Chapter 11: Spring 1992, Part 1

Cedric was predictably enthusiastic about their plans to become Animagi. He spent the entire month after the Christmas holiday alternating between daydreaming about what animals they would become and studying every related Transfiguration text he could find.

"Given your proclivity for talking," Harry interrupted during breakfast in mid-March. "You'll be a parrot." He raised his wand just in time to deflect the remaining portion of Cedric's bacon butty.

"You'll be a snake, no doubt," Cedric retorted.

Harry grinned and let out a hiss, flicking his tongue at his friend.

Cedric gave him a look of mock indignation. "What did you just call my mother?"

"Who's to say?" He replied airly before draining his teacup. "Are you going to walk me to Defence?"

Cedric hummed and tapped his chin in contemplation. "What's in it for me?"

"You get to spend time in my presence that you otherwise wouldn't have."

Cedric pursed his lips and nodded gravely. "You drive a hard bargain," he conceded before rising from his seat and grandly gesturing for Harry to follow him out of the Great Hall.

Harry slipped into his seat sometime later, pulling out his Defence textbook and his essay about Kappas, and quietly waited for the rest of his classmates to arrive. Pucey appeared just before class began and claimed the seat next to him but thankfully didn't draw Harry into his conversation with Graham Montague.

"You c-c-c-can put your b-b-b-books away," Professor Quirrell stuttered as he drifted into the room, closing the door behind him with a flick of his wand. "We shall be doing a practical lesson this morning."

Excited murmurs filled the room. Because of Professor Quirrel's notoriously fragile nerves, they had yet to cast as much as a Knockback jinx all year. The fact that they were doing a practical lesson was a big deal, and Harry had no trouble reading between the lines as to what this implied: whatever they were doing today was so important that Quirrel couldn't think of a non-confrontational option to teach them. He shared a grin with Pucey, who was already gripping his wand and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Professor Quirrell waved his wand a second time, and their desks zoomed to the side of the room, leaving ample space for them to assemble in the centre of the classroom. They watched on bated breath as he placed a battered suitcase down at the front of the room. It gave a sudden lurch, prompting Cordelia Gamp to squeak in alarm and clutch onto Harry's arm. Harry glanced down at her, only to grow more bemused when she buried her face in his shoulder.

"I would compose yourself, Miss Gamp," Professor Quirrell said in a grave tone. "Your fear will only feed it."

The pronouncement certainly dampened the excitement in the room, and the Third Years shared confused and uneasy looks.

"Today," Professor Quirrell said, his voice low, almost hypnotic. "We will be learning about Boggarts."

An icy chill ran down Harry's spine, and he fought the urge to sprint out of the room. To say he had a lousy track record with Boggarts was an understatement. Just last year, Terrance Higgs (and other accomplices he refused to name) had sent him a Boggart disguised as a care package, which Harry had unknowingly opened at breakfast. Naturally, the Boggart took the form of Lord Voldemort himself, which sent the student body into a panic and Harry into a nearly catatonic state. He also vaguely remembered blowing up the Great Hall.

Suffice to say, Harry had no desire to face a Boggart today. And judging by the nervous looks he was getting from his classmates, they didn't want him to face a Boggart either.

Pucey cleared his throat. "Professor, is this a good idea?"

Professor Quirrell gave Pucey a curious look, his light green eyes narrowing. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Pucey's eyes darted over to Harry for the briefest of moments. "Well, it's just that there are a lot of people in here, isn't there?"

Professor Quirrell nodded. "It's best to face Boggarts in a large group. It confuses them."

Pucey grimaced. "Yes, well—"

"We don't want Potter to blow us up," Aurora Dodderage interjected, somehow managing to sound disinterested and terrified.

"That's not how I would have phrased it," Pucey hedged, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen over the room. "I just think that it's a bit cruel to make us face our worst fears in front of a group."

"But also Potter—" Dodderage began.

"Yes, thank you for your input," Gamp snapped, surprising Harry. She looked up at him through her eyelashes. "You won't blow us up, right, Harry?"

His mouth grew very dry, and his tongue felt three sizes too big for his mouth. He nodded dumbly.

Gamp smiled up at him prettily before glaring at Dodderage. "See? It's no issue."

Despite Gamp's words, a palpable tension hung in the air as Professor Quirrell walked them through the Boggart banishing charm. When it was time to face the Boggart, Harry kept finding himself pushed towards the back of the class. Harry couldn't bring himself to feel anything other than relief at his classmates' actions. He wasn't too keen on confronting Lord Voldemort this year. He lingered in the back and watched as Pucey faced a Grim, then Gamp, a massive snake, and Dodderage, a man in a hockey mask brandishing a machete.

