had been stored away in the back of his mind – left an imprint. A trace. A feeling you could pursue with the right frame of mind. That frame of mind, though, a state of non-being within being, casting your mind beyond this realm, was impossible for most to obtain. You couldn't train your mind for this type of clarity. Not in any way Harry knew. Some grows into it; some are born into it.

Most never even touched it.

Harry understood. He – was? Were? Am.

He was magic. As was everything.

Everything was magic…

He held his wand, tightly now and with intent, considered it. There was a perceptible response coming off it, answering his silent deliberation. Warmth travelled up the length of his arm. Magic rendered his senses. Laid claim to reality, bended it.

Mended it. Mending. To mend.

He looked back into his split reflection, seeing – imagining – himself looking back whole, looking back mended. The warmth still tingled about his arm, and he knew he had it.

He knew – he had it.

He gestured with his wand, knowing he had – as though knowing he had done it already. There was a fine, distinct sound – crack! – and staring back at him was the whole face of Harry James Potter, grinning with wonder. Like an eleven-year-old boy was supposed to.

"Oh, you remembered the spell."

No. "Yeah."

Ron stood in the doorway, dishevelled, scratching the back of his head without making any attempt to stifle his yawn. He stretched, something cracked, then he took to the room.

"What was it?"

Ah…

"What was what?"

"The spell, Harry." Ron looked at him, frowned, gesturing to the mirror. "You know, the mirror – the spell to fix it."

Harry cast his mind about the billion of explanations, the hundreds of spells he'd already heard and barely remembered. He was sure he'd heard of it before. It was right there…

"You didn't remember it, did you?"

"Well – it sounds stupid when you put it like that."

"How then?"

"I'm not sure."

They brushed their teeth, dressed in normal clothes – not a school day for these boys, no sir – and Ron spent a minute teaching him a charm that could tie his shoelaces. Apparently it was one of the few spells Ron's mother had taught him during his youth.

"Mum never practiced much with Ginny and I," Ron explained. "Not magic, anyhow. Hell, you remember the train ride? Had I known just a little I'd have figured the twins were having me on…"

They sneaked out of their dormitory, finding the common room fortunately still and lonely. A bulletin, as Snape promised, hung by the exit, explaining how Ron Weasley and Harry Potter had been caught out after curfew, getting into all sorts of trouble, and lost them two hundred points.

"Let's get out of here before anyone returns," Ron said, shuddering as the scenario no doubt ran through his mind.

They sneaked through the castle to the sounds of whispered rumours from the students of other Houses, and to glares, filled with malice, whenever they happened upon the occasional Slytherin.

One particular seventh-year Slytherin was rather articulate about his displeasure.

"This is my last year!" he all but shouted at them. Ron cast a look of pure longing at the door leading out of the Entrance Hall and out onto the grounds. They had been so close!

"My last year! Slytherin has won the cup for the last six years! Ever since I got here! I'll not have that ruined by two fucking first-years who can't… who can't…" He dragged Ron by the collar of his shirt, face-to-face, inches apart. "I've N.E.W.T's to worry about this year. By Merlin! I haven't got the time to hold you by the fuckin' hands! I don't care who the fuck you – the fuck you doing, Potter?"

Petrificus Totalus!

His limps snapped together, stiffly, and he fell back. Only Ron's quick reflexes, arms snatching around the bigger boys waist, ensured that the older boy didn't hit the stone-floor.

"Harry!"

"What?"

Ron stared, wide-eyed and grinning, as he stood up after having laid the boy down.

"No duels in the corridors, remember?"

"Well," Harry said, a blush creeping up his neck. "I never had the means to fight back before…"

"You certainly do now! Bloody hell!"

"Yeah…" he muttered, casting a glance round the commotion his little display of magic had caused. For a school filled with young witches and wizards, who all had a wand capable of all kinds of wonders, there really weren't that many that actually dared using magic in the corridors.

The reason why stalked towards them through the sound of mutterings – God Harry hate that sound! – coming from the opposite end of the corridor.

"Snape!" Ron whispered, straining his neck to look above the students around them, before ducking down. "How the bloody hell can he just be there?"

