Chapter 9: Crossroads
The summer was never-ending. Each day dragged on, bleeding into the next, as Harry counted down the days until he could escape. Hogwarts was his lifeline. It was the only escape from the suffocating atmosphere of Privet Drive. He kept track of the days with an almost obsessive persistence, counting them in his head, sometimes even the hours if it had been a particularly bad day.
At least Vernon was away. A business trip had taken him out of the country for a few weeks, and though that meant Petunia was particularly frazzled, it also meant fewer volatile outbursts. Petunia had little patience for either of them, but she tolerated Charlie far more than she did him. It seemed as if their time apart at Hogwarts had smoothed over the rift between Charlie and Dudley; the two had become thick as thieves once more, united by their mutual ignorance of anything Harry did.
Still, when Harry reminded Petunia, quietly, when Vernon was out, that they needed to collect their school supplies soon, she barely looked at him before dumping them unceremoniously at the Leaky Cauldron.
"I have errands to run," she had said curtly, adjusting her handbag. "You have until noon."
And then she was gone, slipping back into the Muggle streets as if the entrance to the wizarding world hadn't just appeared before her eyes. Harry exhaled and stepped through the archway into Diagon Alley. Magic thrummed through the air, and for the first time in weeks, he could breathe again. The second Charlie became distracted, waving eagerly at a group of Gryffindors, Harry muttered a Notice-Me-Not charm.
The Ministry could track magic used outside of Hogwarts, but not in a place as magically dense as Diagon Alley. Here, spells overlapped like tangled wires, and one stray charm wouldn't even register. He just needed space, somewhere far away from Charlie and any prying eyes Harry melted into the crowd, slipping away before anyone could notice. He let the charm drop once he reached Gringotts, stepping into the grand marble hall. The goblins paid him no mind at first, but as he approached one of the tellers, their beady gaze fixed on him.
"I'd like to speak to my account keeper, Griphook," Harry requested.
The goblin barely glanced up from his ledger. "Griphook is busy. I doubt he has time for a child."
Harry frowned. He had anticipated resistance. Goblins did not waste their time on frivolous requests. He pulled a small slip of parchment from his pocket, one that bore Griphook's own signature. It detailed their previous correspondence, one confirming the retrieval of his family's lost belongings, the transfer of his accounts.
"He is expecting me," Harry pressed, carefully sliding the document onto the counter.
The goblin's eyes flicked to it, his fingers curling around the edge as he read. A beat passed before he let out a disgruntled noise and gestured for a younger goblin to take his place.
"Follow me," he said shortly.
Harry was led to a private office at the back of the bank, smaller than he expected but no less impressive. A silver shield, polished to perfection, hung on the wall-its intricate carvings catching the dim torchlight.
"My ancestor forged it for a now extinct family," Griphook said without prompt, his sharp teeth flashing in what might have been amusement. "It was kindly recovered."
Harry had no doubt that kindly meant something very different to a goblin. He took a seat, barely sinking into the uncomfortable chair before Griphook placed a stack of parchment in front of him.
"We have much to discuss."
Harry frowned. "I don't have much time."
Griphook hummed but didn't look particularly concerned. "Albus Dumbledore has been visiting your family vaults frequently."
Harry's fingers twitched. "What?"
Griphook didn't look up from his papers. "He had himself appointed your and Charlus Potter's guardian in the days following your parents' deaths. As such, he has been granted restricted access to your family holdings. He is unable to withdraw anything but still able to monitor the vault's contents."
Harry felt something cold settle in his chest. Dumbledore. His guardian? The man had never once spoken to him. Not before Hogwarts. Not after.
"Why would he do that?" Harry asked, voice carefully measured.
"We do not meddle in wizarding affairs," Griphook said smoothly. "But I can tell you that he has been particularly interested in the rare books that were returned to the family vault last year."
Harry's thoughts raced. Dumbledore had been searching through the Potter family vault for books? He didn't like it at all. That was his property, and he didn't want anyone snooping around.
"I want the vault locked," Harry said, gripping the quill as Griphook slid the appropriate document toward him. "No one goes in except me. Is that possible?"
