Paint it, Black

by farbenator

Summary:

After years of misery, Harry Potter finally escapes the Dursleys, finding a temporary sanctuary and happiness at The Burrow alongside the Weasleys. Neville Longbottom, too, is experiencing a much-needed improvement in his life.

Yet, this newfound freedom comes with its own set of chains. The ongoing hunt for Sirius Black keeps Harry confined, shattering his dreams of unrestricted liberty. But the real challenge lies closer to home: as Harry begins to unravel the mysteries of his past, he discovers that those closest to him are hiding crucial information. Soon, Harry finds himself guarding a secret of his own, one that could change everything.

Can his godbrother help guide him, or will their newly found friendship somehow be shattered? All the while, a new mystery unfolds at Hogwarts. And besides that, Harry and Neville run into some acquaintances from their last adventure, who themselves harbor their own secrets.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Notes:

Please be aware that I do not support J.K. Rowling's views.

This is my second fanfiction posted on AO3, written purely for fun based on some ideas I had for the Harry Potter universe, which I do not own.

As I am not a native English speaker, I hope you don't mind that I have used technology and translation tools to translate this story. I apologize for any potential errors or awkward phrasing that may have occurred during the translation process.

I hope you enjoy reading it, and I would be very happy if you like it!

If it weren't boldly and unmistakably marked on the calendar, Hagen would have sworn it was the dead of winter. So mercilessly did the cold bite here, high up within the castle walls. Too cold, he thought, pulling his shoulders up a little higher, as if he could hide from the icy grip of the place. Why on earth had he agreed to this back then? The glittering promises of the ICW Department of Aurors had lured him in. Hunting dark wizards, apprehending sinister witches, making the world a safer place – that had been his dream. Instead, he had ended up here. In probably the coldest, loneliest place imaginable.

High above, the fortress loomed, a grim tooth in the face of the mountain range. Deep down in the valley, Hagen could discern the tiny lights of Muggle houses, scattered like forgotten fireflies. Small villages where no one even suspected who eked out an existence up here. No one had any idea what kind of place this was, what shadows it harboured.

Usually, nothing happened up here. Absolutely nothing. Not in the four and a half gruelling years Hagen had already been serving in the fortress. Sometimes, yes, sometimes journalists, greedy for a sensation, tried to reach HIM. But without permission, no one even got near the outer walls. And that permission had to come from very, very high up. From the highest echelons of the wizarding world. Because HE was, after all... well, HE. And no one could simply get to HIM.

But today, on this strangely silent day, which felt like any other and yet was so fundamentally different, the strangest thing Hagen had ever experienced in all his years here happened. HE had a visitor. And this visit had been approved.

The man standing opposite Hagen looked almost as old as the legends surrounding the prisoner. A long, silver-grey beard fell to his chest, and his eyes, though framed by wrinkles, radiated an unusual kindness and perhaps a trace of melancholy. Hagen, still inwardly surprised by this extraordinary situation, cleared his throat. "Your wand, please." It sounded harsher than he had intended.

The visitor smiled mildly at him, a smile that brought an inexplicable warmth to the frosty atmosphere. "If that's all, my boy." With a calm movement, he drew a long, gnarled wand from his cloak and placed it in the specially designed, rune-secured box. No one, absolutely no one, was allowed to carry a wand near HIM. Not even the guards. If anyone were to get silly ideas, it was said, there were special staffs that could shoot lightning. But how exactly they worked, Hagen didn't know. Martha, one of the older guards, whispered that they were Muggle devices. For magic, it was said, didn't work in HIS immediate vicinity. Something blocked it, every magical impulse, as if an invisible shield swallowed the magic.

With a queasy feeling in his stomach, Hagen led the visitor deeper into the labyrinth of cold corridors. The path to HIS cell was long and rarely trodden. A huge, massive door, through whose narrow hatch Hagen usually just silently pushed food, blocked the access. Several heavy locks had to be unlatched, their mechanisms creaking and groaning under the unaccustomed movement. Hagen had never done this before. He had also never been inside with HIM. Not once in the entire four and a half years had He received a visitor. And now, of all times, Hagen was leading this strange, old man to HIM.

