A/N: Finally! the beginning of Face 2 of THE PLAN!
...I forgot I said I'll post yesterday and only remembered until it was practically today, so after some finishing touches, here we are!
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Act II, Chapter 9
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The mirror had gone dark, but Harry still sat there, staring at his own reflection.
Draco was lying.
He always did this when something was bothering him. Harry had spent years learning the difference between when Draco was actually fine and when he wanted people to think he was. He'd learnt that the sharp tongue, the quick deflections, insufferable smirks were just the armor he used to divert people's attention from his suffering. Only, they made Harry want to pry further.
And tonight, Draco had been armored to the teeth.
Harry wasn't stupid.
He knew Draco was still feeling the effects of the war, that the mission itself—having to align himself with another Dark Lord, even under false pretenses—was probably unraveling all the progress he had made.
And Harry had asked this of him.
Had dragged him into this.
Had put him back in a position where he had to be someone else, where he had to play a role that he had spent years learning how to play, then turned around and spent years unlearning.
That was on him.
Harry exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
He'd seen the signs, hadn't he? The dark ring around Draco's irises—the telltale mark of a potion habit returning. The tired bags under his eyes that meant he wasn't sleeping, wasn't winning against whatever was clawing at him from the inside.
Draco was slipping.
And Harry wanted to push. Wanted to demand the truth, pry it out of him, force him to talk because God, he hated seeing him like this.
But he knew better.
Draco didn't react well to being cornered. Harry had learned that the hard way. Too much pressure and Draco wouldn't crack—he'd lash out, lock himself down, and shut everyone out completely.
And that's what scared Harry the most.
The thought of Draco suffering alone.
Becoming something unrecognizable—something he couldn't come back from.
Harry shut his eyes for a moment, inhaling. Then, exhaling sharply, he pushed to his feet.
His magic pricked his fingertips from under his skin. He felt restless and on edge.
He needed to clear his head.
Pulling back his bed curtains, he stepped lightly onto the floorboards, careful not to disturb his sleeping roommates. He crouched beside his trunk, fingers rummaging through the neatly folded contents, looking for something halfway decent for a late-night excursion.
He needed air.
Because if he stayed here, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling—he'd just keep replaying the conversation.
And Draco's voice, smooth and practiced, would keep echoing back at him.
"I'm fine."
Harry's jaw tightened.
Like hell he was.
Successfully out of the Tower, Harry cast a Disillusionment Charm, cringing at the familiar sensation of an egg cracking over his head, thick and unpleasant as it oozed down his skin. He watched himself fade from view, his outline blurring, and seamlessly blending into the background.
'This would be way less uncomfortable with my Cloak' he thought to himself, before he paused.
A sharp, instinctive longing coiled in his ribs. That old, well-worn familiarity. The feeling of silk slipping over his shoulders, of being unseen.
Suddenly he felt a slight pang of regret, before quickly pushing it away.
He had buried them all. Forced them out of reach. Before they could remind him of all he had lost—and all he had failed to prevent.
The Cloak. The Wand. The Stone.
Such power in his hands felt disgustingly selfish, he did not deserve it. He wasn't meant to keep them.
He had made Draco erase it from his mind. Obliviated the exact place where he'd hidden them, in one of the first in a long list of increasingly futile attempts to strip himself of the title.
He didn't have them, but he could feel them. Always.
He could see their effect on him, how they warped his magic, how they had wound him so tightly into something greater, darker, inevitable.
Harry exhaled sharply through his nose. Not tonight.
He turned his back on the thought and moved.
Muffled beneath a charm, his feet carried him across the darkened grounds, past the quiet hush of the castle, down to the familiar broom shed.
Unhesitantly, he willed it open, impatient to get in the air and lose his burdens. Being in the air made him feel grounded.
With a quiet deliberation, he selected a broom, gripping the handle firmly and ending the Disillusionment Charm. He headed out onto the pitch.
He swung a leg over the broom, gripping the handle. It felt very unfamiliar, this one had a distinct pointed handle and felt heavier than he was used to, and with a different weight distribution. Still, it would do. He kicked off.
The second his feet left the ground, everything fell away.
The cool, sharp air shifted around him, slicing through the lingering weight in his chest. Though the handle was different, the steady hum of magic thrumming through polished wood would always be familiar.
