Harry woke up, disoriented. Since when was his cot so soft? Did he fall asleep on a sofa again? Aunt Petunia was going to—
The memories of the previous day rushed in, and he struggled to contain a groan. He still didn't quite believe it wasn't all an elaborate dream, and he wasn't going to wake up in his cupboard to Aunt Petunia's shrill voice any minute now. But the unfamiliar bed under him felt real enough, and so did a rock that dug painfully into his side.
Harry brought it closer to his face and squinted at it. The rock was pink and porous, with an ugly black spot on its side where he was sure there wasn't any before. Oh no. Ruining the twins' collection would be a terrible way to repay them for their kindness. He found his glasses and pushed them up on his nose before wiping at the rock with the fabric of his shorts and squinting at it again. The spot was still there, now encircled by a golden ring, almost glowing in the muted morning air. Carefully, he put it back on the pillow. Both the spot and the ring vanished.
Ah. Magic.
He cracked the curtains open. Nobody else was up yet, so he climbed down on the singed carpet. In the mirror of the adjoining bathroom, his hair was streaked red, like a particularly disastrous dye job. Harry tugged at a strand absently. What if he truly were a ginger? One of his parents might have been. Probably mum, because both Aunt Petunia and Dudley were blond, so his black hair must have come from his dad's side.
As he watched, one of the brighter patches discoloured into dark auburn. But the plaster underneath still held, if barely, so Harry considered it as a win.
Back in the dorm room, he climbed onto the windowsill next to the telescope that had migrated there. The sun was rising out of the lake, contrasting with the dark, deep shadows of the forest. On its edge, a true giant was harnessing black horses to carriages. Big hands gently patted the muzzle before he moved to the next one. Harry blinked once, twice—but no, it wasn't his poor eyesight. The horses had wings on their backs.
A dog, big enough to match the mountain of the man, leapt around excitedly, and the man stopped to scratch its eager head. Harry smiled down at them.
That smile turned into a frown once he noticed a figure in a white shirt dragging his feet out of the other part of the forest. Although he could not see clearly from this far, something in that lumbering gait felt disturbingly familiar.
He pointed the telescope down and pressed his eye into the lens. Working out how to use it took some fidgeting, but soon he was zooming in on the spot with perfect clarity. It was his zombie, alright. He lost his robe somewhere and gained a few smouldering arrows to his chest and neck, but whether the blood on his shirt was his or someone else's, Harry couldn't tell. The zombie stopped at the tree line, seemingly undecided, and looked at the castle.
"No no no, don't even think of it, you brainless... bloody... bugger!" Harry muttered. The man and the dog were big enough to stand a chance, but the school full of sleeping children who wouldn't know what hit them? Harry couldn't allow it. It was his fault the zombie was here in the first place, anyway.
"What's going on?" Slithers emerged from under the bed and looped around the bedpost.
"The zombie is here. I need to go down and stop him." He paused in the middle of shrugging on George's robe. "Oh no, I'll never find a way on my own, and I can't wake up the twins!" Whether they had intentionally chosen out-of-way corridors and passages or the route to the tower was just that complicated, Harry doubted he could recreate it.
"You can fly down on a broom." Slithers pointed her tail at the broom propped against the wall. "That's how humans from my old lab escaped the raid."
Harry goggled at her. Although, it did make a certain sense. Witches rode brooms in the fairy tales, right? He supposed it wasn't the most farfetched thing in a world of angry trees and moving portraits.
The twins' broom didn't look like it saw much sweeping, not with its gold lettering on the polished wood handle and perfectly arranged twigs. As if reading his thoughts, the broom twitched. He reached for it, and it leapt into his hand, eager. Feeling rather silly, he mounted it and made a tentative circle around the room, feet hovering just above the floor. The broom stayed in the air and supported his weight easily, going up when he leaned forward and down as he straightened back up. Riding it actually felt instinctive.
Huh. Seemed like the plan might just work.
"Stay with the twins if I don't get back," Harry told Slithers. "I'll leave them a note."
The snake slid onto the bed and coiled tightly on herself. Harry reached out to touch her hesitantly, but she turned away from him.
He sighed and looked around for a pen or a pencil, but there was none in sight, only ink pots and quills. The resulting note was a mess of ink blots and barely legible chicken scrawl, but it would have to do. He wasted enough time already.
The morning breeze was cool on his skin as opened the window wider. Was he really going to dive hundreds of feet with only a piece of wood between his legs? Harry pointed the broom up and then, in a sweeping arch, down. Yes. Yes, he was.
For a moment, all worries about the zombie and regrets about leaving Slithers behind vanished from his mind. There was only the white gold of the sunrise, the wind in his hair and sheer joy. He made a loop, and then another, barely resisting the urge to whoop. If he turned out to be a rubbish wizard and never managed to produce a rabbit from a top hat, or whatever it was the students learned in this school, it would still be worth it, because flying was. The best. Thing. Ever!