As the last lock sprang open with a dull click and Hagen pushed open the heavy door, the visitor quietly thanked him. "Thank you, my boy," he said with a voice so gentle, as if he were speaking to his grandson.

And then Hagen saw for the first time the room in which HE had been imprisoned for decades. It was surprisingly large. A simple bed stood against one wall, next to it a desk covered with papers and books. Several shelves bowed under the weight of more tomes. A plain door presumably led to a small bathroom. In the middle of the room stood a table with two chairs. On it, neatly arranged, the pieces of a chess set. But it wasn't Wizard's Chess, where the pieces came alive and squabbled. It was a Muggle chessboard.

HE was already sitting at the table, HIS back turned to the newcomer, looking out of the barred window at the distant, snow-covered mountain landscape. Slowly, HE turned around. HIS face was etched with years, but his eyes sparkled with an unbroken intensity. HE surveyed the visitor, and an expression Hagen couldn't decipher flitted across HIS features. Then, with a voice that sounded surprisingly firm and clear, HE said: "Twelve years." A hint of something that sounded like old familiarity resonated within it. "It has been twelve years since we last saw each other."

The visitor nodded slowly. "Indeed."

He gestured to the empty chair opposite. "A game?"

The visitor took a seat. The silence in the room was almost palpable, broken only by the soft click of the chess pieces as they were placed on their squares. No sooner had the first moves broken the silence than HE leaned back slightly and looked directly at HIS guest. A hint of something Hagen interpreted as a mixture of curiosity and perhaps even a touch of bitterness lay in HIS gaze.

"Tell me," HE began, and his voice was now softer, almost thoughtful. "How did it come to pass that you lost all that you sought for all these years?"

Notes:

Welcome, readers, to the second instalment of my series, Children of Prophecies!

In this part, we'll be following Harry and Neville into their second year at Hogwarts, after their eventful return to different homes. You'll find familiar elements from canon woven throughout, alongside inspirations drawn from other fanfictions I've enjoyed on this platform, and of course, some of my own original ideas. It's truly difficult to pinpoint every source of inspiration, as many wonderful works here share similar concepts.

This story will feature several interwoven plots, but we'll delve more into those as they unfold.

As always, I'm eager to read your comments!

Chapter 2: Chapter One: At the Burrow

Summary:

Three weeks after his discharge from St. Mungo's, Harry finds a temporary home at The Burrow. Yet, despite the Weasleys' warmth, he can't shake the unsettling feeling that crucial secrets are still being kept from him by those he trusts.

Notes:

Welcome to Chapter One!

Just a heads-up before you dive in: Harry had a traumatic childhood, and its effects are still very much with him. You'll also see that some of the mistreatment he suffered is now being dealt with.

On the top floor of a house so crooked and wonky that it would have long since collapsed without magic, sat a scrawny boy. With his raven-black, perpetually messy hair, bright green eyes behind round spectacles, and the distinct lightning-bolt scar prominently displayed on his forehead, he clearly stood out from the other inhabitants of this very peculiar building. For everyone else here had fiery red hair and shared an unmistakable commonality: they were Weasleys. But the boy with the raven-black hair was no Weasley; no, he was Harry, Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived – a title he himself detested more than anything.

But what was he doing here, at the Burrow, the Weasleys' home? Ron's mother, Molly Weasley – Ron was Harry's best friend and, of course, a Weasley – had, after some turbulent events, arranged for Harry to spend the summer holidays here. Harry was actually supposed to have spent this time with the Dursleys, his insufferable relatives, a mutual aversion. At least, that's how a certain old wizard with a fondness for lemon drops and perhaps a slightly too great influence on Harry's life would have wanted it. But certain circumstances had thwarted these plans.

Not even three weeks ago, Harry had been discharged from St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, after falling seriously ill. At the start of the holidays, Harry and his godbrother, Neville Longbottom – the person Harry would probably trust most in the world, if it weren't for that one strange thing – had run away from home. They simply couldn't stand living with their respective relatives any longer. But their shared adventure came to an abrupt and frightening end when Harry suddenly fell ill and perhaps other, opaque circumstances played a role. In any case, Neville just managed to get himself and the unconscious Harry to St Mungo's by means of a Portkey.