"That can be arranged," Griphook agreed, watching as Harry's signature glowed faintly on the parchment. "From this moment forward, no one can access the Potter holdings until either you are seventeen or you give them permission."
Harry exhaled. One problem solved. But another still loomed in the back of his mind.
"The Philosopher's Stone," he said suddenly. "Have you ever heard of it?"
Griphook's expression didn't change, but his sharp eyes gleamed with interest.
"There is said to be only one in existence," he answered. "It grants the holder eternal life and boundless gold. Even with your wealth, Potter, you would not be able to so much as glance at it, let alone own it."
Harry nodded absently, though he barely heard the words anymore. His mind was still reeling from what he had just learned. The Stone. Immortality. Power beyond comprehension. And he had handed it over without even understanding what it was. Not just a magical artifact, but something ancient and dangerous. He had let it slip through his fingers without a fight. Griphook didn't seem to notice his distraction. The goblin adjusted his spectacles and launched into a sharp overview of the Potter accounts.
"It is, frankly, a mess," Griphook said, tapping a long, ink-stained finger against the parchment ledger in front of him. "Your parents were not particularly skilled with financial matters. Several properties were sold off far below their value."
Harry frowned. "Why would they do that?"
"Hard to say. Perhaps they needed quick access to funds. Perhaps they trusted the wrong people. Or perhaps they were simply focused on things they considered more important," Griphook replied curtly. "Regardless, the fortune has suffered. No doubt it is still substantial, but it is a fraction of what it was before the war."
Harry leaned forward, scanning the documents. Whole properties listed as liquidated. Vaults emptied. Withdrawals with no name attached.
"There's also the matter of missing gold," Griphook added, his tone growing sharper. "The records are inconsistent. In some cases, entirely absent."
Harry's hands curled slightly on the edge of the table. "Was anyone watching the accounts?"
"Not after your original account manager, Grashnok, died," Griphook said. "No successor was assigned. No one claimed responsibility for your estate. The vault sat untouched for years."
A cold weight settled in Harry's chest. So much had already been taken from him. Now he was finding out that the remains of his family's legacy had been neglected and mishandled.
"I'll fix it," he said quietly.
Griphook gave him a slow nod. "That would be wise. But you should know it will take time. And attention to detail. The kind of vigilance most wizards do not possess."
Harry didn't respond immediately. He studied the papers again, memorizing the damage, committing the numbers to memory. The Stone was beyond him now but he could focus on this at least.
He left Gringotts with a heavier bag of gold and an even heavier mind. The weight of it pulled at his shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the burden pressing on his thoughts. He didn't make it far. Just as he stepped out into the sunlight of Diagon Alley, something subtle shifted in the air. A thread of magic brushed against his senses. It was faint but unmistakable. Cold. Coiling. Familiar. Not like the ambient magic that hummed from the shops and cobblestones around him, but something darker. Older. A whisper of something he had felt before, laced through with unease. It hooked beneath his ribs and tugged gently, drawing him forward.
It led him toward Knockturn Alley. Harry paused at the mouth of the narrow street, the shadows swallowing light just beyond the corner. He could feel the difference even before he stepped across the threshold. The air was colder here. Denser. It clung to his skin like fog, heavy with rot and forgotten curses. The cheerful noise of Diagon Alley faded behind him, replaced by a tense, unnatural silence. He knew he should not follow it. Every part of him that was grounded in logic said to turn around, to walk back toward the crowds, toward safety, toward sunlight. It seemed like he couldn't refuse the allure that called to him.
The further he walked, the more the shadows stretched, dragging long fingers across the uneven stones. The scent of mildew and old, rotting parchment drifted from cracked doorways. A hag eyed him from the corner, blinking slowly before melting back into the dark. Broken signs swayed above shuttered shops.
Then, without warning, a hand reached out and caught his chin, fingers cold and smooth. Harry's breath caught in his throat as his face was tilted upward. Crimson eyes stared down at him. They glowed faintly in the low light, reflecting like twin coals caught in the last flickers of dying fire. There was no mercy in them or kindness, only an endless and patient hunger. The figure before him was cloaked in layer upon layer of black, each fold of fabric draped like shadows given form. He did not move with noise. His presence was silent, yet it pressed on the air like a thundercloud.