His body tilted forward, and the broom obeyed. Letting the wind rush past his ears. Liberated, he watched as the castle shrank below him, its towers nothing but jagged silhouettes against the ink-dark sky.
For a moment, he simply floated, rolling his shoulders, loosening his grip, letting the tension bleed out of him. The vast silence of the open air wrapped around him, broken by nothing but the distant whisper of trees and the occasional hoot of an owl.
He inhaled sharply, the startings of a grin creeping up his face.
His body moved before his mind caught up.
Angling his body expertly, he leaned into a dive.
The broom dropped, slicing through the air like a falling star, his stomach swooping with the sudden speed. Wind roared in his ears, his pulse kicked up, alive, and for the first time all night, he felt like he could breathe.
He twisted sharply into a roll. His body moving purely on instinct, muscle memory overriding thought even as he felt a growing resistance from the broom, its build not advanced enough to support the types of moves that came so naturally to him.
He pushed forward, letting his magic merge with the broom, loading the wood with it and feeling the raw, untamed freedom of it.
He plummeted, twisting into a drill-like spiral. Moving faster as the world devolved into a blur of shapes and shadows. He yanked the broom up a good distance from the ground, his breath catching in exhilaration as he shot skyward again.
He twisted into a loop, then fell into another steep dive, testing himself, testing the limits, pushing faster, sharper. The world blurred past him, nothing but streaks of moonlight and motion.
The thrill burned through him, stripping away everything else. The exhaustion. The gnawing thoughts. The Hallows. The mission. Rigel. Tom. Draco.
Slowing down to a lazy drift, he sighed.
Up here, none of it could touch him.
oOo
Cheeks flushed and grinning wildly, Harry locked the broom shed behind him, rolling his shoulders as he strolled back up to the castle. His magic thrummed under his skin, calm and humming pleasantly, for the first time in a long while.
He was nearly at the staircases when the distant sound of footsteps sent his heart leaping into his throat.
'Shit.'
On pure instinct, he ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing himself flush against the cool stone. The footsteps grew louder, and before he could second-guess himself, he flicked his fingers, Disillusioning himself with a pulse of magic.
He barely even had to think about it.
The footsteps stopped.
Harry waited, breath slow, controlled.
Nothing.
Frowning slightly, he peered around the edge of the alcove. The corridor was empty.
'Did I imagine it?'
Stepping cautiously back out, he let the Disillusionment Charm fade—only to freeze as a painfully familiar voice cut through the silence.
"Most impressive."
Harry's heart nearly stopped. His head snapped up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.
"Hea—Professor…"
Albus Dumbledore stood before him.
His robes were subdued—for him, anyway. Deep plum, embroidered with tiny, sleeping burgundy kittens that stretched lazily as the fabric shifted. His beard was shorter, neatly trimmed, a far cry from the silver-white cascade Harry remembered.
But his eyes, his eyes were the same.
Still sharp and twinkling, watching him with that quiet amusement, as if they were in on some cosmic joke Harry had yet to understand.
Nostalgia hit him like a punch to the ribs.
For a split second, he forgot where—or when—he was.
But then the moment passed, and the cold, grounding reality settled over him again.
Dumbledore didn't know him.
Right now, he was just Rigel Black, a seventh-year transfer student caught sneaking back to his dorm past curfew.
So Harry did what any self-respecting Hogwarts student would do in this situation.
He straightened, squared his shoulders, and tried to look innocent.
"Professor," he said smoothly, schooling his face into polite curiosity. "I didn't see you there."
Dumbledore's lips twitched. "No, I suppose you didn't." His gaze flicked briefly to where Harry had been just moments before, as though he could still see the remnants of his Disillusionment Charm hanging in the air.
"Most impressive, Mr. Black. Wandless, wordless—and nearly effortless, if I'm not mistaken?"
Harry's pulse jumped.
'Shit.'
A/N: Oh, and I'm not sure if I stated it clearly enough, but everything that happened between Chapter 4 and now occurred over the course of two days. I experimented with the idea of dating as each day passed, but I believe it disturbed the narrative flow; nonetheless, I may add it as and when I feel it is necessary, like I did in Chapter 1.
Next chapter: Wednesday, 16th April, 2025