Harry was wondering the same thing himself.

"Maybe he's following us."

Ron looked horrified at the thought. "You think so?"

"Not really. I don't think he can see us yet…" Harry shrugged. There was a strange sense of complacency within him. Snape was like a boulder in a river, pushing students aside with his glare and mere presence, cutting a path straight towards them.

It didn't scare Harry for some reason.

He fixed his eyes on the Entrance Hall, and the sunlight that poured through seemed madly enticing at that moment, urging his defiance.

"Run for it?" he asked Ron.

"Merlin, he'll go absolutely bonkers!" There was an exceptional look of mirth and fright on Ron's face, flushed with exuberance.

They laughed and, as if on their own accord, their legs set in motion, sprinting through the throngs of students from all Houses. They parted for them – Harry caught flashes of faces in the crowd that shuddered with disapproval, faces that stared with shock, with curiosity, some with awe, as if they couldn't fathom that they'd make a dash from Snape.

Most of them cheered. None of them Slytherin.

All of it felt good.

Ron and he laughed as they hit the grounds running.

Blood ran hot in his veins as they cut right, streaking across the grounds. His thighs burned with exertion, feet heavy in the still dew-covered field of grass. None of that mattered. They defied. They laughed. They escaped.

In the distance, stands of a stadium rose into the air. Their run, quite naturally, slowed to a steady pace as they drew nearer and no one seemed to catch up behind them.

"Should we – go for a flight?" Ron asked, face afire with life and out of breath, and as he said it Harry knew that they'd been meant to be here. Flying.

"Sure."

They stopped by a broom shack that stood by the Quidditch Entrance, intent upon grabbing themselves a couple of the school's brooms.

It was locked. Ron swore as he tore at the wooden door.

"Know the charm to unlock doors?"

"Nope."

Ron, unflappable, gestured to the door. "Do you thing?"

"My thing?"

"Pull something out of your arse, Harry."

Harry laughed and remembered just the spell for this type of thing.

"Reducto!"

A jet of blue light, crackling like lightning, spilled out of his wand, striking the door. It blew of its hinges in a cascade of wooden shrapnel, the door incinerated into dust in the twilight of the spell. Ron, after a moment spent in wide-eyed stupor, staggered over the debris, astonished, and grabbed two brooms.

"Or you could do that, I guess." He handed Harry a broom, hand shaky, casting a wary glance at the wand in his hand. "Reducto, you said?"

"Yeah."

A pause.

"Cool…"

They slipped through the Quidditch tunnel, laughing at their success in a rush of juvenile jubilation.

They reached the end of the tunnel, sunlight flittering like a bellowing curtain over the threshold. They broke through the light and found the Quidditch field already occupied.

"Shouldn't you two be in class?" Ron shouted, grinning.

Fred and George twirled on their brooms, seeing them for the first time.

"History," one of them said in lieu of answering. Or maybe that was answer enough. Certainly, Binns had seemed like he'd one day just droned himself to death, as the rumours had it. "If you're lucky, Binns won't even notice you aren't there. What's your excuse, firsties?"

"Thirsty?" Harry frowned.

"Does he remember our names, Fred?" George – Harry was guessing – said before Ron could answer.

"Binns? Well, Fred, I'm not entirely sure he remembers much of anything on this side of the century."

Or maybe that was Fred.

"Then how, George, should he notice our absence?"

Well, that was – what?

"George, I do believe you're on to something."

Harry looked, incredulous, back and forth between the two, noting Ron was grinning beside him.

"So Binns' always like that?" said Harry. "He never gets more…"

"Lively?"

One of the twins, the one who hadn't answered him, blanched at his brother.

"Ah – poor choice of words there, Fred."

"Really? Discriminatory?"

"Towards a ghost?" Harry said doubtfully.

"It was a rather obvious and unoriginal pun, Fred." George – one of them – said, completely discarding him.

They could be amusing, Harry supposed, but he got the feeling he'd rather not spend too much time with them if they were always like that.

