As Harry was levitated back into his dormitory by the twins and Lee, who had taken turns on the wand point, he felt… 'Pathetic' was one way of saying it. 'Helpless' was another. 'Regretful' worked too.

His eyes were scrunched tight, as tight as they could go. Then, over his wrinkled eyelids and his brows lowered in focus and pain, the Gryffindor scarf was tied tightly; at least two layers of uncharmed wool hid his eyes – somewhat – from the intense glare of magic light. Over that, his hands pressed firmly, but still light bled through the many layers and drilled relentlessly into Harry's brain.

It might have been the visual assault, or it might have been the floating that had Harry's stomach surging and his brain reeling; his companions, dutifully keeping Harry aloft ahead of them, were stumbling about chaotically themselves.

"Ugh," Harry groaned, as the crown of his head suddenly bumped into the lintel of a door into a hidden passage. He could feel the soft friction as the Invisibility hood slipped over his hair, leaving his disembodied head floating near the ceiling and the small bump rising rapidly on his skull.

His ears rang.

Fred apologised hurried. "Sorry, sorry! I'm a bit dizzy myself, Harry. My balance is all off for some reason. Lee, can you take over?"

Below Harry, he heard a mumbled, "Gotcha."

The sense of magic wrapping around Harry tightened somehow, and then the impression of the magic holding him shifted. Lee had the spell now, Harry assumed, and he hoped that included an adjustment to float himself lower as the little group of boys trooped on.

He tugged the hood of his Cloak back over his head, the better to be subtle with.

"Geh!" Harry exclaimed a few minutes later when he unwittingly shoulder-charged a solid, rough corridor wall. His Cloak sleeve scraped up his right arm and the stone was chill.

"Merlin, Harry! My bad!" Lee apologised. "I'm also feeling a little off, I think. You're invisible, of course, but I keep thinking you're a little more left than you actually are. Must be tireder than I thought. George: your turn."

Harry wondered how Lee could possibly think that, considering that he was the one aiming the wand, but was polite enough not to say it considering that he was at the older boys' mercy at the moment.

There was an awful moment when he thought Lee had dropped the spell – and thus him – as his hair suddenly lifted off his face and his face rushed through cold air. Harry's quidditch senses convinced him he'd fallen two feet at once, but then George's spell embraced him just as his soles hit the floor; the shock of stone travelled through the soles of his feet to his ankles.

The impact travelled straight to his head. He stifled a groan.

Then, as George seemed to control the levitation to float Harry back into the air, Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief before gritting his teeth, swallowing hard, and pressing his hands against his eyes a little more.

Surrounded by the insides of the castle, the magic was far brighter and more painful than being outside the top of a tower had been.

Feeling his legs stretch uselessly beneath him, Harry fervently wished he wasn't functionally blind. It would be very nice to call out, "Watch out" when another obstacle was coming his way. Or even have his arms out to catch obstacles before they got him. However, his eyes were so desperate for darkness that his hands seemed welded to his face.

No light, Harry thought to himself desperately. No light at all. Ooh, but his head hurt.

The headache drilled further into his brain again, and Harry stifled a wimpy little moan.

He hoped they were halfway to the common room by now, surely? He was only putting up with this mode of travel because it was faster than him walking on his own.

His companions travelled on.

Soon Harry heard a quiet grinding of moving stone to the left of them, and he could tell when they travelled through the landing of the Grand Staircase and he clenched his jaw extra hard in the hope he wouldn't drift over the stairway bannisters while Fred and George whispered behind him.

"It's the ruddy tail!" one of them finally exclaimed as Harry heard their footsteps pick up again, and he hated how helpless he was as he uselessly bobbed in the air while they forged on.

"Huh?" Lee's voice was confused.

"The reason we're off-balance," George explained as they rounded a corner and Harry caught his ankle on a little outcrop of stone on the wall. "I keep leaning forward and then, y'know, jerking back. I think I'm trying to compensate for the lack of tail."

"That would be it!" Fred exclaimed and Harry bobbed uselessly two feet in front of their voices while a hurried conversation explored this possibility.