There, Harry was fortunately treated. And to Harry's even greater luck – or misfortune, depending on how one looked at it – Healer Andromeda Tonks had uncovered Harry's carefully guarded secret of many years. Harry had certainly done everything to prevent this, for until now, only Neville knew how cruelly the Dursleys had treated him all those years. But Healer Tonks, an observant and resolute woman, found all sorts of tell-tale signs of Harry's physical and mental state and confronted him unequivocally. And so, Harry was still battling the deep wounds of this years-long ordeal. Traces that could only be seen if he revealed them, and consequences that trailed a long, dark tail. Potions he had to take indefinitely. Regular treatments at St Mungo's. All of this Harry had the Dursleys to "thank" for. But had Andromeda Tonks not uncovered this, Harry would not be sitting here now, on the fifth floor of the Burrow, in his best friend Ron's room.

That room was a true orange inferno. Ron was an ardent fan of the Chudley Cannons, an English Quidditch team whose glorious days felt like an eternity ago. But that didn't seem to bother Ron in the slightest. His room was plastered from top to bottom with magical posters of the Cannons, on which the players in their orange robes tirelessly moved through the air on broomsticks. Magical posters differed significantly from Muggle ones; the depicted persons moved as if they were part of an endless, short film clip.

In the almost three weeks Harry had been here, sharing the room with Ron, Ron had tirelessly tried to convert Harry to a Cannons fan too. But Harry, who himself played Quidditch with great enthusiasm – he was Gryffindor's youngest Seeker in a century – loved the sport itself and didn't want to commit to a particular team. Ron had probably also hoped to win Harry as an advocate for the Cannons against his older brothers, Fred and George. The twins, known for their elaborate pranks and loose tongues, constantly teased Ron that the Cannons were a hopeless case. Yes, they too were Quidditch-mad and played together with Harry in the Gryffindor team as Beaters. Ron, on the other hand, hadn't made it onto the team yet, but he fervently hoped to snatch a spot one day. That's why he was now training daily like a madman during the holidays.

The Weasleys generally seemed to be a Quidditch-mad family. Ron, Fred, George, and Harry were almost every day together in the air, chasing the Quaffle – one of the three different game balls – and throwing it to each other. Initially, they had also played Seeker duels. In these, the smallest of the three game balls, the Golden Snitch, a tiny, almost inconspicuous golden ball with delicate silver wings, which moved like an arrow and unpredictably through the air, was released. Whoever caught it first won. But since Harry was simply unbeatable for the Weasley brothers, they refrained from it after a few one-sided matches. Nevertheless, these were definitely the three best holiday weeks of Harry's life so far.

Though he wished he could have spent more time with Neville, who also visited now and then. Neville, who had initially been staying with friends, was now trying to live with his grandmother Augusta again. According to him, she was trying to change. But Harry remained sceptical. Neville's relatives had treated him similarly badly to how the Dursleys treated Harry, albeit in a different way. Yet Neville seemed to trust his grandmother a little more now. His Uncle Algie, after all, had been forbidden contact with Neville – not by Neville's grandmother, but by Amelia Bones, Susan Bones's aunt, with whom Neville had spent the first part of his holidays.

How Harry wished he could talk to Neville now. Talking to his godbrother in person was completely different from the cumbersome exchange of owl post. Although Neville's letters were still not delivered directly to Harry. Harry and Neville had found a detour, however, by sending the letters to each other via Ron. But there were simply things Harry didn't want to clear up with Neville by letter.

Neville seemed to be keeping something from Harry, and Harry felt an uneasy feeling at the thought of it. He had to confront him about it eventually, before their friendship perhaps broke apart over it. It seemed to be the same secrets that Remus Lupin, an old friend of his parents, also hinted at to Harry, and which all somehow had to do with Sirius Black. The escaped mass murderer from Azkaban.

Azkaban, Ron had explained to him with a shuddering voice, was the most terrifying wizarding prison in the world. And Sirius Black was on the run, and the entire wizarding world believed he was after Harry. That's why Harry hadn't been allowed to leave the Burrow until now, not even for a short outing. How he wished he could go down to Ottery St Catchpole with Ron, the small Muggle village not far from the Burrow. Perhaps there was a record shop there. Harry loved music, something he and Neville had discovered for themselves during their short, shared adventure. And Harry would love to show Ron all the different Muggle musicians. Here at the Burrow, there was only the Wizarding Wireless Network, which was mainly listened to by Ron's mother.

