Harry wakes early the next morning, lying on his back in the bed and blinking up at the deep red roof of the Gryffindor Tower. There's a hollow feeling echoing in his chest, a fragment remaining from last night, but he grits his teeth, pushes it forcefully away, and rolls out of bed.

He gets dressed, tip-toes down the stairs, and settles into the Gryffindor Common room without checking the time. The fire's dead, the sky outside just starting to brighten from deep blue to a shade looking more like dirtied iron, and yet… he knows he won't be able to fall asleep again.

Pulling out a parchment and a quill, he begins to write the letter to the Minister. He's been planning this for some time and knows, more or less, what to say (mostly a variation of Dumbledore's barmy, Lord Voldemort isn't back, I'm on your side), so the actual writing goes easy.

So, his mind is free to wander.

He misses Tom.

It's been one day, less than 24 hours, and he misses the blasted git. It's not even the bond this time; no, that had quieted down five days before Harry's departing from Malfoy Manor, and will probably not require attention before towards the end of the week.

So. Harry misses Tom. It's not the bond missing its bonded. Not anymore.

God. Fucking. Damn it.

Hermione, Ron, and Neville all make their way over to him as they, one by one, wake up and enter the common room. Hermione, who comes first, looks surprised at seeing him up. Neville, the second, doesn't react, and Ron, the last, squints at him suspiciously before shrugging and moving on.

Harry watches as Hermione throws a fit over the Twins' experimenting and makes a mental note to talk to them later about buying some joke products. The Death Eater meetings are terribly boring, honestly. If he can spice them up with some pranks, that would be awesome. Tom will probably be mad, but hey, anything to have the meetings easier to get through!

He joins in some mindless chit-chatter between Hermione, Ron, and Neville as they enter the Great Hall. As the four of them make their way over to the Gryffindor table, Harry accidentally catches Draco's gaze. He offers him a nod as he sits down, smirking smugly when he gets one in return.

He doesn't have much time to do much else, however, as Angelina, one of the Gryffindor Quidditch players, marches up to the table.

"Hey, Angelina," Harry greets.

"Hi," she replies. "Good summer?" Before he can have the time to give his enthusiastic reply, she continues with, "Listen, I've been made Quidditch Captain."

"Congratulations, I'm happy for you," Harry says truthfully. "Good luck with finding a new seeker."

Their immediate surroundings go quiet. Angelina blinks, processes this information, and gapes. "Wh – what?" she splutters. "New - "

Harry puts on a confused mask. "Haven't I told you yet?" he asks, feigning innocence. "Oh, well – I won't be playing for the team this year."

Angelina pales drastically, eyes going wide. "But – "

"I'm sorry, Angelina," Harry says with a wince, "but I really want to focus on my studies this year… with OWL's coming up, and all… I'm flattered, really, but…"

As if. Fine, he might be a tad interested in studying, but he's far more interested in helping Tom.

Angelina's expression tightens. "Yes," she says stiffly. "Of course, Potter." She stalks away from the table, and Harry, feeling only a slightly bit guilty, turns back to his friends.

Ron is gaping at him. Neville looks puzzled. Hermione's beaming. "Really, Harry?" she asks, voice trembling in her joy. "You'll focus on your studies this year?"

Harry nods as he chomps down on his sandwich.

Ron and Neville exchange looks. "They're both barmy," Neville whispers. Ron nods mournfully.

Their first class is History of Magic with the Hufflepuffs.

Which gives him a perfect opportunity. The class is nap-time anyway, and as it's one of the few times Harry can possibly talk to someone from Hufflepuff without looking suspicious, he hurries to sit down besides Susan Bones. She gives him a surprised look, but shrugs and turns away.

He notices, after only three minutes into the lesson, that she's just as bored as him. He smiles to himself and fishes out a parchment from his satchel. I'm trying to start a study group with people from all across the Houses, Harry scratches onto it. You interested?

He nudges Susan with his elbow and slides the parchment over to her side of the desk. She looks even more surprised now, but takes the parchment and begins to read. Harry resolutely keeps his gaze focused on Binns.

A few moments later, the parchment slides back over to his side.

Who, when, where?

Harry grins. Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom, me, Luna Lovegood, (you) + any you want to bring. Once a week. Library.

A short pause. Draco Malfoy?

long story, can't tell over paper. we're friends.

There's a slightly longer pause. Sure, comes Susan's reply. I'm bringing Hannah Abbot or none.

Deal, Harry scratches. He offers Susan a slight smile and stuffs the parchment back into his satchel before returning to his lesson.

One step closer.

Now he just had to inform everyone else of this study group.

Damn it.