His heart clenched painfully when Atticus Nettles stepped forward, and the Boggart transformed into his older brother. They had never discussed Harry witnessing Nettles' brother's abuse, and afterwards, Nettles seemed all too determined to act like Harry had ceased to exist. Still, Harry always wondered if the older boy had exacted his revenge on Nettles. Judging by Nettles' poor reaction to his Boggart, Harry assumed he had.

"Riddikulus!" Nettles cried. There was a crack! and the Boggart split in two, a new apparition joining Nettles' brother. They advanced on Nettles, wands raised, with nasty smirks on their lips. "Riddikulus!"

Crack! Another boy joined the group. From the back of the classroom, Harry could hear Nettles whimper.

Rage burned through Harry's veins at the sound. Pucey was right; this was cruel. Harry knew first hand how humiliating it was to have your worst fear put on display for everyone to gawk at, and he wouldn't wish the experience on anyone. Even Atticus Nettles, who had harassed him for years. Safety in numbers or not, it was wrong of Professor Quirrell to force them to face a Boggart like this. Harry pushed his way through the crowd until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Nettles, who looked ready to faint.

The Boggart turned its collective heads and stared at Harry for a split second before it began to swirl. Harry steeled his nerves and raised his wand, ready for Lord Voldemort to make an appearance.

Only he didn't.

There was a sharp crack! and Harry found himself staring at a small child, no older than three, carrying a bundle of fabric in his arm. A gash marred the child's brow, oozing blood down his face and dripping onto the fabric he carried.

"Mummy's dead," the child whimpered, clutching the fabric closer to his chest. With a jolt, Harry realised that a baby was swaddled in the fabric. "I couldn't save her."

A dull roar sounded in his ears. He knew that voice. Looking into the child's emerald green eyes, he realised he knew those too.

"Daddy's dead," toddler Harry cried. "Why didn't you stop the Scary Man?"

It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Harry felt light-headed.

"He's going to kill John," Boggart Harry explained. "Because you're too weak."

A dim part of Harry's mind recognised that this speech was too advanced for a toddler, and he latched onto the thought. What he was witnessing wasn't real. But he wondered if maybe there was a kernel of truth to the Boggart's words. It was his fault, after all, that his mother was dead. If it hadn't been for him, she wouldn't have had to sacrifice herself. And he had been weak that night. He couldn't stop Voldemort from killing his mother, he couldn't protect John, and he certainly couldn't protect himself. After all, was this not the second time he had faced a Boggart in a year and had fallen prey to it?

He was useless. He was weak. He was nothing.

But that wasn't true, his mind desperately tried to remind him. Cedric didn't think he was useless. Grace didn't think he was weak. And John was somewhere in this castle right that very moment, alive and well. Because Harry had protected him the night Voldemort had tried to annihilate their family. It was Harry who swaddled John in a blanket, stepped over his mother's cooling body, and fled their collapsing home. If it weren't for Harry, John would be dead. And that didn't feel like 'nothing' at all.

Through the icy numbness came the fury. How dare this Boggart make him feel so powerless? He wasn't a snivelling child anymore, nor was he a cowering Second Year. Harry raised his holly and phoenix feather wand and pointed it at the younger version of himself. He didn't open his mouth or have a conscious thought to cast a spell. Instead, he poured all of his rage into his magic in a moment of savage frenzy.

The resulting BOOM! shook the castle, and when the dust cleared, Harry saw a crater where the Boggart (and floor) used to be.

He stared blankly at the hole in the floor for a moment before dropping his arm down to his side. He could hear his classmates recovering from their shock over the buzzing in his chest. No, not buzzing. Those rattles he heard was his breath, coming out in short, laboured huffs.

Harry spun on his heel and made his way towards the door, summoning his bag as he went. His classmates parted for him, giving him a clear path. It took every remaining ounce of self-control not to break out in a sprint. No one tried to stop him from leaving the classroom, not even Professor Quirrell.

Harry wandered without a destination in mind, only to put himself as far away from the Defence classroom as possible. He ended up in an empty corridor on the second floor and dropped down on a stone bench nestled between two suits of armour, across from a particularly ugly painting of a goblin wrestling a hippogriff. As he watched, the goblin attempted to put the hippogriff in a headlock, only for it to be bucked off and launched, screeching, into an adjacent painting.

"Well," Pucey said, dropping onto the bench beside him. "At least you didn't blow us up."

"Was anyone hurt?"

Pucey shook his head. "You did scare the hell out of a house-elf in the room below, though."

Harry sighed and dropped his head into his hands. Pucey patted him on the back.

"They think I'm unhinged, I'm sure," he mumbled.

Pucey chuckled. "Cassius is right terrified, but if you want my opinion, this only helped your reputation."

Harry peeked around his fingers. "How do you figure?"

"Cordelia was waxing poetic about how your 'dark and dangerous aura' adds to your attractiveness."