"Damn shame you two aren't in Gryffindor," Fred said – or at least Harry thought it was Fred – half-an-hour later. "We could really use your talents, Harry – you'd be perfect as a seeker! You could even give our brother, Charlie, a run for his money. Some say he could have made it for England, if he wanted to."

"And some say he once got lost in the enthralling eyes of a Hungarian Horntail. Pity that, really."

"And some say you need to shut up!" Ron said.

Harry, recalling the look McGonagall had favoured him when she caught him flying against Malfoy the other day, trying to take back Longbottom's… whatever it was, spoke of her shared sentiment with the twins.

"Let's just keep this between the two of us, shall we?" she had said, when she'd dragged him to her office. She had given him a long, steady look. "You father was brilliant on a broom, too, you know. And with a wand. My subject was his favourite. I think he'd be proud."

Harry had hidden his face as McGonagall, favouring him one last smile, soft and tender, left him unpunished in the hallways.

Harry thought she might have taken pity on him.

For once he couldn't complain about that.

On the way back to the castle, his thoughts ran adrift with the shadow of his parents. Lingering. Whispering. He'd heard bits and pieces of them, not enough to make them corporeal within his mind – but enough to set alit a deep hunger for more.

His father had been brilliant on a broom apparently.

"Ron," Harry said, narrowing his eyes in concentration. He could see the thought manifest before him. "Weren't there a couple of Quidditch Trophies in the Trophy Room?"

"More than a couple. Blimey, the bloody room was stuffed with them!" His cheeks were red and winded, his countenance carefree. Joyful. "Why do you ask?"

"I want to go have a look."

"What, right now? You think that'd be smart, considering last night? Aren't you supposed to not return to the scene of the crime?"

Harry laughed. "We've already been punished for it once."

"Wouldn't stop Snape from punishing us again," Ron muttered dryly, and Harry thought he was not wrong. Still…

"I want to see if I can find something about my dad, Ron."

"Oh." There was an odd look in Ron's eyes. Uncomfortable. It melded away quickly. "Let's go, then – is it okay if I come along?"

"Of course."

About an hour and several wrong turns later they found themselves at the threshold of the Trophy Room. Voices echoed off the walls of the corridor, coming from inside the room. They sounded young.

"–no sign of any fight, is there?" a girl by the sound of it was saying. "Are you positive Potter and Weasley fought here last night, Neville?"

"Yes. Someone must have cleaned up after them. I'm telling you Ron Weasley looked-"

"Awesome, right?" Ron said, announcing their presence.

They whirled about and hurdled together, alarmed. Harry recognized the anxious face of Longbottom from last night, and he recognized the bushy-haired girl from the train. For some reason the name escaped his recollection.

"Hermione Granger, right?" said Ron beside him, looking at her funnily.

"What are you doing here?" she said, not answering Ron but giving him a frosty glare. Harry looked between them, unsure if there was something there that lingered from their first Transfiguration class.

"Ah – why do you ask that?"

"Because you're not supposed to be here. Well, are you?" said Hermione. "You'll get us all in so much trouble." She flashed her eyes to the door, as if sensing all the teachers converging on their location. None came. "I heard about your fight last night. That wasn't very smart at all, was it?"

Harry blinked. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Ron's eyes gaining a distinct twitch.

"It… really wasn't about being smart at all, though," Harry said, nudging Ron, silently telling him to keep his shit together. "And I think most of the school knows by now. Considering the house-points we lost."

"We saw," Neville said quietly. "There was a cork in the Slytherin's hourglass."

"Most likely because of the points they lost."

"What's it to you, Granger," Ron said dryly.

"The cork will disappear once they're above zero again." She smiled sweetly at them. "Unless, of course, you end up losing any more points."

"Are you looking for a fight?" Harry said, furrowing his brow, annoyed at last, and twirling his wand. "Because if you are, you're doing a good job of it."

Hermione went for her wand, as did Ron, even as Neville slowly distanced himself from Hermione with small, measured steps.

Harry held his hand up for Ron, pacifying him for the moment, knowing that if he got his wand out curses would be flying again. McGonagall had been on their side last night; Harry wasn't sure she'd be that if Ron cursed one of her students.