Molly Weasley was an impressive woman. She loved her children above all else, but she also possessed a strict, resolute side, which, however, she had so far only shown towards her own children, especially Ron and the twins. Harry, on the other hand, was practically mothered by her, which Ron sometimes acknowledged with slightly resentful glances. She always made sure Harry ate enough – which was sorely needed after the years with the Dursleys – and that he took his potions on time. Harry had to take these potions so that the years of malnutrition, thanks to the Dursleys, could finally be counteracted.

Harry was currently poring over a letter from Hermione Granger, his other best friend, which his loyal snowy owl Hedwig had brought him, when he heard Molly Weasley's voice from downstairs calling him for breakfast. Oh yes, Hedwig. She was living with Harry again, by the way, since he had been at the Burrow, and visibly enjoyed the freedom and the many mice around the house.

Harry stood up and descended the creaking stairs. It was narrow, and each floor seemed to claim a different width in the stairwell, probably due to the fact that the Burrow had been adapted and extended over the years to the growing needs of the Weasley family. And the family seemed to have grown considerably over the years. For Arthur, Ron's father, and Molly Weasley had seven children: William, called Bill, Charlie, Percy, the twins Fred and George, Ron, and as the youngest and only girl, Ginny. Bill and Charlie no longer lived at the Burrow, and Harry only knew them from stories and numerous photographs scattered throughout the house.

Percy, Fred, George, and Ron went to Hogwarts with Harry. They were all, like Harry, in Gryffindor House.

Ginny would be coming to Hogwarts this year. She still seemed unable to fully grasp that Harry Potter, one of her great idols, was now living with them. Ron had advised him to just give her time. Harry now knew why Ginny admired him so much. It was the hair-raising stories that a certain Camila Sweeting published in her children's books. Lies, to be precise. Invented adventures about Harry's alleged heroic deeds. Harry didn't like that at all, but what could he do? He was just an eleven-year-old boy. He wouldn't be twelve until next week.

Because then it was his birthday. And Molly Weasley actually seemed to be planning a small party for him. He had accidentally overheard her one evening talking to Arthur about whom they could invite for Harry. Harry had never had a birthday party in his life, nor had he ever been invited to one. So he had absolutely no idea what to expect.

Downstairs in the cosy, but as always slightly chaotic kitchen, all the house residents were already gathered around the long wooden table. The scent of fried bacon, eggs, and toast hung in the air, mingling with the sweet smell of Mrs Weasley's famous pumpkin pasties.

For Harry, it was an almost incredible blessing not to have to stand at the stove himself anymore. At the Dursleys', he had been the one who had to slave away in the kitchen day after day. And woe betide if something burned! Then punishments rained down, which varied according to Uncle Vernon's mood or the severity of his alleged transgression. And no matter how hard he tried to prepare a decent meal for his relatives, in the end, Harry was often lucky if there were any meagre scraps left for him at all.

But here at the Burrow, everything was different. Molly Weasley watched with eagle eyes to ensure Harry got enough on his plate. Andromeda Tonks, Harry's caring Healer from St Mungo's, had even given her a precise list of what was particularly important for Harry's nutrition now.

Harry slumped into his chair. At first, he had been quite astonished at how the table set itself as if by magic and how the dirty dishes simply disappeared after the meal. But by now, he had gotten used to it. Magic, Harry often thought, a small smile flitting across his face, was a pretty amazing thing.

"Ron," Harry said to his friend, who sat opposite him with a full mouth, "Hermione wrote. She's apologising again for not being able to visit me in the hospital. I'm supposed to send you her regards and she wishes us great holidays." Ron mumbled an unintelligible reply, as a few toast crumbs flew across the table directly onto Percy's carefully ironed robes.

"Ronald Weasley!" Mrs Weasley immediately scolded her youngest son, whereupon Ron turned bright red. Harry had to grin, and Fred and George also seemed to visibly enjoy their little brother being reprimanded by their mother.