"Adrien, you really are a terrible gossip."

"It isn't gossip! She was all but shouting it in the middle of the corridor!"

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't quite keep the smile off his face. He was about to reply when the sound of footsteps caught his attention.

Nettles was standing at the end of the corridor, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Potter?"

Harry and Pucey shared a look, and Harry shook his head.

Pucey pursed his lips and nodded. "I'll see you in Charms, then," he said, patting Harry's shoulder one more time before rising from the bench. He nodded towards Nettles as he passed and rounded the corner, the echo of his footsteps slowly fading.

Curious, Harry waved Nettles closer and gestured for him to join him on the bench. Nettles approached hesitantly and stopped several feet away. He didn't say anything for a long, tense moment, and neither did Harry.

"I'm sorry."

Harry tilted his head in confusion. "For what?"

Nettles grit his teeth as if the conversation was causing him physical pain. "For the Boggart."

Harry shook his head. "It wasn't your fault that Professor—"

"I meant last year," Nettles snapped, cutting Harry off. "I had Terrence send you that Boggart in Second Year."

Harry stilled at the confession, his fingertips growing cold. He wasn't sure what to say, other than ask, "Why?"

Nettles shrugged. "We thought it would be a laugh, seeing you scared. We hated you."

It was no real revelation to Harry, but the admission hurt nonetheless. He hadn't done anything to deserve Nettles' hatred or become a target.

"But it wasn't a laugh," Nettles continued. "And it's not funny now. It was cruel to make you face your worst fear, especially in front of the entire school. It was wrong of me to ever think it okay to do what we did to you, and I'm sorry."

Harry almost responded, 'That's okay,' but he stopped himself at the last moment. Because how Nettles treated him wasn't okay. He shouldn't have been bitten by a snake his dorm mates set on him, or had his belongings destroyed, or have to be moved into a private room for his safety. He should have felt safe at Hogwarts, and Atticus Nettles was the reason that he hadn't for so long. A small, vindictive part of Harry wanted to scoff and storm off, perhaps toss a jinx over his shoulder for good measure. After all that Nettles had done to him, 'sorry' was a very poor way of atoning for his crimes.

But at the same time, Harry recognised that Nettles wasn't the same person he was last year. The boy in front of him wouldn't have apologised for breaking his nose last April or hexing him so that he spent a week vomiting slugs in their First Year. Whether it was because of what Harry had witnessed between Nettles and his older brother or a result of Nettles simply growing up, the end outcome was the same. He had apologised. And although it couldn't right the wrongs Harry had endured, the apology was still appreciated.

"Thank you, Atticus," Harry replied at last. It occurred to Harry that this was the first conversation he had ever shared with his former dorm mate. The words were somehow simultaneously ironic and fitting when he considered the history between them.

Nettles cleared his throat and nodded before shuffling away, leaving Harry in the abandoned corridor with nothing but his thoughts for company.

Genius Fratris

There was an odd tension in Slytherin after the Defence Incident that had Harry spending even less of his limited free time avoiding the common room. The number of people visiting his room for homework help or just to chat had dwindled to almost nothing, leaving Harry feeling at once both relieved at the lack of attention and very lonely. It was like First Year all over again, where people would whisper to their friends and not even bother to hide the fact that they were staring at him. Unlike then, however, Harry had several friends and allies this time around that made the restless atmosphere slightly more bearable.

For instance, whilst not the most comforting presence at Hogwarts (or in all of Scotland, for that matter), Marcus kept the most malicious attention at bay and scared off a vast majority of the nosy gossips. Pucey, meanwhile, reminded him that the mysterious, baddie aura he exuded was doing wonders for his popularity, and would you like to see the register for your fan club? On the other hand, Grace thought the entire affair was hilarious and treated the matter as if it was some sort of elaborate practical joke.

"Harry," she explained one day in May after Harry had. "You knitted a jumper last night for your pet snake. There is nothing remotely scary about you."

"I crocheted it, and the stones hurt her scales," he corrected.

"Yeah," she agreed. "I can see what everyone is talking about: you do have the future makings of a dark lord."

At least Cedric was sympathetic to his plight.

"Oh, stop teasing him, Gracie," he interjected before she could make another quip. "Harry can't help it that he has a naturally broody expression. That's what is so attractive about him."

"Piss off." Harry's grumbles went unheard over Grace and Cedric's raucous laughter.

"Oh, has Pucey recruited you too?" she asked. "I heard he makes a killing on membership fees."

"Who do you think leads the meetings?"

Okay, Cedric was sometimes sympathetic to his struggles.

"But seriously, Harry," Grace continued through her giggles. "If you dropped the whole 'woe is me' act and stopped taking yourself seriously, people would probably find you more approachable."

Cedric hummed in consideration, "I'm not sure Gamp would agree with you on that. I think it's part of his appeal."