Harry straightened his broom over the tree crowns, hovering along the edge of the forest. The man with the dog—even bigger up close—finished up the last carriage and went to a wooden cabin, humming under his breath. Harry frowned at the horses. They looked emaciated, ribs protruding through their glossy black skin under the bat-like wings. Someone should definitely feed them better.
His zombie was nearby, sitting on a fallen tree and thankfully paying no mind to the man or his horses. Slowly, Harry flew closer, ready to rocket for the sky at any moment. The zombie's white shirt—some silk and lace thing that felt at least a century out of fashion—was stained brown and green and covered in cobwebs, leaves peaking out of the collar. Even more leaves and springs were tangled in his hair. He was trying to dislodge the arrow in his neck with clumsy fingers. His effort only made him tear his flesh more, although no blood appeared from the wound.
Harry must have made some sound, because the zombie's head shot up, eyes meeting Harry's. Still slightly vacant, they held a definite recognition this time. He moaned as if struggling to say something, but no coherent words came out. It was a truly pitiful sight.
Another yank snapped the arrow, leaving a sharp fragment sticking out of his neck. The zombie looked ruefully at the feathered half in his hand, as if he couldn't quite process where it had come from.
"H... H... Hel.." he warbled.
Harry landed next to him, torn about what to do.
"Alright, fine." He wondered if he'd lost his mind after all. "But try anything funny, and I'm whacking you with the broom."
The arrow in the back seemed like the safest option to start with. Harry grabbed the half-burnt wood below the charred feathers, wondering who'd shot it. He decided to avoid the forest unless he absolutely had to go there. His zombie might be immune to flaming arrows, but Harry was not eager to meet the shooter. Then again, he was not the one in the habit of eating random people's brains.
The first arrow dislodged, Harry moved to the front. The zombie endured the procedure stoically, looking more constipated than anything. How much he could feel? The arrows certainly caused discomfort but didn't seem to hurt, at least not anymore.
"Bend forward," Harry said when only the neck arrow remained, lodged deep into the side, and startled when the zombie complied. He hadn't actually expected that. "Do you understand me?" he asked, circling the jagged edges of the wound with his finger. The zombie remained silent, looking at Harry expectantly. His eyes were bluish grey, the same shade as his lips. Harry made a face.
Purple blood trickled down the pallid skin when he yanked the remaining piece out but stopped almost immediately. He patted at it with the dirty collar. It wasn't like zombies had to fear infection.
Should he be afraid of a zombie infection? He wiped his hands against the dewy grass, trying to remember the school nurse's lecture when she delivered their shots. There was hardly going to be one against zombie bites among those.
"Good as new," he said, kicking the arrows under the fallen tree. Half of them had partially missing tips, which would be a cause for concern for anyone alive. "Erm… Black?" that was the name the Executioner called him, right?
Black cocked his head at that. Yes, he was definitely getting more aware. Hopefully it meant less murder time from now on.
"Now let's get you away from the school."
This turned out to be easier said than done. Black trotted to the closest carriage and stared at the winged horse, tilting his head in a way Harry came to interpret as concentration. The horse swished its tail and pawed the ground, wings half-unfolded. With a low moaning sound, Black put his hand behind the animal's head, pushing it down.
Harry gripped the broom harder, ready to intervene. Eating a horse wouldn't be as bad as eating a student, but still not ideal. And neither of them needed the attention.
But Black wasn't poised for an attack; if anything, he relaxed his posture, fingers clenching loosely as they gave the horse the world's most awkward scratch. It seemed to enjoy it, calming down and giving him a soft snort.
"I don't believe you," said Harry. First the dog, and now the horse. Who could have thought that a zombie could be an animal lover?
The sound of hasty footsteps approaching made Harry duck behind the carriage, broom on the ready.
"Snake Boy!"
He peeked behind the wheel to see Fred and George, expressions equal parts distraught and curious.
"Was that cryptic note supposed to make us worry less?"
"Because you suck at writing cryptic notes, mate."
"So, so much. And at writing generally, if we're being honest."
"Also, your snake is a right menace."
"Is that your zombie?"
"He's not my zombie," Harry grumbled, stopping the barrage. "I just had to make sure he wouldn't jump anybody else."
Black abandoned the horse and was now staring straight ahead, swaying slightly. His eyes were empty again.
"What's wrong with him?" Fred half-whispered.
"He's dead," Harry said, deadpan.
"Looks springy for someone who has kicked the bucket," George said, eyeing the gnarly wound on Black's neck.
"You have no idea."
"So you're saying the daisy pusher here killed two people?" Fred asked.