The magic around him was thick. It pulsed in the air, slow and suffocating, coiling around Harry's chest.
"The Muggle will pay in time," the man murmured. His voice was low, careful, and measured like a song without melody. It was not threatening. It did not need to be. The certainty in it left no room for question. His thumb brushed along the edge of Harry's jaw, then slid toward the bruising near his lip, the one that had never fully faded. The touch was oddly gentle. Cold. Possessive in a way that made Harry want to pull away, but he held himself still. He was fearful to do anything that might make the man suddenly draw his wand. He had no chance against an adult wizard, especially one that had wielded an Unforgivable Curse with practice ease.
"You will be rewarded for the Stone. No doubt," the man added, almost like a promise.
Harry could not move. His body had tensed and his muscles locked into place. His breath came shallow and quick, but he refused to let his expression betray the terror that curled like smoke in the pit of his stomach. His eyes, however, did not waver.
"What did you make me do that night?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it. Soft, but clear. It wasn't an accusation. Not quite. Not a plea, either. But something inside him needed to know. To face it. To drag whatever horror had been buried beneath the surface into the light, no matter how much it frightened him. The figure tilted his head, intrigued.
"Curious, even now?" he asked, amused. "I simply sent you to bed."
Harry blinked, he was confused and in disbelief. Surely the man hadn't casually casted an illegal curse, just to send him to bed.
"I had what I needed. Your brother could play the pathetic martyr. The professors would never believe anything else. There was nothing left to do but clean up the mess." He leaned closer, his breath like frost. "Fear not. You aren't powerful enough to be of use to me...yet."
Harry flinched, not at the words, but at the implication buried in them. Yet.
"You felt it though, didn't you?" the man whispered. "That brief, blissful silence. The moment your thoughts stilled, your will folded, your mind bowed."
The words slithered around Harry's spine but still, he did not look away. His mind spun as he tried to figure out who the man was. The man tilted his head, almost fondly, as if hearing the thought form before it could finish.
"You already know who I am, little serpent," the man said again, softer now, like something coaxing a flame. "You simply don't wish to admit it."
A name beat like a drum through Harry's chest. Voldemort. His hands stayed loose at his sides as he tried not to tremble at the implication.
Then, without a sound, the man released him. The shadows swallowed the figure whole, as though he had never been there. No rustle of robes or even footsteps. He vanished without a single trace left behind
Harry stood motionless. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked. A cat yowled. A cart rattled along the uneven cobblestones. But Harry remained frozen. He had handed over the Stone. The Philosopher's Stone. The most coveted magical object in centuries. An artifact capable of granting life. Wealth. Power. And he had given it away. He had placed it directly into the hands of the darkest wizard in modern history. And Voldemort had let him live. That fact echoed louder than any threat. He turned, feet moving automatically, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to warn him. His face remained neutral, schooled into calm, unreadable silence. But inside, everything was shaking. His hands trembled in his pockets as he stepped back into the light of Diagon Alley. The noise of the crowd rushed around him, loud and bright and normal.
The noise hit him all at once. The laughter, the shouts of shopkeepers, the occasional pop of Disapparition-everything bright and bustling, a stark contrast to the suffocating darkness he had just left behind. It was disorienting. The dark lord himself had been there, in Knockturn Alley and no one seemed the wiser. He could still feel the phantom touch on his chin, the way Voldemort's fingers had traced the bruise on his lip, like a mark of ownership.
You will be rewarded.
Harry swallowed hard, pushing the memory aside as he forced his feet to move. He needed to act normal. He needed to find Charlie and finish his school shopping before anyone noticed he had disappeared.
Flourish and Blotts was overflowing with students and parents packed shoulder-to-shoulder, many craning their necks toward the raised platform near the back of the store. Golden banners hung from the rafters, each adorned with the smirking face of a blond, extravagantly dressed wizard. Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry resisted the urge to groan. He had seen the man's books last year and had even got one drawn in by the moving illustrated cover. He found them completely garbage, full of pompous words and rambling about how fashionable the man's clothes wear. No real substance. The trashy romance novels Petunia had hidden in the attic were better written. Charlie was front and center, standing beside Ron and Hermione. Ron looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, Hermione looked absolutely thrilled, and Charlie was positively glowing under Lockhart's attention. Harry decided to quickly leave before he was spotted and dragged into this mess.