"Er," Harry tried while Fred theorised about how the animagus transformation might have affected his human senses, "what's the time, can anyone tell me?" He didn't know who might be around as the sun was rising and didn't want to speak too loud.

"I wonder if it comes in suddenly?" George mused, "Or if this is just the beginning of a change."

"Um. Guys?" Harry tried, hating his helplessness. He wondered idly if that last corner had caused his stray ankle to bleed.

"I don't mean to complain," Harry continued to the general corridor around him as Fred and George began whispering faster, "but I'd like to feel the ground under me for a bit, if that's okay."

"Well, we'll definitely change as we get used to it, so there's certainly going to be that element of adaption…"

Fred made an 'ahah!' noise.

"Any time now, do you think?" Harry tried.

It was Lee, the good lad, who noticed Harry's helpless plight and took over the spell before hurrying his friends back to the tower.

Harry was finally deposited in his bed to be reunited with a worried Crookshanks and Crow just as Gryffindor Tower was stirring.

"Hide the Cloak," George hissed as he arranged Harry's legs to rest inside his canopy better. "Common Room's already got a handful of people, but no one saw us walk in. Ron's dead to the world – he won't be up for a while, but it's five past seven and you'll be able to get Longbottom's help soon. You're still wearing your pyjamas so you look about right, I reckon. Don't forget to unwrap the scarf before you get up. Any last questions?"

"Damn." Harry really wanted to keep the scarf, but obediently tugged it down, instead raising his right arm to hide his face in his elbow. "'S all good. You'd better head off before they wake up."

Falling forwards onto his mattress to push his face deep into his pillow, Harry realised that he felt every year of his age and experience. How old was he now? Er…fourteen-year-olds should definitely not be experiencing this kind of pain, he decided. Then again, neither should – he did some quick maths through the pain in his brain – twenty-one-year olds?

George must have let the bed curtains fall closed as Harry heard a whisper of fabric and he felt a little alone for a bit.

Then his mattress dipped a little as the kneazle padded up to sniff at Harry's neck: his cold nose made Harry twitch.

"Not now, Crookshanks," he mumbled. "Today's not a great day for petting or whatever."

His arm curling behind him, Harry tried to push Crookshanks' head away but the disapproving kneazle was not to be ignored.

"Now's not a good time," Harry protested, before: "I feel horri—I mean…Nothing major's happened. I've successfully become an animagus – so that's one thing. No need to worry. It's all gone very successfully. I just…my eyes, you know. Bloody mage sight seems to have come in all at once. So the magic is too bright right now; most magical castle in Britain, don't you know. But you don't need to worry about it."

Crookshanks headbutted the back of Harry's skull; Harry grunted in pain. Crow somehow arrived inside Harry's bed hangings and fluttered down onto his shoulder to peck softly at Harry's scattered hair.

"Oof! Yes, I know, I know. Hogwarts is full of magic, unfortunately, so I'll just be staring into my pillow for a bit. Don't make me open my eyes, will you? In fact, don't make me move for a bit. I just need to …deep breathing or something might help. Get some decent occlumency going so I can think past the pain."

His animals arranged themselves to perch all over Harry's back. Crookshanks' paw on his neck extended his claws very gently to prick at Harry's skin; it was probably some kind of threat to force Harry into obedient submission. "Oh…you shouldn't worry about me. It'll be okay: Madam Pomfrey can sort everything out in a minute. Nev'll take me up any moment. Just, give me a few minutes."

It was relatively easy to stumble to his feet five minutes later, let out a squawk of pain and discomfort and – with a little directional help from Crow – crash directly into Neville's bed curtains.

The ensuing fuss meant that Harry was hustled into his socks and boots rapidly, scarf wrapped back on, and Neville steered him by the shoulders – his feet blessedly on the floor for this trip – until Harry was manhandled successfully to Madam Pomfrey's Infirmary.

Harry did the maths: he figured he arrived there about five minutes before Fred, George and Lee had finally revived him in the Astronomy Tower.