The two burst into laughter once more, Grace needing Cedric to support her weight when her knees gave out.

"I need new friends," Harry snapped, speeding up and leaving them in a giggling pile on the floor. He stomped through the castle, returning books to the library and trying not to scowl when he watched a group of First Year Ravenclaws dive out of his path.

Maybe his friends were on to something, Harry admitted to himself. It didn't mean he had to like it, though. Still, he took a steadying breath (which turned into two, then ten) and allowed his heart to relax the furious beat it was pounding against his rib cage. He could be friendly and approachable, he thought. He didn't have to have the face that could cause eleven-year-olds to wet themselves. That was Marcus' thing, anyway.

He relaxed the stiff muscles in his face and arranged his features into something more open and relaxed. Approachable. He could do approachable. Harry resumed his walk through the castle, nodding to familiar faces and offering quiet greetings to his peers. He doubted it did anything to help his reputation, judging by the confused and slightly alarmed responses he received, but after so many months of scowling, he had to concede that he had a lot of work to heal his public image.

His resolve was commendable, but he should have known that it wouldn't last. Especially when he saw John shuffling down the corridor with Ron and the frizzy-haired girl they often ran around with. Hermione Granger, Harry thought she was called. Harry wasn't entirely sure how their friendship came about (school rumours mentioned something about fighting a troll), but from what he knew about Granger, the girl was a stickler for the rules and incredibly bossy. In other words, she was not the type of person Harry could imagine his brother befriending. But then again, she was also single-handedly dragging John through the First Year curriculum, so she couldn't be that unbearable.

They didn't see him approach, and Harry watched with a mixture of amusement and concern when they jumped at his greeting. "Hullo, John. What are you up to?" Harry asked, giving his brother a pleasant smile.

Ron shot John a look, causing his brother to adopt an impudent expression. "I don't see how that's any of your business," John replied, giving Harry what was probably intended to be a haughty look but really gave him the appearance of an aloof kitten.

Alarm bells went off in Harry's head, and the genial smile that he had worked so hard to craft slipped off his face. "John Potter, I'm going to pretend that your rudeness was an ill attempt at humour," he said in a low tone. He watched with satisfaction as his brother and friends began to shift in discomfort and gave each of them an unimpressed look. "Now, let's try this again. What are you up to?"

John muttered something under his breath and shuffled his feet. "I'm sorry," Harry said, bending down. "I didn't catch that." When he still didn't reply, Harry turned to the weakest link in the ragtag group. "Hermione, would you care to explain?"

The girl looked ready to faint, and when she spoke, her voice came out in a shrill, panicked rush. "Hagrid has a dragon in his hut."

The two boys groaned. Harry felt like groaning with them, though for very different reasons. It would be very much like Hagrid to keep a dragon in his wooden house. "I see. And how big is this dragon?"

With the Kneezle out of the bag, the first years began spilling the horrifying details of Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback. Harry hissed in anger when Ron reluctantly showed him the infected wound he had sustained the day before, which had already turned a nasty green. He whipped out his wand and began casting a flurry of diagnostic charms over the injury, growing more furious by the moment. "This is beyond my capabilities," he declared. "You'll need to see Madam Pomfrey."

"I'm not going!" Ron declared, backing away. "I'll be fine."

Harry scowled. "You will if you want to keep that hand," he snapped before ushering the three towards the Grand Staircase. There was much grumbling, but they relented and trotted after him.

"I knew you shouldn't have told him," Ron muttered.

Harry paused and slowly turned to face Ron, who blushed spectacularly. "You shouldn't have had to tell me anything because this should never have happened. Hagrid is a grown man and should know better than to keep a dragon on school property. He certainly shouldn't have confided this in you, and it was wrong of him to ask three First Years to cover for him," he said in a calm, unimpressed tone. He spun on his heel and took off again, leaving them to scramble after him. "After Madam Pomfrey sees to Ron, John, you and Hermione will go tell Professor McGonagall what you told me."

"No, we won't," John snapped. "I'm not dobbing Hagrid in."

"You can, and you will," Harry replied. "And don't think I won't be following up with her tomorrow. If I find out that you neglected to tell her, I won't be pleased."

John grabbed hold of Harry's robes, forcing them to stop on the staircase. "You're not Dad," he accused, glaring up at him. "You can't tell me what to do."

Harry leaned down so that his nose was inches from John's. "No, I'm just your elder brother—someone who also happens to have a vested interest in keeping you alive. But if you have an issue with it, feel free to write Dad a letter. I'm sure he'll be most interested in this little adventure you've landed yourself in."

John ground his teeth and looked like he was about to retort. Instead, Harry was saved from having to listen to his brother's adolescent whinging by Professor Snape, who was sweeping towards them. "Is there a problem, Mr Potter?" he asked Harry, ignoring the fuming First Years.