"Really, Granger, if I'd wanted to curse you, I'd done so already." Harry gave his wand a whirl, sparks of red and golden light emanating from the tip. "I've had it in my hand this whole time, you know."

Hermione, frowning at his wand, slowly placed her own back inside her robes.

"You wouldn't know how to, anyway. We haven't learned any curses yet," she said.

"Of course he knows curses! How else would we have defeated a fifth-year student? No offence, Harry – but does he really look like he could take on an older student with his fists?"

"Hey!"

"I said no offence, Harry. You're not allowed to take offence."

"What's that even supposed to mean?"

"A fifth-year?" Hermione interrupted them, looking intrigued. "Which fifth-year?"

"Marcus Flint," Neville said. "I forgot he was there last night."

Hermione rounded on Neville immediately. "You said they had been in a fistfight!"

"It looked so!" Neville held up his hands, shielding himself, horrified. "They never really talked about how they fought…"

"Yes we did," Harry said, furrowing his brow at the larger boy. "Quite a lot actually. In fact, it was almost all Snape talked about."

"Oh." Neville turned slightly pink. "Well, I, er–"

"What curses did you use, then?" Hermione said, dismissing Neville as she turned to Harry. "Must be something advanced to take on a fifth-year student."

Harry shrugged, smiling. "It wasn't me."

"What do you–" Her eyes left Harry, focused on Ron for a second, then returned to him. "Impossible."

"Hey!" Ron cried.

"No offence, I'm sure," Harry said quickly.

"Offence taken!"

"On the train ride he tried to make his rat yellow with a ridiculous spell that doesn't even exist. I looked it up–"

"I'm sure you did. Look, we came here for a Trophy with my dad's name on – or my mum, I guess…"

"Oh." The defiance fell away from Hermione's eyes, replaced by a tenderness that raised Harry's opinion of her immediately. "Well, I couldn't find anything with your mother's name on, but your father has a couple – there is one over there."

Harry stared, dumbfounded, and tried to say something, found no words, then shut his mouth, staring still.

Ron had no such troubles.

"You've looked up his parents!" Harry's astonishment was mirrored in the tone of Ron's voice. "That's… well, that's bloody creepy!"

"Oh, come on! I'm hardly the only one taking an interest in him." Hermione blushed outright when she realized what she'd said, but continued nonetheless. "His story is fascinating. I just wanted to see if I could find something from his past that might explain…"

"The scar…" Ron whispered.

"And what did you find?"

"Well… Nothing." Hermione hesitated. "Your father was amazing on a broom, Harry. There's a whole stack of Quidditch trophies over there. But it's the trophy that way, by the window, that's most interesting. It was from his seventh year apparently."

It was a Medal for Magical Merit – a lavish golden medal carrying the name of James Potter.

"Medal for Magical Merit?" Ron said, looking at it awed. "For what?"

"Dunno," Neville answered. "But he's on here, too. As is your mum, Harry."

Harry looked at what he was pointing at. It was a list containing the names of all the Head Boys and Girls in Hogwarts' history.

"Your parents were Head Boy and Girl." Hermione wore a strange, hungry mask, staring at the long list.

"Your father was Quidditch Captain, too, Harry!" Ron yelled, standing by the cups and trophies Hermione had pointed at initially. "Merlin – look at all this! Your dad wasn't amazing on a broom; he was a genius!"

"You don't have to gush about it."

Ron stopped gushing.

"I was not gushing!"

"He was also a gifted student apparently," Hermione said, still studying the Medal for Magical Merit with the same hungry, envious look that she wasn't quite capable of masking. "I wonder what it's given for…"

"Your dad sounds awesome."

Suddenly, though if he'd paid attention he'd found the emotion growing steadily, Harry found the room tightening around him with invisible claws, gnawing away at him with a vengeance born out of an unrealised future.

"I… I wish I'd known him. Known them." Harry looked at Ron, caught his eye; something told Harry he understood his tone of voice immediately.

"Let's get back to the common room."