Blind, and still with his hands pressed hard over his eyes and with pain clouding the best part of his thinking, Harry could still tell the moment that they passed through the infirmary doors: the crisp, clean scent of bedsheets and disinfectant, and the slightly bitter hint of potions flirted with his memory, even the warmth of the morning sun on his skin was so familiar to him.

"Excuse me, Madam Pomfrey?" Neville called respectfully, and there was a small huff and the sound of something light being placed down. Then Harry heard the rapid tap-tap-tap of Pomfrey's shoes approaching closer.

"Good morning to the two of you," Madam Pomfrey announced over Neville's quiet oh of surprise.

"Ah. Now now, young man – thank you Mister Longbottom, you may return to have your breakfast – on the bed with you, just sitting at the edge, if you please." Harry felt himself manhandled and sitting on the edge of the closest Infirmary bed without any input from himself.

"Let's see who you are." The woollen scarf around his head was being unknotted as she spoke. "What kind of thing have you been up to over the holidays that has brought you to me so early in the term, young man? I—oh! Mister Potter. I didn't expect to see you here this year. What can you tell me about yourself?"

Harry twitched one shoulder in a half shrug and slapped his hands back over his eyes as the thick winter scarf fell to his lap. Through his fingers, more light seeped through his lids as his face was tilted upwards.

Lights, plural: There were many, many lights. The colours were bold and brilliant, no longer shining but glaring through his closed eyelids far worse than they had when he'd been outside the Astronomy Tower. He was getting sick of this particular experience, Harry couldn't help but think.

He focused instead on the presence of Madam Pomfrey as she bustled around him. Her robes rustled as she leaned over to press a cool hand against his forehead, her footsteps clicked as she bustled away into the office for something and then pattered back.

"Sit yourself straight up now, Mister Potter," the mediwitch instructed firmly. "How did you find yourself in the situation you're in?"

Harry shrugged and lied easily. "Oh, I don't really know. I mean…I went to bed kind of early last night – I was tired, although it was the first day back, but that's not odd, I don't think…My eyes were a little sensitive. Everything seemed really bright yesterday, but I thought a good sleep would fix it up."

Madam Pomfrey hummed a little in understanding and muttered under her breath, although Harry still caught it. "Light sensitivity is it?"

She raised her voice. "Would you say you had a good night's sleep then, Mister Potter?"

Definitely not: he'd been turning into a crow, Harry carefully didn't say. Instead, he shrugged again. "I guess? I got a bit hot partway through the night, I think, but I assumed that was because my kneazle likes to sleep on my pillow and his temperature's quite high."

"I see."

There were more sounds of rustling and tapping and then Madam Pomfrey's presence was hovering over his seating form again. "What would you say your biggest complaint is right now, Mister Potter?"

"Oh, definitely my eyes. Everything there hurts. The back of my eyeballs hurt. The muscles around my eyes hurt. My temples hurt. I think the headache and all have come from my eyes though."

The mediwitch tsked and tutted before waving her wand around for a moment. Harry had no idea what spells she was using – it was all silent, although he supposed they should be – but he could see silver and purple flashes even behind his tightly-pressed palms and closed eyelids.

"Um…whatever you're doing them is hurting them, Madam Pomfrey," Harry protested, and the mediwitch made a surprised noise and changed her spell patterns.

"How about we try this then, Mister Potter," she suggested, and then the lights were orange and green brilliance.

"Whatever you're—can it be softer, please?" Harry requested politely. He switched out his palms quickly to huddle his forehead into the nook of his eyebrow again, and took the chance to wipe a sweating palm on the crisp bedsheets he sat on. He tried to frown his eyes more closed. "It's too bright and that's not helping my stomach or head any."

"Still too bright? Hrm."

There was a pause in what Harry could hear, and then he saw more flashes in other colours and felt the breath of air against his skin.

"Please, Madam? Or maybe you could put me asleep for this?"

Madam Pomfrey was tutting now, and Harry worked to control his breathing as his headache blossomed back.