What Harry did conceal from Ron, however, was the rest of Hermione's letter. She wrote that she was really looking forward to seeing him soon – she had been invited to his birthday party. Harry wasn't sure if the whole thing was supposed to be a surprise party, so he decided it was better not to reveal anything. He would just pretend he knew nothing when the Weasleys put their secret plans into action.

"Ah, Harry, here, this is for you," Arthur Weasley said, handing Harry a letter across the table. Ron's father, like all Weasleys, had fiery red hair, though it had thinned a little at the temples. On his nose sat spectacles that looked not dissimilar to Harry's own. Normally, Mr Weasley would have long since been on his way to the Ministry in his official robes by this time. But today, on a Saturday, he was only wearing a simple shirt and a knitted waistcoat over it.

The Weasleys, Harry had quickly learned, didn't care much for stiff wizarding etiquette. Unlike representatives of old, noble wizarding families, they didn't constantly walk around in robes in their free time. Harry himself actually quite liked wizarding cloaks; he found them rather smart and they were surprisingly comfortable too. But since the Weasleys obviously didn't approve of them, he continued to wear his old Muggle clothes. Mrs Weasley had been incredibly kind and had shrunk Dudley's worn, much too large clothes – Dudley was Harry's incredibly fat cousin – to Harry's size with a spell, but secretly Harry longed for his own clothes.

On the next trip to Diagon Alley, he firmly resolved, I'll finally buy something of my own. Definitely. But for that, he first had to get to Diagon Alley, and that was easier said than done, as long as the Ministry insisted that Harry must not expose himself to any danger. Harry tore open the envelope. The letter was from Remus Lupin:

---

 

Dear Harry,

I am terribly sorry that I am only now getting back to you,

but some important things have happened that I unfortunately cannot tell you more about at the moment.

I am also currently not in the country.

But rest assured, as soon as the time is right,

I will explain everything to you.

I promise you that.

 

Just as firmly, I promise you that I will come by on your birthday.

Goodness, you'll be twelve already! If your parents knew what a great boy you've become.

 

Oh yes, and don't worry: I certainly haven't forgotten my promise about the Muggle music you wanted to take to Hogwarts.

I've found something simply perfect for you here at a small market.

I think you'll like it.

 

Many warm regards,

Remus

 

---

A warm feeling spread through Harry's chest as he read Remus's lines. Nevertheless, he couldn't shake a slight unease. It seemed as if Remus's letters, just like Neville's, didn't reach him directly, but had to take some strange detours. That was just one of the many questions that had been buzzing around Harry's head like annoying flies lately. Most of all, however, he was bothered by the damned secrecy of Neville and Remus. What did the two of them know that he wasn't allowed to know?

Harry had now found out that their secrets somehow revolved around Sirius Black, but what exactly was behind it remained a mystery to him. Deep down, Harry felt that it must have something to do with his own past. There were signs of it. And then there were the dreams.

Lately, Harry had been dreaming more frequently again. Fortunately, they weren't nightmares that made him wake up drenched in sweat. It was more a recurring, strangely peaceful memory of that night a few weeks ago in the tent, when he and Neville had run away from home. In this dream, a man always appeared – the man he now knew had to be Sirius Black – and this man seemed to lovingly care for him, Harry, who was still a baby in the dream. Nothing more happened in the dreams.

And fortunately, the real nightmares that had plagued him so often before also stayed away for now. Harry didn't even want to imagine what it would be like if he woke up screaming at night and Ron was sitting next to him in bed. He had only told Ron the bare minimum about his past. He simply didn't want to go into detail. Even for him, it was still unbearably difficult to talk about everything the Dursleys had done to him. So Ron knew about the scars on Harry's back, but not exactly how they got there. Harry knew he had to find someone to help him apply the healing ointment that Healer Tonks had prescribed, and Ron seemed to be the least of evils in that regard.

"Blimey! Sirius Black has been sighted in France!" Mr Weasley suddenly exclaimed in astonishment, looking up from the Daily Prophet he was reading at breakfast.