Heart pounding in fury, Harry shot his brother a nasty look before turning towards his Head of House. "Not at all, sir," he said. "I was just sending my brother and Miss Granger to see Professor McGonagall now. They have information that I think she'll be interested to hear. In fact," he said, raising his voice to speak over Ron and John's protests. "Would you mind accompanying them? It's rather urgent."

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow, the only outward sign that displayed his excitement at ruining the day of three Gryffindors. "Indeed? If the situation is as dire as you think, perhaps you should tell me now? It would save me the trip."

"Harry!" John yelped, his voice wobbling with distress and frustration.

Harry sighed internally, some of the anger draining out of his body. It was no secret that John and Professor Snape despised each other. As angry as he was, Harry knew nothing good would come out of forcing John into a situation where Snape would inevitably lose his temper. "It's one of those noble Gryffindor things, I fear."

Professor Snape looked down at him in what could only be described as amusement. He most likely assumed that their argument resulted from some sibling squabble, and Harry wasn't about to disabuse him of the notion. "She is quite adept in dealing with their melodrama," he agreed. "Very well. Will Mr Weasley be joining us?"

Crisis averted, Harry shook his head. "No, he's joining me on my trip to the hospital wing. Right, Ron?"

Ron's face turned an impressive shade of red, but he didn't respond.

With very little else to be done about it, John stomped after Professor Snape, though not before sending the nastiest look he could muster at Harry. Harry tried not to let it bother him. An angry John was infinitely better than his little brother being devoured by a dragon.

Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead, trying to fend off the growing headache. Today wasn't his day.

"Come on then," he muttered, pushing Ron down the stairs. They walked in awkward silence, a result of their argument and the fact that neither boy knew the other very well.

"Madam Pomfrey," Harry called as he ushered Ron into the Hospital Wing. "I have a Kappa three."

Madam Pomfrey's head poked out from around a curtain. "Not for yourself, surely?" When Harry shook his head, she sighed heavily. "I'm treating a Delta six. Process him, and I'll be along shortly."

Harry nodded. A Delta six classification meant she was treating a highly infectious disease such as Dragon Pox or the Dancing Plague. Ron might have allowed his bite wound to fester, but it wasn't that serious. He helped his brother's friend onto a bed and drew the privacy screen around them.

"You're not treating me, are you?" he asked dubiously, eyeing the patient file Harry had summoned.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hadn't he already said that he had no idea how to heal the bite? "I'm not a healer," he reminded Ron. Then, before the boy could argue or question him further, Harry flicked his wand, casting a series of diagnostic charms to measure Ron's height, weight, and blood pressure. "Do you have any allergies to any common potions ingredients, such as Mandrake leaf or boomslang skin?"

Ron looked uncomfortable with the question. "I don't know."

Harry hummed and reminded himself that Ron was only twelve. He would've been more surprised if he had known. "Have you ever reacted poorly to a potion before?"

Ron shrugged, which wasn't very helpful. "I don't get sick very often," Ron explained, without actually clarifying anything.

"Are there any potions your parents won't let you take?" Harry asked, rephrasing his question for the third time.

A light finally turned on behind Ron's eyes, and he nodded vigorously. "Mum says I'm not allowed to take sleep potions."

Harry paused and looked up, his quill hovering over the file. "The Sleeping Draught or Dreamless Sleep Potion?"

Ron shrugged again. "Does it matter?"

Oh, it's only the difference between dosing you with a potion filled with one of the most common allergens in Wizarding Britain or trapping you in eternal sleep, he wanted to snark. He didn't, of course. Harry liked to think he had better bedside manners than that. "Yes."

Ron looked a little taken aback by Harry's vehement insistence. "I think it's Dreamless Sleep."

Harry pursed his lips and wondered if it would be faster just to write to Mrs Weasley. "Do Seers run in your family?" Harry hedged. He was unsurprised when Ron didn't know. Merlin, was this boy as dense in his classes too? He rubbed his forehead as if it would somehow massage away the splitting headache that was forming.

"Have you had dreams come true before? Or made offhand comments that later proved correct?" Harry asked. Ron obviously had never uttered a prophecy before, or else they wouldn't have been having this conversation―the ministry kept too close track of registered Seers. But if Mrs Weasley wouldn't let Ron take Dreamless Sleep… Harry made a note at the top of Ron's patient file, just to be on the safe side.

He didn't linger long after that excruciating conversation. He passed his file off to Madam Pomfrey and staggered over to the potions cabinet, sorting through vials of potions until he found what he was looking for. He wasted no time in pouring himself an adequate dose, barely even wincing when the cold, bitter potion hit the back of his throat.