"My scans are showing nothing, Mister Potter. I'm afraid we're going to have to get a better look at these eyes—"

He flinched back. "Wait, wai—wait. What do you mean, a 'better look'?"

Gentle hands pressed onto Harry's raised arm and slowly convinced him to lower his protective posture. Harry crinkled his eyelids as tightly closed as he could.

"I'll need to have a look at your pupillary responses, Mister Potter. It won't be comfortable, but it will give me a better idea of what we're working with here. I'll have a dim light on my wand tip, Mister Potter, and I'll just bring it into the corner of your vision to test your response to light and stimulus."

Harry wasn't sure. "Look, my eyes are really, really sensitive…"

"This is a standard test for pupil reflexes, Mister Potter. Just fix your focus on the door to the Infirmary for me, don't look at my wand…" Her cool fingers came to rest on Harry's left eyelid and Harry tried to force his shoulders to relax. "Now, I'm going to open your eye very carefully, don't look at the wandlight, and then—"

Whatever the next instruction was, Harry didn't catch it, because his eye was coaxed open. All the colours erupted into his vision, his eyes rolled back and the room spun.

"Grk!"

Harry slapped his hands to his face as fast as he could, but it was too late. The lights swirled, dazzled, spun and sparkled.

Colours blinded.

He didn't even have time to see – which bed he was in; why Neville had been surprised to see Madam Pomfrey – but the brightness shot to his head and his body revolted.

"I—ergh!" Harry tried to hold it back, but his stomach rebelled. He curled over and gagged again. Mouth gaping, pain slamming his head, ears ringing.

Whatever Madam Pomfrey did, Harry hoped she was quick about it because it hurt, his mind hurt, everything hurt. If only he could bloody well fain—

When Harry woke up again, he found himself tucked into an infirmary bed very tightly, the blankets practically forcing him to stay still.

Something soft was wrapped tightly over his eyes so that he was looking into blessed darkness. Finally.

The fabric snagged at his eyelashes and Harry's first impulse to open his eyes to test its effectiveness was rapidly discouraged.

Besides, he realised as he drifted further into wakefulness, his headache was significantly better and the cramping of his stomach had gone.

Harry lay there in the soft bed for a long moment, cataloguing the experience of his body.

His muscles were still tense, his ears still ringing a tiny bit, and despite the fact that he knew for sure and certain that he was firmly located in a bed, there was the oddest sensation that he was drifting left for some reason.

He swallowed, and caught someone's attention.

"Welcome back, Mister Potter," the familiar voice of Professor Dumbledore intruded into Harry's self-assessment. "You've given us all quite the scare, but not to worry: between Madam Pomfrey and myself we've got you all sorted out. How do you feel?"

For a moment, Harry was firmly convinced that he was back in his first timeline, that he'd just done something stupidly courageous like confront Quirrell about the stone, or chase after Ginny in the chamber. After his traditional end-of-year bollocking, of course he was waking up to another friendly discussion with Dumbledore in the Hospital wing.

"Is everything alright, sir?" Harry asked, not quite sure what adventure he'd just survived but hoping it had all worked out alright. "Er…Sirius is good?"

Dumbledore sounded surprised. "To the best of my knowledge, young Harry, Sirius Black is doing well. He has not been informed of your little misadventure, if that is what you are asking, but last I heard was the Daily Prophet reporting that he had taken up square dancing with some young people in the German Ministry."

Harry was confused on more than one front. "…Is that so?"

He pursed his lips for a bit and fought to make his mind a bit clearer. It was the second timeline, he finally remembered. And he'd come into his mage sight all of a sudden when he'd made the first animagus transformation.

"Er…" Harry added belatedly, "Thanks for coming to see me, sir."

Dumbledore chuckled from where he sat at Harry's right. There was the quiet rasp of a page turning, and Harry found himself imagining Professor Dumbledore reading…something odd, crochet patterns for tea cosies or some such rubbish, his long silver beard tucked into his belt. His half-moon glasses would be catching the light, of course, and Harry figured the headmaster was once again wearing garishly coloured robes: bright purple with sunshine and rainclouds, for example, but he couldn't be certain without his eyes.

