Chapter Text
When we last saw the boys:
“Thank you, my boys for settling an old man’s mind,” Dumbledore told them, “I hope you can find it in yourselves to enjoy the rest of you day with this hanging over you.”
Harry smiled at him pleasantly, leaning forward to pinch a lemon drop as he stood.
“I think we’ll manage, sir.”
Making a swift exist, the two time-travellers barely managed to contain their snickers until they reached the end of the hall – just out of sight of the Dumbledore’s guardian gargoyle – before they burst into laughter. Staggering away, leaning on each other as they struggled to breath past the hysteria, the sound travelled like ripples in a still pond after a stone has been thrown in. It radiated pure and free, so childish despite their mental years.
And thus, their last week of school continued unimpeded.
Rumours flew of course, as rumours were want to do, but that’s all they were – rumours. No one knew exactly what happened that night. A whisper of an epic battle here, a mutter of prank gone terribly wrong there. Most people seemed to be of the opinion that Professor Snape had conspired with Hagrid and his creatures to assassinate Professor Quirrell in his secret bat lair because the man had given him advice on how to deal with greasy hair. There also seemed to be a small minority who were convinced that the Dark Arts teacher had torn off his turban in a fit, driven to insanity by the ever present stench of garlic and thus unleashing the terrible world devouring eldritch horrors that had been bound there by ‘Aincient Magiks’ – whatever the hell that was.
(Harry could hear the unnecessary capitalisation and pompous misspelling as he eavesdropped on the surrounding Slytherins.
“Is that even a thing or–?” he whispered to his left.
“. . . no Potter,” winced Draco with pain filled eyes, “it really isn’t.”
Harry snorted; “Embarrassed of your people, are you?”
“No; I’m insulted you think I’d claim people vacuous as that as ‘my people’.”)
While Harry had learned to discard Hogwarts rumours very quickly in his beginning years, there had always been a small part of him both impressed and disturbed by how very wrong some rumours could be whilst also being weirdly. . . right?
In other good news, Harry had bounced back quite quickly from his encounter with Voldermort (incinerating Dark Lords took a lot of effort, but he had practical experience and 17 years of being a horcrux on his side). This meant that Harry was not unconscious in the hospital wing for the Quidditch Cup unlike some other time when he, for example, was slatted to play the last Quidditch match of his first year but was unavailable due to, oh he doesn’t know, being unconscious in the hospital wing for three days straight because he burned a man to death with his mother’s love.
No, Draco, he’s not fucking salty.
Harry shot into the sky like a Hungarian Horntail chasing a thing, and Ravenclaw never stood a chance.
He knew the resulting win wasn’t enough points to drag across their house onto the winner’s podium for the overall House cup (that went to Slytherin much to Draco’s competitive, smug pleasure), but as Harry looked around him (at Wood half-blinded by tears; his team tangled together in a many-armed hug yelling hoarsely, “We’ve won the Cup! We’ve won the Cup!”; the wave upon wave of crimson supporters pouring over the barriers onto the field; thumping pats on their backs) he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He cast his gaze around and there, jumping up and down like a maniacs, all dignity forgotten as they fought their way toward Harry, were his friends. Ron. . Hermione. . Neville. . . Draco.
Harry beamed and they beamed back.
It was a beautiful time to be alive.
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June 5th, 1992
Dear, [redacted]
We have something you want.
Waiting your reply,
A friend
An Ally Someone you can trust
Someone who is getting annoyed
M + P