"Harry Potter, I know I didn't just watch you dose yourself with a Headache Cure." He wasn't all that surprised when Madam Pomfrey shot a light stinging jinx at him.

"Of course not," he replied smoothly. "That would be a gross abuse of the faith you have placed in me."

She bustled up beside him, looking down at him with something that was both amused and distinctly unimpressed. "Do you have a headache?"

"Not anymore."

"In a bed. Now." Harry knew better than to argue and did as she asked. He tried not to flinch when she pointed her wand in his face. "When did it start?"

"This one started at breakfast," he admitted. But now that he thought about it, he'd had at least three headaches a week since returning from the Christmas holidays. He had attributed it to his busy schedule and his ongoing fight with John. And then there was the whole Boggart Incident. Again.

Madam Pomfrey hummed. "Yes, I imagine your fan club is quite troublesome."

It took a moment for her words to register, but when they did, Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. "How—"

"Your professors aren't stupid, Harry," she chuckled. "Watching adolescent drama unfold is the highlight of our nightly staffroom discussions."

"I'm leaving," Harry declared, attempting to slip out of bed.

Madam Pomfrey laughed again before pushing him back down onto the bed. "You're too precious," she replied, raising her free hand to brush Harry's fringe off his forehead. "This scar..."

Harry leaned away from her touch and combed his hair back in place, his lips pursing.

"Your file says you got it the night—"

"My mother was murdered, yes," he ground out. He didn't like to think about it much. Not only was it a painful reminder of that horrible night, but it was an ugly, twisted, raw-looking thing too. The jagged, lightning-shaped scar garnered attention as if it was the main attraction at a circus, which Harry neither welcomed nor appreciated.

If Madam Pomfrey was offended by his brusque tone, she didn't show it. "It's cursed," she gently informed him. "That's why it won't heal properly." She waited for Harry to make some sort of comment, but when he remained silent, she continued. "Does it ever pain you?"

Harry shrugged but didn't otherwise reply. It did sometimes hurt him, though only very recently… within the last few months, in fact, around the time the headaches started. It had started as an itch that couldn't quite be scratched and slowly evolved into a stinging, twinging sensation.

"I won't ask you to talk about what happened that night," Madam Pomfrey said after a moment of silence. She waved her wand and summoned a bottle of Headache Cure, which she pressed into his hands. "But if you ever want to discuss it, I'm willing to listen."

It took every ounce of self-control to not fold into himself at the softness of her tone. He hated it when adults talked to him like that—as if he was a delicate, wild animal that needed to be pacified and tamed. Fortunately, Madam Pomfrey seemed to sense his discomfort and allowed him to leave after extracting a promise to return if the headaches worsened.

Genius Fratris

After the fiasco of the Slytherin vs Gryffindor match, Harry didn't think his relationship with his brother could get any worse. At least before, the two had acknowledged each other at meals, and John would sometimes seek him out in the library for homework help. Now, Harry was often met with nothing but glares from John and his friends. Harry tried not to let the opinions of three First Years upset him, but it hurt him whenever John stuck his nose up in the air and ignored all of Harry's greetings. The only bright spot in all of this was that Hagrid's dragon was removed from his hut and sent to live on a reserve in Romania. Though, according to Grace, who often visited the gamekeeper when Harry and Cedric were in lessons, Hagrid had turned desolate and mopey.

"I even volunteered to help him in his garden—and you know how much I hate doing that—but then he burst into tears and sat on his pumpkins, squashing them all," Grace reported several weeks later over dinner. "And then there's the thing with the unicorns."

"Unicorns?"

Grace looked genuinely surprised at his question. "Haven't I told you?" When he shook his head, she leaned forward, her strawberry blonde hair dangling dangerously close to a boat of gravy. "Something's been killing the unicorns in the Forbidden Forest."

Harry froze, his fork hanging midway between his mouth and his roast chicken. "The same Forbidden Forest we're sneaking in tonight?" When she nodded, Harry set his fork down on his plate. "Then why in the hell are we going?"

"Because Hagrid says Ebony will have her foal tonight?" Grace replied, looking at him as if he was the unreasonable one.

"And?"

"And how many times do you get to see a thestral being born?" Grace replied.

"Professor Kettleburn says that unicorns don't have any natural predators. If something is killing unicorns, it stands to reason that venturing into the Forbidden Forest would be a stupid idea."

Grace waved away his concern. "We'll be with Hagrid," she said as if that settled the matter.

Harry was spared from replying (or perhaps more accurately, Grace was spared from having to listen) by someone clearing their throat. He spun around, surprised to find Theodore Nott shifting his weight from foot to foot and staring at the cup of tea clutched tightly in his hands.

"Is there a problem, Nott?" Harry asked, not unkindly.

The weedy First Year glanced up at him for a brief moment before settling his gaze somewhere over Harry's left shoulder. "May I sit with you?"