"What are you reading, Professor?" Harry asked instead.

The old man's voice sounded entirely unsurprised that Harry had identified what he was doing. "Ah, Mister Potter. 'Erotic Pottery: the Art of the Moche' is an enchantingly informative read. Perhaps you've read about it yourself?"

His mouth dropped open a tad. "I can't say I have, really. Is it…er, any good?"

"Quite so," Professor Dumbledor agreed, and the sound of fabric rustling suggested he was making himself more comfortable in his seat. "I highly recommend it."

The surreal conversation was not at all what Harry had expected. "I'll remember that then, I guess. For…when I get my sight back?"

"A most subtle of segues, Mister Potter. Quite admirable."

"…Thank you, sir."

Harry craned his neck in the headmaster's direction a little longer. Dumbledore seemed not to mind; from the sound of the magazine turning, he finished parsing the page before a crisp flip closed the whole thing and Harry could feel himself the centre of attention.

Harry shook his head slightly and, when his balance seemed to remain the same, fought against the blankets to shuffle himself to sit up on his pillow.

Professor Dumbledore seemed to settle back with the creak of his bedside chair.

"Ah yes. Mister Potter. You've had a most exciting night. It is certainly a marvellous thing to see you looking so well after the fright you gave poor Madam Pomfrey."

Harry found himself cocking his head to one side before the specific memory returned and he remembered that he'd had rather a fit at the hands of the older woman.

"I…what time is it, sir? Is Madam Pomfrey alright?"

"She will be fine," the Headmaster said in a slow and comforting voice. "I've suggested that she wander off and enjoy a cup or two of tea. Professor Snape has provided her with many a Calming Potion for students, so she has a nice stash for her own use. If she needs it." With his years of experience, Harry just knew the headmaster was smiling beatifically at Harry, even though he was still properly blind. "It's shortly after ten, I believe."

"Right."

"It's been years since I've seen her so misdiagnose a student, Mister Potter. You have quite the growing list of accolades."

Harry frowned, then cast his mind back on what he could remember. It was clearer than he would like; a less-convenient aspect of occlumency, he supposed.

"I told her my eyes were sensitive," he said slowly. "And she was trying to have a look at them."

"Indeed she was," Professor Dumbledore agreed politely. "She did everything right. Cast her diagnostics first, took your verbal history…she even cast the spells without wandlight on your say-so, Mister Potter. Such control of your spells is a very rare thing. The issue – your specific issue – arose simply because it has previously been thought impossible for anyone to develop the mature skill younger than, well – not to sound overly proud but it was generally assumed my own humble success was at the earliest age possible."

His diagnoses hadn't been helped by the fact that he'd been less than honest about his symptoms and their cause, Harry acknowledged silently. But he wouldn't exactly own up to that now.

"Oh, I didn't mean to blame her," Harry rushed. "I just…she's figured out what it is then? And where it came from? I seem fine right now, I mean."

"Ah." Professor Dumbledore held up one of his fingers. "That would be my contribution, as a matter of fact."

"Yours, sir?"

"Just before Madam Pomfrey opened your eyelid, Mister Potter," the old gentleman wizard explained, "she had in fact sent me a message about a rather unusual case. I have asked my staff to keep a special eye on you, Mister Potter, you see. Having come into our world, as you did, so fresh and new to magic."

Harry didn't believe for a second that every muggle-raised student got this kind of attention, but it was the generous sort of lie that anyone might tell, so he let Dumbledore get away with the statement unchallenged.

Dumbledore was still talking.

"So I arrived rather quickly, and imagine my astonishment as I found Madam Pomfrey knocking you out and piling blankets atop of your prone form as if you were a linen cupboard."

Harry was mildly surprised. "Oh?"

"The long and short of it," Professor Dumbledore's voice meandered on, "is that she was assessing you for a variety of spell damage, potion damage, illness, enchantment and malaise. You, young Harry, however, presented with a rather inimitable example of mage sight. Fully blown. Mature. The most complete form, if you will, which usually takes years to form after the initial skill expression. Such a diagnosis is so far outside of her usual scope as to be rather traumatic to her. So I have provided emergency treatment, if you will."