"Ah! There's the other Potter!"
Lockhart's voice boomed across the store, and suddenly every pair of eyes turned toward him. Harry barely resisted the urge to hex him as the crowd parted to make way, leaving Harry in the middle with no hiding place.
"I must say," Lockhart continued, flashing a dazzling smile, "what an honor it is to meet the young man who, like his brother, defeated the darkest lord of all time when they were mere babies."
Harry stiffened. And yet, the man was grinning, seemingly unaware of the sheer rage that now flickered behind Harry's neutral mask.
"I didn't realize I was part of the show," he said smoothly.
Lockhart laughed, "Come now, Mr. Potter! There's no need to be shy!"
Before Harry could react, Lockhart threw an arm around his shoulders, forcefully dragging him up onto the platform. Harry barely kept his temper in check. Lockhart turned back to the audience, speaking with the dramatic flair of a stage performer.
"That's right, my dear friends! Today is not just about me-it's about the next generation of heroes! And what better way to celebrate than with a gift?"
A photographer snapped a picture, the flash momentarily blinding Harry. Lockhart grabbed a full set of his own books and thrust them into Harry's arms.
"For you, my boy! Free of charge! Signed by yours truly. "
Harry forced a smile. "How generous."
Lockhart didn't notice the flatness in his tone. Charlie, however, was beaming.
"This is brilliant," he whispered, elbowing Harry. "Lockhart is amazing."
Harry bit back his response. Eventually, the spectacle ended, and Lockhart moved on to autographing books. The moment Harry was able to slip away, he shoved the stack of books into Charlie's hands.
"Here. Since you're such a fan," he said dryly.
Charlie didn't notice the sarcasm. "Really? Thanks, Harry!"
Harry rolled his eyes, scanning the store. He needed to get his books and get out. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.
"Bet you loved all that attention, didn't you, Potter?"
Harry stilled, already expecting the familiar voice before he turned. Draco Malfoy stood in front of him, his expression one of lazy amusement rather than the usual sneer. Unlike Charlie's cheerful, oblivious arrogance, Draco's was calculated like a polished blade, sharp enough to cut but never clumsy enough to strike first. Behind him, Lucius Malfoy stood in his usual immaculate black robes, silver-handled cane resting lightly in his palm. His cold grey eyes swept over Harry in quiet calculation, studying him like a puzzle waiting to be solved. Beside him, Narcissa Malfoy was a stark contrast She was just as elegant and poised, but with a softer presence. Her gaze lingering on Harry with something curious, something that felt strangely familiar. Harry met Draco's smirk with an unimpressed stare.
"Not particularly," he said evenly, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. "Unlike you, I don't have a desperate need to be seen."
Draco grinned rather than scowled. "Oh, please. You had the entire shop watching you, and you didn't even have to try."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "My mother and I just got back from France, and what's the first thing I hear when I step into Diagon Alley? That Harry Potter is up on a stage with Gilderoy Lockhart, taking pictures like he's the star of the show."
Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes, "I was dragged up there."
"Uh-huh," Draco drawled, clearly unconvinced. "Sure you were."
Narcissa gave a small, approving smile, while Lucius merely observed in silence.
Draco exhaled dramatically. "Not that I should be surprised. Everything interesting happens while I'm away. And now, after this dreadful shopping trip, we're off to Spain."
"Spain?" Harry echoed, quirking an eyebrow.
Draco groaned. "Do you have any idea how awful it is having to listen to delayed match commentary in a different language? It's barbaric."
Harry snorted. "Must be rough."
Draco huffed, crossing his arms. "It is, actually. Do you know how hard it is to find decent coverage of the Falcons in the middle of bloody Madrid? And don't even get me started on the Cannons-though I suppose it's better than suffering through one of Puddlemere's endless strategy breakdowns."
Harry found himself smirking, despite himself. "You know, most people would just be happy to be on holiday."