The next class they have is Potions with the Slytherins. Harry enters the room, catches Draco's gaze with a pointed look, and sits down at an empty table. He has to talk to him anyways; why not try and get better grades while he's at it?

Draco struts dutifully over a few moments later.

"I'm trying to start a study group," Harry tells him as he sits down. "I want you and Nott to join. Once a week. Library."

Draco recognizes the order and nods tightly, but before he can make any comment at all, Severus sweeps into the classroom with a haughty scowl. His gaze lingers on Draco-next-to-Harry for a moment, but he turns sharply and ignores them. Good.

Turns out that Harry still sucks at Potions. Big time.

The fourth time he nearly messes up the potion in the span of ten minutes, Draco gives him a pointed look. "Are you even trying?" he asks.

"I'm good at Healing," Harry mutters sourly as he pulls the textbook closer again, "not Potions."

"Unimportant," Draco sniffs. "Read the damned instructions, Harry."

Harry grumbles good-naturedly and begins to read for the umpteenth time.

Harry falls asleep during Divination, and he isn't even ashamed to admit it. Well, at least he's not the only one.

Next is Defence Against the Dark Arts… with Umbridge. Harry has resigned himself to do whatever she wants her students to do, but he still grits his teeth so hard that it hurts when she dismisses Hermione like she's gum under her soles.

"There's nothing in the course aims that talk about using defensive magic," Hermione points out, when she finally manages to sneak in a few words.

Harry's, along with everyone else's, head snaps around to re-read the course aims. Harry is the only one who proceeds to scowl.

"Using defensive magic?" Umbridge repeats, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline. "Why, I have never… are you expecting to be attacked during my classes?"

"Aren't we going to use magic?" Ron exclaims in surprise.

"Students raise their hands when they want to speak, Mr…?"

"Weasley," Ron supplies promptly, thrusting his hand into the air.

Umbridge turns her back on him. Hermione immediately raises her hand as well. Smiling a sickly sweet smile, Umbridge gathers her hands in front of her abdominal and smiles sweetly. "Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"

"Yes," says Hermione, a frown forming on her brow. "Surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to practise defensive spells?"

"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" Umbridge asks in a voice as falsely sweet as her smile.

"No, but – "

"Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the "whole point" of any class is," Umbridge interrupts, turning away from Hermione to address the class as a whole. "Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way – "

Oh, Harry wants so desperately to say something, but Umbridge is obviously against speaking up for oneself, so he ducks his head and flips through his book as she speaks.

"What're we gonna use that for?" says Neville loudly, voice trembling in anger. Harry looks up in surprise. He's usually quite shy when it comes to matters like this. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be in a – "

"Hand, Mr. Longbottom!" sang Professor Umbridge. Oh, so she knows Neville's name, but not Ron's? God, this woman –

Neville's hand rockets into the skies faster than Hermione's ever has. Umbridge, unable to recognize this great feat for what it is, promptly turns away from him.

But now several other people have their hands up, too. She can't ignore them all, and, perhaps in a desperate attempt to find an alley, she sweeps her eyes over the classroom and frowns.

Even though Harry's not supposed to show it, he lets a tiny grin slip past his calm mask. Herd mentality? Perhaps. Awesome classmates? Very likely.

"And your name is?" Umbridge finally says, apparently having decided that Dean is of alley-material.

"Dean Thomas," Dean replies, looking slightly relieved he's been picked.

"Well, Mr. Thomas?"

"Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?" says Dean. Umbridge's face falls slightly. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk free."

"I repeat," Umbridge says, smiling in a way that rubs Harry entirely the wrong way, "do you expect to be attacked during my classes?"

"No, but – "

"I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school," Umbridge interrupts, "but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed – not to mention," she gives a nasty little laugh, "extremely dangerous half-breeds."

"If you mean Professor Lupin," Dean begins angrily, "he was the best we ever – "

"Hand, Mr. Thomas! As I was saying – you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day – "

"No we haven't," Hermione says, "we just – "

"Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!"

Hermione puts up her hand. Umbridge turns away from her.

"It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you," she continues, as if she hadn't just been the rudest woman on the planet.

"Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn't he?" says Dean hotly. "Mind you, we still learned loads."

"Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!" Umbridge trills. "Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?" she adds, staring at Parvati, whose hand just shot up.

"Parvati Patil, and isn't there a practical bit in our Defence Against the Dark Arts OWL? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually do the counter-curses and things?"

"As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions," Umbridge says dismissively.

"Without ever practicing them beforehand?" Parvati exclaims. "Are you telling us that the first time we'll get to do the spells will be during our exam?"

"I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough – "

"And what good's theory going to be in the actual world?" Neville interrupts, his fist in the air again. All eyes are immediately on him, and while he reddens slightly, he keeps his gaze locked firmly on Umbridge.