"Oh, okay," Harry nodded. "Makes sense, I suppose." He paused for a moment to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose before remembering he was wrapped in a fabric that was softer than wool. He paused as his fingers encountered the material: something slim and cool to the touch, soft on his skin…the word was just at the tip of his lip…

"Each time I forget about the innocence of the muggle-born," Professor Dumbledore exclaimed delightedly, "they find a way to teach me never to presume limits on the human mind. You're rather extraordinary, young Harry. The gift of mage sight is very rarely seen; I myself only developed it fully after my forty-fourth birthday. And yet here you are, casually achieving what is generally thought to be impossible simply because you hadn't between taught that you couldn't. And you're not even surprised by it."

Harry didn't quite think that was how it had worked. First of all, Mr Weasley had explained very precisely how old he had been when he had achieved the basics in mage sight, so he had known, in fact, it was supposed to be impossible to achieve young.

Second, and Harry rather thought this was the important bit, but Harry had put his body and magic through rather more than any other fourteen-year-old. Possibly ever.

He'd figured out it was mage sight himself too, thank you very much. Although it was embarrassing how long it had taken him.

His thoughts went back to the material on his face again.

"Hang on, what do you mean you've provided emergency treatment. I figured out the scarf wrap, right? So what have you done? Didn't you say my 'mage sight' was 'full-blown' or whatever, just now?"

Harry could just tell that Dumbledore was twinkling at him from where he sat, hands mostly likely folded neatly on his lap. "Indeed I did, Young Harry. Quite an unusual situation. But your own efforts were what gave me the idea for your treatment, in fact; may I ask – did you choose wool because it was nearby, or did you have a theory about natural fibres yourself?"

"Er…yes?" Harry managed.

Dumbledore continued. "Silk, of course, is a natural insulator against magical leakage. We keep runestones in them; ritual instruments; wear silk as a minor protector against spells and so on."

…Harry knew that, actually. Had always known that, though he didn't know why. Had Draco said something once…?

"Natural velvet has similar properties, but linen, on the other hand, is a natural fibre that has barely any magical presence at all. That's why we wear it for minimal impact: the most sensitive of spellcasting is cast au natural, as it were, or in linen as a second choice – but that's all by-the-by, Mister Potter. We were talking about your own situation."

Harry was cautious enough not to roll his blind eyes, just in case the silk would stop working if he looked in precisely the wrong direction.

"You have developed mage sight, as I said," Professor Dumbledore continued. "Which usually begins softly, barely noticed, and grows only as your ability to manage it does."

"Okay…?"

"Mage sight is a great gift, a magnificent blessing," the old wizard continued. "One of the greatest survival skills and diagnostic tools available to witches and wizards the world over. An incredible testimony to your skill and power, Young Harry. As such, it cannot simply be 'cured' or 'fixed' or 'solved'."

"It's been a real problem for me so far," Harry pointed out dryly.

"Ah." Dumbledore's voice seemed to smile somehow. "You had the misfortune of developing this ability in the middle of the most enchanted castle in the United Kingdom, I'm afraid to say. A side-effect of your very famous birthday we all read about in the papers, I presume."

Harry paused. "Oh?" He hoped desperately that the headmaster wouldn't ask about other rituals more recent.

"Hrm," he could practically hear the old wizard nod. "It seems to have exploded upon you rather urgently, where usually the gift grows over the period of decades. Hence your sensitivity and lack of control, I'm afraid."

Now that made sense.

"Have you done anything unusual that might have encouraged its formation, young Harry?"

"What, me? No, no. Not at all," Harry lied.

"Then perhaps it is a remnant from your party," the headmaster mused. "It has been a month and a day since then, has it not? But back to your treatment.