Draco waved a dismissive hand. "And I would be, if it didn't mean missing every decent match this season." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "It's tragic, really."
Lucius finally spoke, his tone light but laced with something pointed. "Draco, I do believe Mr. Potter has better things to do than listen to you lament about Quidditch."
Draco scoffed but straightened immediately, looking far less casual under his father's gaze.
Lucius turned his full attention to Harry. "You seem to be adjusting well to your… placement."
It wasn't quite an insult. But it wasn't not an insult, either. Harry knew what Lucius was really saying. Lucius was watching him closely, weighing his value, his potential, his usefulness. It was the same for most that were trying to decide what a Potter was doing in Slytherin.
"I do my best," Harry answered smoothly.
Lucius hummed, tilting his head just slightly. "A good philosophy. I trust you will continue to make… wise choices."
Harry didn't react, refusing to give anything away. But beside Lucius, Narcissa's expression shifted, and she cast her husband a sharp look, a silent reprimand. Lucius ignored it. Narcissa turned back to Harry, her gaze flickering over him once more thoughtful but unreadable.
"I see you've already done your shopping," she noted, eyeing the bags at his side. "We should not keep you."
Lucius inclined his head. "Come, Draco."
Draco hesitated, his smirk fading just slightly as his eyes flickered between Harry and Charlie. Then, with a huff, he turned on his heel and followed his parents out of the shop. As the Malfoys disappeared into the crowd, Harry exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. Charlie appeared beside him a moment later, grinning.
"What was that about?" he asked.
Harry shrugged. "Nothing important."
Charlie snorted. "You Slytherins are all weird."
Harry didn't argue. Instead, he cast one last glance in the direction the Malfoys had gone, thoughts swirling in his head. By the time they had finished their shopping, Petunia was already waiting outside the Leaky Cauldron. Harry felt her glare before he even saw it, a sharp, burning sensation at the back of his head.
"You're late," she snapped the moment they emerged onto the Muggle street.
She stood by the car, arms crossed and foot tapping in agitation. Her eyes flicked over them, scanning for any sign of mischief, any trace of magic that might have clung to them.
Charlie rolled his eyes, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Relax, Aunt Petunia, we-"
"I don't want to hear it," she cut in. Her tone was clipped, as if she could banish the mere idea of magic just by speaking over it. "Get in the car. Now."
Harry exhaled, forcing his expression into something neutral. This was what he had been expecting. Petunia had been tense ever since Vernon's return from his business trip. She had been snapping more, eyes darting toward him with something that wasn't quite her usual disdain. It was something more uncertain, almost wary. He had no doubt she was still thinking about what he had said weeks ago. That he knew that she had magic, no matter how slight it was. Harry slid into the passenger seat, keeping his mouth shut.
Charlie, far less adept at keeping quiet, huffed as he dropped into the back. "What's the big deal? It's not like we were running wild."
Petunia didn't dignify that with a response. She merely started the engine, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, and pulled onto the road. The moment they left the alley behind, it felt like the world had dimmed. There was no more or excitement. Just gray streets, dull houses, and an endless summer stretching out before him like a prison sentence. Harry leaned his head against the window, watching the rows of uniform houses blur past. He should have been thinking about Privet Drive, about enduring another long stretch of mind-numbing chores and avoiding Vernon's wrath. Instead, his mind was still in Knockturn Alley. Voldemort had been there, alive once more, and he seemed to have plans for him. He didn't know which thought was scarier.
The last few weeks of summer had dragged like a slow-moving curse, each day bleeding into the next in a haze of chores, boredom, and forced silence. But now, as Harry stood on Platform 9¾, feeling the familiar pulse of magic in the air, it was like breathing freely for the first time in months. The scarlet Hogwarts Express billowed steam, the scent of metal and magic mingling in the crisp morning air. Students bustled about-trunks being loaded, cats weaving through legs, excited chatter filling the platform.
It was a world apart from Privet Drive. And Harry couldn't wait to leave. Petunia had driven them to King's Cross without a word. She hadn't looked at Harry once. Charlie had rushed ahead the moment they crossed through the barrier, eager to reunite with his friends. Harry, on the other hand, had lingered for just a moment. There had been no parting words from Petunia, not a single sneer or insult. Just a stiff nod in Charlie's direction before she turned and walked away. Harry squared his shoulders, adjusting his grip on his trunk, and made his way toward the train.