"Yeah," Harry kicked at the fallen branch, not looking at the other boys. "But I sorta feel bad for him." Only once the words left his mouth did he realise that he meant them. And wasn't it messed up?
"Bad how?"
He pushed his hand into his hair, trying to collect his thoughts. "Well, he doesn't understand what he's doing, does he? He's not all there. Or not at all there. But he saved me from that evil wizard, and maybe he thought my uncle was attacking me, too." The last part came out in a rush.
The twins blinked at him, scarily synchronised.
"So you're, what, feeling responsible?" asked George.
Harry shrugged.
Fred looked between him and Black. "That's Seoul Syndrome, mate."
"You mean Stockholm Syndrome," said George.
"Seoul."
"Stockholm."
"Se—"
"I don't know what it means," Harry said, raising his voice over the twins'. His shoulders slumped. "What do I do with him?"
"Look, Snake Boy," George said, tone suddenly serious, "You're a baby. You don't actually have to do anything about him. That's the adults' job."
Fred nodded, talking before Harry could protest being called a baby. "Bill wrote back. He'll be waiting for you at Hogsmeade Station. Everyone is going home today, so nobody is going to notice another kid with us. Bit harder to sneak in the dearly departed, but still doable. We told you, Bill would know what to do."
"Or we can call Professor McGonagall. She's strict but tough as nails. Some not-quite-goner is no match for her."
"Might not believe us, but if we take you to her—"
"Thank you, guys, but no." Harry's track record with teachers believing him was generally abysmal. And even if this Professor McGonagall did? She'd probably send him straight to the police. "I'll talk to your brother."
Fred ruffled his head, and Harry narrowly avoided George doing the same.
"And anyway, if something happened to you, I'm sure your snake would find us and bite us." Fred opened his lumpy bag, and Slithers peeked out. "Don't get me wrong, we did appreciate her scaring the hell out of Julius Marchbanks, but we don't want to be on the receiving end of those fangs."
Harry reached out to take her. "Sorry girl. I didn't know what mood this one would be in and couldn't risk it. I wasn't going to abandon you."
Slithers harrumphed. "We only met yesterday." But she sounded pleased as she slid up onto his shoulders.
"So weird hearing you speak like that," said George.
Fred agreed. "I'm still not entirely convinced you aren't pranking us with random hissing noises."
"But Dudley wouldn't do that to us, right, Dudley?"
Why would George say his name like that? After all, it wasn't like they could know he lied about it. He shook his head. "I'm not the prankster here."
"FRED AND GEORGE WEASLEY!" a voice boomed—so loud it must have been magically enhanced—startling all of them, including Black. Harry watched him warily.
"We'd better get Charlie his broom back," said George.
"You didn't smash it into anything?" Fred grabbed the broom and eyed it critically.
"Of course, not!" Harry said, offended. "I loved flying."
"Was your first—"
"We don't have time, Fredders!" George yanked his brother's hand impatiently. "Don't go anywhere, Snake Boy!"
As if he had anywhere to go.
Harry managed to herd Black into the carriage just as the first students started trickling in, chattering excitedly about their summer plans. Harry couldn't say he knew the feeling. Summer meant being stuck at the house for days on end under Aunt Petunia's sour eye. Sharing school with Dudley wasn't fun, but it was a reprieve. And if he were living in a school of magic? He'd never want to go back.
Nobody paid their carriage any mind; Black looked more or less the same age as the older students. Harry wondered if he had been one.
Fred and George returned dragging bulky wooden trunks and squeezed them into the carriage. One was twitching suspiciously. It was covered with dragon stickers, and when Harry traced one spiked tail with his finger, the dragon snapped at it.
The twins reapplied the colour-changing spell on his hair and invited him to the Burrow.
"There are seven of us," said George.
"Just show up and act natural. Nobody will notice another one," Fred agreed.
The cavalcade took a scenic route, making an unhurried detour for the lake, and left the grounds through enormous iron-wrought gates. Looking back at the castle, Harry made a wish to come back here again.
Sneaking out at the train station wasn't as hard a task as Harry anticipated. Some villagers were waiting for their kids on the platform, and it was easy to get lost in the general commotion. The big man and the severe witch oversaw the students, but they were too distracted with boarding them on a train with a gleaming red engine puffing up thick clouds of smoke.
A couple of glitter bombs Fred and George set up certainly didn't help their watchfulness either.
"Hate to repeat ourselves," Fred said apologetically, "but this is very last-minute."
"See you, Snake Boy," said George. "Bye, Spooksy."
They gave his hair another ruffle, which Harry pretended not to enjoy, and pointed him to their bother, a young man in a leather jacket with his red hair in a ponytail. He looked very cool. He also looked very alarmed.