"The silk blindfold – a rather special fabric I've found that was made with no magical influence from growing to weaving – will minimize the intrusion for you, for a time, but will not resolve your issue. I'm afraid you'll simply have to work very hard on perfecting your magical control before the material is penetrated and your problems renew."

Harry pursed his lips, accepting the news. "So…I'll be blind for a bit then."

Dumbeldore hummed. "That…I suppose that would be one way of looking at the situation."

"I…won't be able to see in Hogwarts," Harry clarified.

He could feel the headmaster nodding. "A much more accurate conclusion. I recommend you spend some time outside, near the Forbidden Forest, for example, and practice your control of the skill."

Harry sighed. "More homework for me in my free time, you mean."

"I'm afraid so, Harry. It pains me to inform you that if you fail to master your magic in time, your mind may go blind from too much magical influx."

Harry thought he'd heard something along those lines. It sounded like his kind of luck, at any rate.

Dumbledore continued, shaking his head wisely if Harry knew him. "I exhort you to take this 'homework' – as you say – seriously, my boy. Healers and mediwizards can do nothing for blindness caused by magic herself."

"I'll bear that in mind," Harry agreed wryly, "and add it to my to-do list."

Exhausted by his new 'gift', and a complete lack of sleep as well as the addition of an extra hour to his day, Harry fell back asleep shortly after that moment.

His many-layered silk blindfold should remain, he decided just before his eyes drifted shut, so he'd better not wriggle in his sleep or the whole thing would rub off and he'd wind up blind before the second day of term.

It was very peaceful in the room while all the other students went to breakfast and then the first day of class.

Either Madam Pomfrey felt sorry for the additional pain she'd caused him, or he'd been sick enough to warrant the extra bed-rest anyway, because Harry was left alone to snooze all day.

Dumbledore disappeared when Harry first slept, but he came back to sit with Harry when the warmth of the room suggested it was near to midday. Harry could hear him pick up his magazine again and read it in silence, staying peacefully next to Harry. The headmaster thoughtfully flipped through his fascinating reading while Harry lay quietly, half dozing. Only the rasping turning of pages filled the room as the hours dragged on.

Harry was woken by a very familiar voice a short while later, when the shadows had moved all the way across his face and the lunch bells had come and gone.

"Headmaster," the low, sullen word was spat out. "I must protest against this unseemly display of favouritism once again. Potter is over-indulged by everyone. This is not representative of an ordinary wizard's life."

Harry heard the rasp of the magazine falling closed as he slowly emerged from his sleep.

"My dear Severus," the headmaster's voice murmured softly. "Harry Potter never has been, and never will be, an ordinary wizard."

"A prouder or more arrogant wizard I have never met," Snape snapped back. "He never will be a functional member of society if you let him keep going the way he has been. It's frankly astonishing that his classmates haven't cut him down to size."

"Now, now, Severus. Harry is quite beloved by his classmates and friends."

"He's a bloody menance, Headmaster, and I can only hope he gets himself killed before he gets someone innocent caught up in his selfish, lazy schemes."

Oi! Harry thought, but the potions master went on.

"The boy is unteachable, Headmaster. I wouldn't have him in my class if you hadn't forced me to."

Harry heard Dumbledore chuckle lightly, which no doubt enraged the potions professor even more. "The feedback from his other teachers is very positive, my dear boy. Harry is well thought of by the staff; he works hard, helps others, submits consistently high-quality work. I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

Much more alert now, Harry found himself fascinated by Snape's scathing criticism of him. He didn't care anymore, obviously; Harry had outgrown worrying about Snape's opinions years ago, but it was a fascinating insight into his mind.

"I note he's got out of the first day back by coming down with something 'undiagnosable', Albus," Snape continued.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Snape hadn't been told what was wrong with Harry?

"My dear Severus, Poppy has outdone herself in Harry's care and we have the situation quite in hand. It's rather fascinating, actually—"

Snape snorted. "Probably a hangover and some alcohol-fuelled regret, Albus. He should be sent straight back to class to suffer from the consequences of his own actions. His father was just the same. Constantly pushing boundaries, leaving other people to clean up his messes, using teacher's favouritism in his favour. Disrespecting the system."