"Potter!"
Harry had just managed to drag his trunk onto the train when Draco Malfoy appeared beside him, grinning like a kneazle who'd caught a particularly slow mouse.
"Thought you might've gotten yourself trampled in the rush," Draco drawled, falling into step with him. "Or did you take a detour to bask in the attention of crowds begging for Charlie Potter's autograph?"
Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. "Please. As if I'd willingly subject myself to that circus."
Draco grinned. "Good answer." He nudged Harry toward an empty compartment, wasting no time claiming the window seat.
As Harry stowed his trunk, Draco continued, "We only just got back from Spain yesterday, I wasn't even able to unpack."
Harry quirked a brow. "I thought you liked that fancy manor of yours, you've hardly spent time there."
"I do," Draco sighed, dramatically flopping back against the seat. "But Mother says I need 'broader cultural experiences.' I swear, she's got a checklist of historical sites and wizarding landmarks we must visit before I turn seventeen. The moment we got back to England, she was already on about Andalusian spellcraft and something about Catalan magical architecture."
Harry smirked, stretching out his legs. "Sounds exhausting."
"You have no idea." Draco shot him a mournful look. "And to make matters worse, I missed the entire English Quidditch season."
"Tragic," Harry deadpanned.
"It is!" Draco huffed, crossing his arms. "The only matches I could catch were the ones happening wherever we were. Italy was a disaster-you'd think they were conducting ballet with all the preposterous maneuvering they do. Spain was slightly better, but I swear, they're obsessed with Chasing formations to an unhealthy degree. No appreciation for a well-executed Bludger strategy!"
Harry bit back a laugh. "So what I'm hearing is that you missed out on your beloved Falcons and are now bitter about it."
Draco shot him a look. "Obviously. Not to mention, you were supposed to come with me to a Puddlemere match, but then Mother dragged us across the continent."
Harry shrugged, feigning innocence. "I probably would have been busy anyway."
Draco narrowed his eyes, but before he could press further, Harry suggested a friendly game of Wizard's Chess. The clatter of chess pieces filled the compartment, accompanied by Draco's smug grin as his knight struck down Harry's bishop with a dramatic swing of its sword.
"Face it, Potter," Draco drawled, lounging comfortably against the seat as his knight dusted itself off. "You have no strategic mind."
Harry barely twitched, eyes still on the board. "You're awfully confident for someone who's one bad move away from disaster."
Draco scoffed. "Please, I-"
The compartment door slammed open. Harry barely glanced up, but Draco scowled immediately, his irritation only growing as Charlie, Ron, and Hermione stepped inside without invitation.
Charlie grinned as if nothing was wrong. "Room for three more?"
"No."
Both Harry and Draco answered at the same time. Harry's voice was calm, but Draco's exasperated.
Charlie faltered, frowning. "Come on, Harry, don't be like that-"
"I'm always like this," Harry said dryly, still studying the chessboard.
"You can't seriously want to sit here all day," Ron complained, eyeing Draco with suspicion. "Come sit with us."
"Yeah, no thanks," Harry didn't even look up.
Draco smirked. "He's exactly where he wants to be. Now run along, Weasley. Shouldn't you be off worshiping his brother by now?"
Ron's face turned red, but it was Charlie who reacted first.
"Alright, enough," he sighed, stepping forward. "Come on, Harry-"
His hand closed around Harry's arm. Harry immediately stiffened, but before he could jerk away, Draco spoke up instead.
"Take your hands off him."
Draco's voice cut through the compartment like a spell. His tone was sharp, edged with irritation as he snapped his book shut and stood up. Charlie turned, clearly surprised by the interruption, but Draco stood his ground, eyes cool and unmoving.
"He clearly doesn't want to go," Draco continued, folding his arms. "And if you force him, I'll have Farley and every prefect in the corridor down here before you can blink."
Harry didn't move. He didn't need to. The weight of Draco's words was already settling heavily into the small space. Charlie's grip on his arm faltered, uncertainty flickering behind his eyes.