The answer was no, simply because they were already finished with their meal, and Cedric was coming to collect them for their (apparently incredibly dangerous) adventure. He couldn't say that to Nott, though. Not when the boy was willingly approaching him for the first time all year.

"Are you asking me?" He replied mildly, curious to hear what Nott would say.

Nott's gaze shot back down to his teacup, which Harry noticed was empty, save for a pile of soggy leaves at the bottom. At least the boy hadn't spilt tea on himself this time. "Yes?"

Harry hummed in thought, ignoring Cedric, who had bounded up to the Slytherin table full of enthusiasm and restlessness. "You need me to tell you what to do?" He murmured before rising from his seat, swatting away Cedric's grabbing hands.

Nott didn't seem to know what to do with this response and gave Harry a lost, mournful look that pulled painfully at his heartstrings. Unable to help himself, Harry reached forward, smoothed Nott's hair down, and chucked him under the chin. "Enjoy your dinner," Harry managed to get out before Cedric lost his patience and dragged him bodily from the Great Hall.

"You can mother him later," Cedric said as they strode into the Entrance Hall.

"I don't mother—"

"Fine, 'big brother' him," Cedric huffed. "But we've got thestrals to see."

"You can't even see them," Harry reminded him.

This fact didn't seem to bother Cedric in the slightest. "Well, no," he agreed. "But I've always wanted to sneak into the Forbidden Forest at night."

Harry didn't reply, more so out of confusion at his friend's response rather than an inability to find a fault in the logic. They trudged down the sloping front lawn of the grounds, with Grace conveniently interrupting Harry every time he tried to inform Cedric of the potential dangers lurking in the forest. Hagrid met them outside of his hut, a massive crossbow strapped to his back and Fang the Boarhound sitting at his heels.

Twilight was beginning to fall as they entered into the forest, the shadows elongating as they ventured in until not even the faintest tint of the livid sky above could penetrate the darkness. There was a stillness to the forest that prevailed despite Cedric's best efforts to fill the air with his constant chatter. They walked for some time, far deeper into the forest than they had ever gone before, passing the grassy clearing they often found the thestrals loitering in.

"There," Hagrid muttered, pointing through a bramble patch, where Harry could just make out the dark shape of Ebony, her pitch-black coat seemingly absorbing the remaining light in the forest. Her belly was swollen and pulsing, the muscles contracting and relaxing in a fascinatingly grotesque way that had to be painful, though she never made a sound of discomfort.

"Do we help her?" Grace asked, her eyes wide.

"Nah," Hagrid replied. "She knows what to do."

Sure enough, a small black body soon landed on the forest floor, its leathery body slick with amniotic fluid. It let out a pitiful shriek that was equal parts haunting and adorable, and it took everything in Harry's willpower not to coo at the sight of it.

"What's wrong with its feet?" Grace hissed in disgust. Harry peeled his eyes away from the baby thestral to its feet and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the dark grey tentacle-like appendages in place of hooves.

"Fairy fingers, most likely," Cedric interjected before Hagrid could speak. "It's a protective covering, so the mother isn't injured during gestation and birth. They'll fall off when it stands up. "

Hagrid gave Cedric an impressed look and nodded in agreement.

"Thanks, Farm Boy," Grace replied after a moment of silence.

"What will you name it?" Harry whispered, almost afraid of ruining the stillness that had settled over the clearing.

"Depends," Hagrid replied. "Won' know the gender fer a few weeks, I reckon. Ebony is protective o' her babies. I doubt I'll be able to get closer than this."

"Catherine is a lovely name," Grace offered.

"He's not giving the thestral your middle name," Harry replied.

Grace gave him an unimpressed look. "It was just a suggestion."

They didn't linger for long after that. Curfew had already come and passed as they picked their way back through the forest, and the three friends quietly made plans regarding how best to sneak back into the castle. Grace was all for stealing brooms from the broom shed and flying up to the astronomy tower and was undeterred even when Cedric pointed out that she didn't know how to fly.

A sharp pain throbbed through Harry's forehead, eliciting a pained hiss and stopped him dead in his tracks. He clapped his hands over his head and screwed his eyes shut as if that would somehow lessen the blinding pain.

"Harry?" He could hear Cedric's panicked voice but was too afraid he might be sick if he opened his mouth to reply. Many things happened next that Harry couldn't see: Fang yelping and taking off into the underbrush; Hagrid swearing colourfully as he fumbled with his crossbow; Cedric's gasp of terror; Grace's panicked shouts of "Incendio!"; and an inhuman screech as her spell hit its target.

When it was all over, Harry realised he had fallen to his knees sometime during the ordeal and struggled to rise. Cedric put his superior height to good use and hoisted him to his feet. When Harry finally opened his eyes, the smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air, though that wasn't what caught his attention. Instead, his gaze was drawn to the small, quicksilver droplets that seemed to glow in the light of Cedric's wand.