"I'm very happy to reassure you, Severus, that Harry Potter has had no alcohol recently. In fact, we—"

"Drugs or potions then. The boy is constantly ignoring the instructions of his betters, always arrogantly fancying himself as a teacher. Whatever shenanigans Potter has been up to, he deserves the side effects instead of being coddled on a sickbed. I distinctly heard Poppy mention at lunch that there isn't much that she could do for him."

This time, Harry himself had to stifle a snort. Snape was determined to misunderstand him, and Harry couldn't bring himself to care. Arsehole.

"My dear Severus—"

"The boy is simply uncontrollable, Headmaster. He swans into my classroom like he owns the place, scattering advice as he's the expert, not I."

"Really now—"

"He is constantly looking down on his betters, refuses to acknowledge my own expertise and experience; why, the boy seems to act as if he's been taught my subject curriculum already – thinks he's some kind of heaven-sent expert come to grace us all."

Dumbledore's voice grew sterner. "Severus, I'm sure that you are simply misunderstanding young Harry. In my experience, he's always been a lovely, humble boy. Have you considered that he simply reads ahead in your subject?"

"Theoretical knowledge of potions is nothing like practical experience," Snape spat back. "He is a danger to himself and others, acting like he already knows what I'm teaching."

Harry pondered. He had indeed already been through many years of Potions lessons; was that what was upsetting Snape? A lack of…timidity?

"Dear Severus, Harry hasn't been to any fourth-year classes to act like that yet. He found himself delivered to the Hospital wing very early this morning. It was rather fascinating, actu—"

"Oh, but he will do," Snape growled. "Just like his father, undercutting my authority, helping classmates as if he's the fount of all knowledge. He has Minerva quite under this thumb. But he's had the gall to embarrass me in public, pulled the corridor down around him last year, you remember Headmaster. Then he tried to tell me what to do as if he were my master."

"Severus. I'm sure that's not what Harry meant. And your presence was instrumental in saving the students thanks to his message, was it not?"

"If I had found the slightest hint of evidence that he had caused that corridor collapse—"

"Perhaps your wish is father to that thought, Severus?"

"I'll catch him someday, Albus, and then you'll see."

"I would be happy to discuss this with you again if that day ever comes, Severus."

Snape snorted once more. "I see you insist on thinking the best of him, Headmaster. That has always been your greatest weakness." He huffed. "Well, if I can't persuade you to send Potter back to class like a normal child, I shall leave you to your 'observational duty'. I note you don't do that with other students, Albus. Just like other students don't have teacher timetables rearranged so that they are always taught by the heads of faculty."

Dumbledore's voice lowered again, more sternly than before. "The rest of your colleagues were more than happy to oversee young Harry's learning, Severus. We have discussed this many times: it was vital that we discover whether the boy had been harmed by his experiences. Whether there was spell-damage or emotional harm that had caused the boy to suffer."

"The attention has gone to his head, Albus!"

"I'm quite certain," the headmaster continued, "that young Harry has no idea that his classes are all taught by the most experienced teachers in our school. We owe him that much, Severus, despite what you might think of him. If he was harmed in his service to the community, he deserved to get help, you know."

"I see I shan't change your mind," the potions-master growled, and Harry could just about visualise how his long, black robes would swirl and billow as he spun to stalk out of the room.

Dumbledore sighed and sat down again to pick up the same magazine, leaving Harry to ponder the conversation in silence.

He knew he'd been under observation over the years. Dumbledore had definitely been too soft on him at times, but he hadn't thought that it was because they'd thought they owed him. Or wondered if he was damaged, magically or mentally. Had wanted to fix him, if he was.

Harry wondered what else had been going on around him that he'd never noticed before.

Then, as Dumbledore's breathing settled and Harry heard a single fly droned somewhere up in the ceiling of the Infirmary, Harry focussed his own mind and calmed down, searching for the deep stillness of his best meditation.

Control, Harry figured. He needed control to manage this mage sight thing, or he'd be functionally blind all year.