"This is school, Mr. Longbottom," she says softly, her voice gone deadly calm, "not the real world."

"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting for us out there?" Neville asks.

"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Longbottom."

"Oh, yeah?" says Ron, throwing his dime into the conversation.

"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" Umbridge asks, putting on a worried expression.

There are plenty of bad people out there, Harry thinks drily. Ever heard of rape, professor?

"I don't know," Ron says. "Maybe… You-Know-Who? He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named?"

A murmured agreement rumbles through the class. Umbridge is staring at Neville with an oddly calm expression. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley," she says softly.

The classroom goes silent and still.

"Now, let me make a few things quite plain," Umbridge says, her expression now dead serious and completely natural. "You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead – "

"But he wasn't dead, was he?" says Ron angrily, "but yeah, he's returned – isn't that right, Harry?"

Harry's heart stills as all focus is turned on him. This was not the plan! He wasn't supposed to be brought into it like this, now he has to say something, he isn't prepared – "I – " he says. He wasn't supposed to be put in the spotlight like this – shit – shit –

Thankfully, before he can speak and fuck shit up big time, Umbridge replies. "Mr-Weasley-you-have-already-lost-your-house-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself," she says, in one breath, without looking away from Ron. "As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie."

Ron grits his teeth, as does Neville, but the class eventually quiets down. Harry ducks his head. He feels horrible; his friends just fought for his honor while he sat there, staring emptily into the air like the twat he is –

"Well," Umbridge says brightly, clapping her hands together like an enthusiastic child. Harry feels his dislike for her rise even higher. "If that's all, let's resume our reading, shall we?"

"Harry," Hermione hisses as they exit the room. She grabs ahold of Harry's elbow – the one with Athie curled around it, and as protectiveness surges through him – oh no you don't – Harry tugs his arm out of her hold.

"Yeah, mate," Ron pipes up, before Hermione can comment on Harry's abrupt move. He's frowning confusedly. "What was all that about?"

"Why didn't you say anything?" Neville joins. "I mean, even I said something – "

"Voldemort isn't back," Harry blurts.

Hermione, Ron, and Neville all halt to a stop. Harry comes to as stop as fell, a few steps in front of them. He looks at the floor shoulders hunched, and wraps his arms around his torso.

"Isn't – " Ron says.

"But – but Harry, you saw him – " Hermione interrupts.

Harry shakes his head mutely. "I thought I saw him. Cedric died in the maze," he says softly, turning around to face his shock-stricken friends, bearing a vulnerable and frightened expression. "It was an accident. I'd walked through some hallucinogen-ish fog… I… it was all a vision… and now the whole Wizarding World either think the Dark Lord's back, or that I'm a lunatic…"

He trails off and looks down at the floor.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, when they don't reply.

"Harry," Hermione breathes, rushing forward and pulling him into a tight hug. "Oh – it's – "

Neville awkwardly pats Harry on the shoulder. "You could've told us, mate," he offers gently. "But I understand that you didn't."

"We have to tell the Headmaster," Hermione gasps, pulling back from Harry to give him a frightened look. "He must be so worried – "

"I have told him," Harry replies. He winces at having to pull out this card again. "But he's told me that Voldemort really is back, or that we at least should keep our eyes open…" Getting an idea that might divert Hermione's attention, he hurries to add, "and he's the Headmaster, yeah? He's… he's probably right, and I trust him." He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Voldemort didn't come back that night, and he didn't kill Cedric. That's all I know."

Hermione smiles a wobbly smile when she hears Harry speak so highly of authority figures. Just as she opens her mouth to reply, the bell rings, and her eyes go wide. "Oh no!" she cries. "We'll be late for next class! Come on, guys – hurry!" With that, she sets off in a flurry of motion down the deserted hallway.

Sharing a look, Harry, Ron, and Neville set off after her.

Harry lets out a relieved breath. They believe him. Thank God.

The rest of the week passes… almost quickly.

It's a bit hard, keeping up with his friends – especially now, that he's closer to a mental age of 70 than 15. He despises lying to them, hates the fact that he has to hide who he is, and yeah, it hurts, but he has to. They won't accept him as he currently is. He can't come out to them. So he fakes it, fakes his own personality, laughs at their jokes, dumb down his words. And it… works. Somehow.

He spends some ten minutes talking to Tom every day, sometimes in hidden alcoves in the castle, sometimes behind closed shutters after dark, sometimes out on school grounds. Athie keeps telling him to fix this before going to sleep at night, cuddled against Harry's chest, and Harry keeps telling her he doesn't know how.