Hermione stepped forward, her tone defensive. "Charlie's his brother. He's just-"
"Dragging him off against his will?" Draco arched a brow, his voice dry. "Yes, very brotherly."
Ron bristled. "You don't know anything about their family."
"No," Draco said, turning his stare toward Ron with amused disinterest. "But I know what someone looks like when they don't want to be manhandled by a self-righteous prat."
Harry's chest tightened, not from the confrontation, but from how familiar it felt. Charlie always assumed he knew best. Always assumed that being loud and determined made him right. Harry had grown up with that weight pressing into his every choice. For a moment, Charlie just stared at him. There was something expectant in his eyes, a challenge without words, as if he wanted Harry to take his side. But Harry didn't speak or even move. He just stared back, his silence louder than anything he could have said. Finally, Charlie exhaled in frustration and stepped back.
"Fine," he muttered. "Suit yourself."
He turned without another word, Ron and Hermione trailing behind him. The door slid shut, sealing the moment off like a vault. Harry let out a slow breath, only realizing now how tightly his fists had clenched.
Draco flopped back into his seat and gave a dismissive shake of his head. "Unbelievable. They act like they're entitled to your time just because you share a surname."
Harry didn't respond right away. His mind was still circling the interaction, picking it apart. The guilt. The pressure. The endless weight of expectation that Charlie never seemed to question. He felt drained. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep.
Draco leaned back and watched him out of the corner of his eye. "What is his deal anyway?"
Harry shrugged, but the motion felt heavier than it should have. "I don't know. Probably some Gryffindor thing about family loyalty. Like being related means I owe him something."
The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had spent so long being blamed for things that were never his fault, punished because he didn't match the version of a brother Charlie had invented in his head.
Draco scoffed. "He's insufferable. I'm surprised you didn't hex him all summer."
Harry gave a half-hearted smile. "I thought about it. A lot."
More than he cared to admit. There had been nights where the tension got so thick it felt like it might choke him.
Draco grinned, satisfied. "I'd have done it. Quietly. Something annoying. Something that lasts for days. Like making all his food taste like soap."
Harry chuckled softly despite himself. "You've got a talent for cruelty."
"Refined mischief," Draco corrected, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. "Besides, someone has to keep their heads on straight around here. You keep attracting emotional Gryffindors."
Harry gave a small snort and reset the chessboard between them. The weight in his chest had eased just a little. Not gone, but manageable.
"Your move," he said, settling into his seat again.
Draco leaned forward, already calculating his strategy. "Try not to lose this time."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's rich coming from someone who sacrificed his rook for nothing."
The whistle of the Hogwarts Express let out a long, echoing cry as the train began to slow. The scenery beyond the windows had shifted, the familiar dark outline of the Forbidden Forest now growing steadily larger. In the distance, the towering silhouette of Hogwarts castle stood tall against the twilight sky, its windows glowing gold in welcome.
Harry closed his book with a quiet snap. "We're here."
Draco sighed, already reaching for his trunk. "About time."
As they stepped off the train and onto the platform, the cool air of the Scottish Highlands wrapped around them, sharp and refreshing after hours in a cramped compartment. The ground beneath their feet was damp with mist, and Harry caught the familiar scent of pine and woodsmoke drifting from somewhere in the forest. First years were already being rounded up by Hagrid's booming voice, herded toward the lake like a parade of wide-eyed ducklings.
Harry, Draco, Theo, and Blaise stopped short on the path as they joined the second-years and older students moving in a different direction.
"So this is it," Theo said, slinging his bag higher on his shoulder. "No more boats. Carriages from now on."
"Thank Merlin," Draco muttered. "That boat ride last year was miserable. I was soaked through by the time we got to the castle."
"Speak for yourself," Blaise said dryly. "I liked it. Bit dramatic. Very cinematic."
Harry didn't say anything. His eyes had fixed on the carriages ahead.
They were exactly as described in Hogwarts: A History- large, black, and seemingly pulled by nothing at all. Except they weren't empty. He blinked. Then blinked again. Skeletal creatures loomed at the front of each carriage, tall and thin with leathery, bat-like wings tucked tightly against their sides. Their black hides gleamed in the fading light, and their white, pupil-less eyes seemed to glow faintly. They shifted slowly, their movements eerily quiet for things of such size. Harry stopped walking and looked over at the others.