Harry nodded. Grateful. "Yeah…"

"Where's Slytherin's common room exactly?" Hermione asked curiously, following them.

"Not now, Hermione," Harry said. The world, there like a normal plane of existence moments ago, was blurring with drunken edges. Slipping. A scream arose through the edges, swallowing his depression and transforming it into something else – something that basked in the sudden freedom.

Something that grew.

You hear that? Mudblood!

"You're not going to–" Hermione began.

"He said, not now!" Ron all but snarled.

Harry turned the corner, the way unseen, blinded by a world he couldn't comprehend. Rising from somewhere he couldn't grasp. Flashes of green light, with a fierce, howling wind draped about it, danced across his eyelids. Screams – none of them his own – and yet all of them belonging to him. Distress not his own – and yet part of the deepest synapsis of his brain – gnawed away at reality. He was losing himself. Remembered not as a memory he'd lived, but endured through another being. Pain unimaginable.

"Harry," Ron whispered beside him, "where're we going, mate? What's going on?"

He turned another corner, ignoring Ron, everything of reality unfound in the enormity of whatever memory beset him – he knew the way.

I know the way – the only way.

A door blocked his way – the way; he turned the knob, finding it locked.

Alohomora.

Harry blinked, startled, frantically looking everywhere.

"Here, let me," Hermione said, stepping forth with her wand raised.

Harry raised his own. "Alohomora," he intoned.

The lock clicked.

"Harry." He turned to the sound of the voice, for a frightening moment not recognizing it, and found Ron at the end of it. "I thought you said you didn't know that spell."

"I…" He licked his dry lips, the edges trembling. "I didn't."

Ron found a confused expression, as did Hermione and Neville, looking between them, something mounting at the corners of their eyes.

"I don't understand."

Welcome to the club, Harry thought. Where had that thought come from? Had he read it somewhere? No. Maybe heard it…

Fuck.

"Come on!" Hermione suddenly persisted, eagerness colouring her voice, pushing Harry out of the way to get at the door. "We can't stand here all day."

"You little–"

BOOM!

The door was torn of its hinges, busting outwards and almost hitting Hermione. An enormous, foul-smelling mouth tried to gnaw its way through the threshold, snapping at Harry, spittle flying everywhere.

"Run!" Harry yelled, dragging a frozen Hermione with him, as Ron grabbed Neville and ran.

They left the macabre corridor to the loud, screeching sounds of what appeared to be a vast, multiple-headed dog.

Hermione and Neville, not saying a thing, disentangled themselves from them the moment they hit the corridors of the third-floor, hurrying past them towards what Harry could only assume was the Gryffindor common room.

They never looked back.

Ron, turning in the other direction, ran without looking, as well. A moment later, Harry knew why. Beyond the screeching, the howling, the clawing and gnawing, there were footsteps, converging on his location.

Shit.

Run. Run. Run!

Curiosity – damn, fucking damn curiosity – persisted.

"If it's Potter again, I swear I'm going to–"

Snape!

Fear overwhelming curiosity in a blessed moment of clarity, Harry turned in the direction Ron had gone, finding him beyond sight, and raced faster than ever before down the corridor.

Away from the scene of the crime.

Just what the hell was that thing?


Later that night, Harry looked up from the book at the sound of Ron's snoring, groaning bleary-eyed at the dark.

They'd gone directly back to their common room, quite forgetting everything about dinner, sprinting past their housemates before they could stop them. Not saying much, the vivid memories of the vast mouth gnawing adrift in their minds, they dressed for bed – still quite forgetting that they hadn't eaten all day. It didn't take long for Ron to fall asleep. For a long time Harry'd sat by their window, looking into the lake, contemplating just what such a dog was doing in a school.

And now, hours later, Ron still asleep, his mind still remained along the same current of thoughts.

Sleep was a long, long night away.

And somewhere, in the very back of his mind, on the banks of his soul, the whispers born from the moment he'd lain eyes on Dumbledore's wand persisted.


End of chapter.

Author's note: Thank you for everyone who read this far. Leave a review behind before you walk away, if you'd be so kind.

Good day.

Bye.