"Ruddy hell," Hagrid muttered, pushing away a branch and revealing even more of the silvery liquid. "Not again."

Hagrid didn't explain what he meant, not that he really had to. The gleaming unicorn glowed pearly white not too far from where they were standing. It was laying on its side, legs twisted at awkward angles, covered in a mess of silvery blood. They had obviously disturbed whatever had been attacking the unicorn, and Harry was suddenly very aware of how lucky they were to still be alive.

Grace let out a sob and rushed to the dying unicorn before Hagrid could stop her, her hair looking a sickly yellow next to the unicorn's mane. "Harry, do something!"

Harry drifted towards them as if he were floating, his legs somehow gelatinous and filled with lead. He dropped down beside her and reached out a tentative hand, placing it on the unicorn's sinewy neck. "I study human healing, Grace," he reminded her gently. "There isn't anything—"

"Please!"

The innocent, tear-filled eyes combined with the tragic sight of such a majestic creature—what or who would want to harm such beauty?—proved to be too much for him. Harry ran a gentle hand along the unicorn's neck, studying the jagged wound pumping out silvery blood at an alarming rate. But the unicorn was already dying, he recognised. There was little he could do to make it worse. He just hoped it didn't feel too much pain.

"Episky," he intoned. He wasn't surprised when nothing happened, though whether it was because the wound was too severe or the spell wasn't designed to heal unicorns, Harry couldn't be certain. "Vulnera Sanentur."

It might have been his imagination, or perhaps his desperate desire to save the unicorn, but he thought that he saw the blood flow slow for the briefest of moments. Or maybe it was because the unicorn's heart was giving out. He racked his brain, desperately trying to think of any sort of spell that might help, only to come up blank. He raised his wand, debating for a moment what else to do. This injury was far beyond anything he had seen or been permitted to heal. He didn't know any other spells that could help.

Then, the unicorn locked eyes with him, its dark eyes wide with anguish and fear, twisting his heart. Unbidden tears slipped down Harry's cheeks as he watched the agony unfold before him as he was powerless to stop it. If only he studied a little harder, memorised a few more spells… But hadn't Harry done magic without spells before?

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Harry leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the soft swell of the unicorn's jaw, relishing in the silky hairs that covered its hide. His fingers combed the lustrous mane as if he were brushing through John's hair after a nightmare before running them feather-light across the gaping wound. The unicorn's blood scalded his fingertips, coating his hands in a silvery glow.

Someone nearby gasped.

Harry sat back, lightheaded, and watched with a dim fascination as the wound slowly began to knit itself shut until nothing was left but a faint scar. Satisfied, Harry drew his wand once more and began to set the unicorn's broken and twisted legs, which proved to be a much simpler task. It was familiar, soothing even, and made quick work of it before drawing away to give the wild animal space.

"If you're able, Hagrid," Harry said in a faint, weary voice. "Keep an eye on it. It's lost a lot of blood."

"Harry," Hagrid whispered, his voice trailing off in stunned silence. Harry glanced back at him and felt a blush creep up his neck at the awe covering Hagrid's bearded face.

Harry rose unsteadily to his feet, accepting Cedric's arm when it was offered to him. "Do you think the house-elves will be able to get the blood out of my robes?" he asked, realising that it was a ridiculous thing to fixate on.

Cedric took the question in stride and began to lead him out of the forest at a snail's pace. "You might want to burn them," he replied. "Unicorn blood is cursed, isn't it?"

"I thought that was only if you drank it."

"You want to find out?"

Harry hummed and rested his head on Cedric's shoulder, too exhausted to keep it upright. "I suppose not. But that sounds like a tomorrow problem. Right now, I think twenty hours of uninterrupted sleep is just what the healer ordered."

"You would know," Cedric said.

The delirious giggles that followed didn't stop as they sneaked back into the castle, making it rather tricky to avoid Filch and Mrs Norris. Fortunately, Harry had more than one trick up his sleeve that night, and the three friends slipped through the nearest fireplace to Slytherin's Study. They spent the night on the velvet-covered settees, too exhausted to even change in pyjamas. They didn't speak again about what they had witnessed in the Forest, which suited Harry just fine. He'd be happy if nobody ever talked about it again.

He just hoped Hagrid would be able to keep his mouth shut.


"There are beautiful, wild forces within us." ―St Francis of Assisi


A/N: I hate to split chapters, but I didn't want to dump a 20k chapter on you. So, two parts it is. I hope I won't have to do it too often in the future, but I most likely will. Harry is growing up and knows more magic, which makes him infinitely more interesting to write about. ALSO, a little competition: if you can guess what is going on with Nott before the next chapter, you get to name Ebony's foal.