"Really?" Ron burst out, his eyes lighting up hopefully. "If Black's in France, then Harry and I can finally go to the village, can't we, Mum?" he asked, looking pleadingly at his mother. Ron desperately wanted to hear that Muggle music Harry had raved about so often.

"Absolutely not, Ronald!" Mrs Weasley said in a voice that brooked no argument. "The Ministry's instructions were unequivocal: Harry is not to leave the grounds of the Burrow under any circumstances without supervision!"

Disappointed, Ron hung his head and stared at his empty plate. If one were to sweep up all the crumbs scattered around his plate, one could probably make a whole slice of toast from them.

Harry also felt a pang of disappointment. These Ministry rules were truly maddening. Sirius Black, Harry suspected, was probably just a convenient excuse for the Ministry. Secretly, he believed that the people at the Ministry were simply terrified that he might run away again and thus cause another huge media commotion, just like the first time he and Neville had run away.

Back then, they had actually managed to hide from the entire Ministry for two weeks, which hadn't exactly strengthened faith in the competence of the Aurors – the Ministry's equivalent to the police. Two eleven-year-olds who could hide from the country's best hunters for so long! And it hadn't even been that terribly difficult: an Invisibility Cloak, a perfectly normal Muggle tent, and frequently changing locations had been entirely sufficient. The fact that Sirius Black had now allegedly been sighted abroad, of course, now strengthened confidence in the British Aurors again – after all, he was now another country's problem.

Harry hadn't even known until recently that there were so many different wizarding countries, but Ron had told him all about them. How he wished he could visit one of them! Ron himself had never been abroad either, but he had claimed to Harry that he didn't really care, it was best here on the British Isles anyway. Sometimes, however, Harry had noticed, Ron could hardly wait to move out of home; he clearly envied his older brothers Bill and Charlie. Both, incidentally, had long since stopped living in England.

Charlie worked in Romania, helping to raise dragons, and Bill was a Curse-Breaker for Gringotts, the wizarding bank, in Egypt. All of this sounded like incredible adventures and infinitely exciting to Harry.

The fact that Harry wasn't allowed out unsupervised, by the way, thoroughly scuppered one of his plans. He was actually desperate to go to Diagon Alley. He was still frantically looking for a present for his godbrother Neville. Because he and Ron were invited to Neville's twelfth birthday, which was next Thursday. And for that, he urgently needed new clothes. Festive wizarding robes, Neville had informed him in a slightly crumpled letter, that befitted his status as heir to the House of Potter. His grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, was planning a "fitting reception," whatever that might mean. Harry couldn't imagine anything at all, but Neville had sent him a long list of things to get, and where to find them, just in case. And to be able to pay for all of this, he naturally first had to go to Gringotts.

Gringotts, the wizarding bank, was also located in Diagon Alley and was run by extremely peculiar, small creatures with long fingers and pointed ears – the Goblins. Many wizards, Harry had noticed, weren't quite sure how to deal with Goblins, and considered them subordinate beings, but Harry liked their businesslike manner and their dry humour.

So now the big question was: How was he supposed to get all this done in less than a week? He put all his hope in his check-up appointment on Monday at St Mungo's. Perhaps Andromeda Tonks could help him. She had already done so much for him, maybe she would lend him a hand this time too. And if he was already in Diagon Alley, he could also get a present for Ginny. Her birthday wasn't until next month, but who knew when he would get the chance again?

Harry barely noticed in his brooding that all the other Weasleys had long since finished breakfast and only he was still sitting at his plate. As so often, Harry ate excruciatingly slowly. But woe betide if his plate wasn't empty! Mrs Weasley saw to that with the strictness of a lioness. At first, Harry had found it incredibly difficult, but thanks to Healer Tonks's strengthening potions and the cheerful distraction at the Weasley breakfast table, it gradually became easier for him to eat normal meals again.

And speaking of distraction: Mr Weasley, as usual, had one of his countless questions ready, with which he regularly grilled Harry at the table. It had all started innocently enough with the question about the deeper meaning of rubber ducks. By now, Harry felt as if every other day he had to explain some complicated Muggle object that Mr Weasley had confiscated at his work in the Ministry. Mr Weasley headed the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office there.