"You guys see them, right?" he asked, his voice low.
Theo glanced at the carriages. "See what?"
"The... creatures pulling them." Harry frowned, stepping closer. "You don't see them?"
Blaise shook his head. "They're pulled by magic, Potter. That's the whole thing. No creatures. Just charms."
Draco paused mid-step, his brow furrowing as he squinted at the space in front of the carriages.
"Actually… I've heard they are pulled by thestrals," he said slowly. "You can only see them if you've seen someone die."
The words hung in the air like a sudden fog, curling cold around the group. Blaise and Theo both turned to look at Harry, confusion flickering across their faces. Harry didn't speak. His breath caught. The thought struck like a blow. He frowned, eyes narrowing as something old and half-buried stirred in the back of his mind. A flash of green light. A scream, sharp and terrified. A woman's voice crying out two names, his and Charlie's. Then silence. He had dreamed it for as long as he could remember, always fragmented, always fading the moment he woke.
He had always thought it was imagination. Or worse, just another cruel trick his mind played on him in the dark.
But now… Now the thestrals stood before him, their white eyes fixed on his. Real. Tangible. Unseen by anyone else. A tremor passed through him. His fingers curled at his sides as his throat tightened. He had no memory of her face but some part of him, quiet, instinctive, and unshakably certain, knew the truth. He had seen his mother die. His skin went pale. The realization settled like a stone in his chest, heavy and cold.
"Oh," Draco said after a beat, his voice softer this time. He glanced sideways at Harry, his usual smugness absent. "Sorry."
Harry shook his head slightly, not trusting himself to speak. He looked away from the others, back toward the thestrals. They hadn't moved. They just waited. And somehow, they made the weight inside him feel less unbearable. Like they understood. He stepped forward and placed a hand gently on the nearest one's shoulder, the leathery hide cool under his palm. For a moment, they simply stood there, quiet together.
"They're real," Harry said quietly.
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "You can actually see them?"
Harry nodded once.
Theo looked between them all, clearly unsettled. "Weird. Really weird."
Harry gave a tired smile but said nothing else. He climbed into the nearest carriage, his hand lingering for one last moment on the thestral's shoulder before letting go. Draco climbed in after him, followed by Blaise and Theo, who still looked somewhat wary. As the carriage lurched forward, rolling along the gravel path toward the castle, Harry looked out across the darkened grounds.
"It's a bit creepy," Blaise said suddenly, his voice low and dry as he stared out the side.
Harry didn't answer right away. He was watching the thestrals through the back window as they pulled the carriage forward, their skeletal wings folded close to their sides, their movements graceful in a way that didn't belong to anything dead. Or alive.
"I won't lie. They look creepy, yeah," Harry finally said, his voice quieter than usual. "But they're not."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't feel the need to. The silence that followed stretched too long. The air in the carriage felt heavier with each passing second, the weight of unspoken things settling on their shoulders like dust.
Draco cleared his throat. "Well," he said, a little too briskly, "at least we don't have to share with any of the Gryffindors this year. That's something to be thankful for."
Theo snorted softly. "Small mercies."
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "You're just bitter they beat us for the Cup."
"That Cup was stolen," Draco said flatly. "Everyone knows it. Dumbledore just handed it to them like some sort of participation prize."
Harry glanced over at him. Draco met his eyes for a beat, then tilted his head slightly. It subtle, but deliberate. Draco had handed him an out from the conversation effortlessly.
Harry gave him a small, grateful nod.
The tension in his shoulders eased just enough for him to sit back, the thestrals fading from immediate thought for now as the castle grew larger in the distance. Hogwarts rose above the trees in the distance, familiar and enormous, its windows glowing warm against the deep blue sky.
Disclaimer:
Disclaimer:
I disagree whole heartedly with many of JK Rowling's views.
Protect Trans Youth.
I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters or world.
This is a reupload of a story with the same name and plot. Things have been heavily edited and expanded. Please enjoy.