It all becomes too much, at times, and when that happens, he grabs hold of Neville – quiet, calm, understanding Neville – and escapes to the lake, where they sit in silence and watch the waves crush against the shore with a forceful gentleness Harry feels echo within himself.

Hermione, Ron, and Neville keep coming with small comments about Hagrid and that he's missing, and Harry feels guilty for not caring more, but he's having a bit of trouble keeping up with homework, himself, faking a personality, and trying to ignore the aching bond – so, in all fairness, he can be allowed to slack a bit in the caring-about-Hagrid department.

He gains the trust of Umbridge by being one of the only students who don't complain about her classes and working methods, follow rules, and only answer to questions she ask. He understands as much that she favors the Slytherins – and a handful of other students, one of which is him. Mission accomplished. Now he just has to keep it up.

Towards the end of the week he manages to grab hold of the twins; a hushes whisper behind a statue in a hidden-away corridor, three mischievous grins, an exchange of (not enough, if you ask Harry) money, and Harry has a set of fresh pranks on his hands.

He manages to set up the Study Group with little to no fuss (Hermione beams, Ron and Neville are roped into it with her, Draco forces Nott to join, and Luna agrees easily), and through the first study session, he manages to somewhat-befriend both Susan and Hannah.

He's not supposed to care, not really, but he has to hide his grin behind a book about bezoars when Hermione and Nott begin to talk enthusiastically and, dare he say it, passionately about their Potions essay.

He gets a letter back from the Minister, saying that he's very relieved Harry sees Dumbledore for who he is, and does he want to meet up on a Hogsmead weekend if it's not too much trouble?

("Of course," Harry replies – and words his letter a bit too enthusiastic, to boost Fudge's self-esteem)

And then Friday evening comes. "I'm going to the library," Harry tells his friends, who're in the middle of a game of Exploding Snap. Hermione looks up, then down at her cards, then back up again with a nod.

"See you later, Harry," she says, smiling softly.

Harry exits the Common Room and immediately makes a run for the Main Entrance.

"Safety," Harry hisses, a thrill rushing through him at finally getting to use the crow-quill Portkey. He's transported directly into Tom's office. He's not there, of course, the meeting has probably already begun – and so Harry rushes through the hallway, into his bedroom, and after a few stumbled minutes and a quick debate with himself, he's into his Healer robes. He's missed them more than the Death Eater robes, after all, and the Death Eaters probably need the reminder about his status.

After another rush-through-the-hallways (and oh it's wonderful to have the robes snapping around his ankles again), he arrives at the doors of the meeting room. He blasts them open with a force of magic, spreads his arms wide, and calls, "Honey, I'm home!"

Twenty-or-so eyes stare at him, most of them shocked, some of them somewhat disgusted, and one terribly un-amused.

"James," Tom-as-Voldemort, the terribly un-amused, greets flatly. Harry knows him well enough to hear the tremble in his voice, and revels in the knowledge that Tom's missed him, as well. "So you decided to gift us with your presence. How thoughtful of you."

Oh, the sarcasm. The wonderful sarcasm. "Oh, I wouldn't miss this meeting for the world," Harry chirps, strutting over to his place on Voldemort's right hand side. He sits down in his chair, and the bond sings out in joy, sending warm shivers down his spine. "What's it about, again?"

Voldemort gives him an extremely flat look before sighing. "The next attack," he says sourly. "Do try to keep up, James."

"Of course, of course," Harry nods, putting on a very serious mask. "Well, shall we begin?" he asks, knowing full well that the meeting begun some five minutes ago.

When the pranks go off about half-way through the meeting, Harry keeps a marvelously straight face as the place erupts into chaos (Voldemort glares at him, of course, but his upper lips twitch, so Harry knows he's trying not to laugh).

Afterward, when the Death Eaters are dismissed, Harry follows Voldemort out through the back door. Tom-as-Voldemort snaps his fingers, his disguise melts away, and without a moment of hesitation Harry latches onto him with all his might.

The familiar warmth seeps through the two sets of robes, a heartbeat he's missed far too much beating against his cheek, and Harry, hands clutching Tom's robes in tight fistfuls, very nearly begins to cry.

He doesn't say anything, because nothing is required. Tom understands his need, and only pulls him over to the nearest chair and sits down. He gathers him on his lap, holds him as close as possible and then even closer, and Harry nuzzles the crook of his neck and feels like he comes home.

The deep, aching pain that's been tearing Harry apart the last week eases, and thank the fucking gods, he's warm, he's fine, they're fine, they're both fine, everything's going to be fine.

As Tom slowly begins to run his fingers through Harry's hair, Harry muses that safety was the perfect password for the Portkey.

It's strange, isn't it, that he feels the safest within the Dark Lord's embrace.

(not really.)