"Tell me, Harry, what exactly do you need one of these for?" Arthur Weasley now asked, holding a shiny screwdriver under Harry's nose.

"That's for screwing things in, with screws," Harry explained patiently. "Muggles just don't use magic to fix things anywhere." Harry knew this, because the countless Weasley family photos hanging all over the Burrow floated on the walls without nails, held only by magic.

"Thank you, Harry! We confiscated this from an elderly lady yesterday. She wanted to fashion an unregistered international Portkey to Poland out of it. Almost sent a poor Muggle halfway across Europe!" The idea of wizards travelling the world with enchanted everyday objects was still quite bizarre to Harry. Although he knew it worked. Neville had explained it to him, and he himself had even travelled once – albeit unconsciously – by Portkey.

After Harry had finally swallowed his last bite, the company at the table slowly dispersed. To Harry's great relief, no one ever complained that he took so long to eat. Everyone always patiently remained seated until he was finished too. Only then did Molly Weasley wave her wand, and as if pulled by invisible hands, the plates floated to the sink, where they were scrubbed sparkling clean by magically animated brushes before disappearing neatly stacked into the cupboards. All leftovers and groceries also found their way back to their rightful place as if by themselves.

Harry certainly didn't have to go hungry at the Weasleys', quite the opposite. And yet he always subtly kept an eye on where which supplies were stored – you never knew when you might need them. Ten years with the Dursleys had simply left their mark. Invisible marks like these, or visible ones that Harry carefully hid from the eyes of others. Ron now knew the marks Harry hid from the world. Ron belonged to the small, select circle whom Harry had at least partially confided in about his secret.

That's why he asked Ron to come upstairs with him after breakfast. Ron was to help him apply the healing ointment to the scars on his back.

When Ron first saw the scars, he had turned pale with shock and could hardly believe what he was seeing. It had been on Harry's very first day at the Burrow, and Harry had had to decide whom to trust. Ron had been the best choice, without a doubt. The more often he helped Harry with it at first, the greater Ron's anger at the Dursleys had grown. He would have loved to set off immediately to take revenge on them in Harry's name, even if he hadn't had the slightest idea how. Harry had had great difficulty talking him out of it. Then there was a time when Ron blamed himself terribly for not having noticed something earlier. During that time, Harry had bitterly regretted telling Ron about it at all. By now, however, Ron was simply infinitely glad that Harry was now with them and no longer had to go back to those terrible Dursleys. Ron would have cursed anyone who dared to send Harry even near the Dursleys. What Harry did conceal from Ron, however, was the fact that Albus Dumbledore, the universally revered Headmaster of Hogwarts and arguably the greatest living wizard, was largely responsible for Harry ending up with the Dursleys in the first place. He didn't want to completely shatter Ron's perfect worldview, so Harry remained stubbornly silent.

Ron grabbed the small tin of healing ointment as soon as they were back upstairs in his cluttered room, and Harry hesitantly took off his shirt. Carefully and with surprisingly gentle fingers, Ron rubbed the cool cream over Harry's entire back. Harry immediately felt the pleasant coolness spread and his skin relax a little. Not as strongly as at the beginning, but still noticeable.

"You can barely see anything anymore," Ron said encouragingly, but Harry knew better. He would carry these scars forever. They had become a part of him, making him who he was. That one scar that the whole world could see, and those that remained invisible to most. They never spoke much while Ron was creaming him, and otherwise, they rarely talked about Harry's scars. Ron seemed to find it just as uncomfortable as Harry himself. But Ron had been the best choice, after all. Harry trusted him, and Ron seemed grateful for that trust.

As soon as they were finished, Harry quickly pulled his shirt back on. And it was a good thing too, because not a second later, Ginny burst into the room without knocking. Almost, yes, almost she could have seen Harry's scarred back.

"Ron, say, could I have your broom?" Ginny asked breathlessly.

"Ever heard of knocking, Ginny?" Ron snapped at her a bit testily. "No, of course not! Mum will kill me if anything happens to you!"

"You can have mine," Harry offered Ginny, who then looked at him with beaming eyes, thanked him effusively, and happily ran back downstairs.

"Tell me, Ron," Harry began, once Ginny's footsteps on the stairs had faded, "why don't you let Ginny fly?"

"Oh, Harry, you don't understand," Ron tried to explain, scratching his head awkwardly. "She's my little sister, and it's just far too dangerous."

Harry really didn't understand. In his eyes, Ron and his brothers were sometimes far too overprotective when it came to Ginny. Harry thanked Ron again and told him that he also wanted to come out flying soon, but he first had to quickly put his things away.

"Alright, see you in a bit, Harry!" Ron called, already halfway down the stairs, clattering down the steps. Harry took the ointment tin and his crumpled pyjamas from last night and went to his battered trunk, which stood in a corner of Ron's room.

Harry's trunk had definitely seen better days. Not least when he had simply left it on the Hogwarts Express when he and Neville had run away head over heels. Neville had a much better trunk, one with all sorts of useful enchantments. Harry was just making a mental note that he absolutely had to get a practical trunk like Neville's in Diagon Alley – feather-light, shrinkable to backpack size, and enchanted with a bottomless charm – when his gaze fell on something that definitely didn't belong in his trunk.

A small note was tucked between his folded robes. A note on which an ominous message was written in scrawling, red script:

"HOGWARTS IS NOT SAFE!"

"What the hell...?" Harry exclaimed loudly.

 

Notes:

Hey, thanks for reading! 😃

Just a heads-up, this year our characters are definitely getting their own storylines. We'll be sticking with Harry for the next few chapters, then shifting focus to Neville. And later on, you'll even get to see what some other characters are up to!

Things are really kicking off this school year, with a lot happening at the same time. To keep everything feeling connected, I've been deep-diving into calendars, family trees, and even creating some of my own as I write. Honestly, it's a blast!

Hope you're still enjoying the ride!

What do you think about Neville being back with his Gran?
And why do you reckon he and Remus are still holding out on Harry?
Also, any guesses who left that message at the end?

Can't wait to read your comments as always!

Chapter 3: Chapter Two: What Titles are Those?

Summary:

A chaotic start to the day throws Harry into a desperate scramble, but forgetting one seemingly small thing on his shopping trip unveils a monumental secret far beyond his wildest imagination.

Notes:

Hello readers, and welcome to Chapter 2!

A quick note regarding content: Harry is a traumatized child, and as such, there are moments where his past mistreatment is referenced. Additionally, this chapter depicts Harry experiencing a panic attack. Please read with care.

Two days had passed, and there was still no trace of the mysterious sender of the message. Two seemingly endless days during which Harry had racked his brain trying to figure out who on earth could have smuggled that ominous note into his trunk. His first suspicion had naturally fallen on the Weasley twins. Fred and George were notorious for their absurd and often hair-raising pranks, and such an act could certainly have been attributed to them. But something didn't quite fit. Normally, at least as Harry had observed in their previous misdeeds, the twins always lurked somewhere nearby to gleefully witness the reaction of their unsuspecting victims. But when Harry had discovered the message in his trunk on Saturday, Fred and George had been outside playing a round of Quidditch with Ron. So that really only left Ron himself, with whom Harry, after all, shared a room. Harry had directly confronted Ron about it, but he had sworn with wide, innocent eyes that the note was absolutely not from him. So who, by Merlin's beard, would put a note in his trunk, on which it was scrawled in crooked letters that Hogwarts was not safe?

The riddle didn't let Harry go all weekend, but since no further messages appeared and the message – if one looked at it closely – was basically even true (Hogwarts was, by all accounts, not necessarily the safest place in the world, even if some people firmly claimed it was), Harry's initial excitement gradually subsided. He could immediately count at least three occasions on his fingers when he had personally been in acute mortal danger at Hogwarts. There was the Troll attack last school year on Halloween. And then, of course, Professor Quirrell, that stammering, nervous teacher who had turned out to be Lord Voldemort's henchman and had tried twice to make Harry's life more than just difficult: first with the jinxed broom during the important Quidditch match against Slytherin, and then when he tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone for Voldemort. Although, if Harry thought about it, Quirrell had even been responsible three times, because after all, he had let the Troll into the castle in the first place. So after less than a day, Harry just shrugged when he thought about the strange message. There were more important things.

Much more important now was to plan his upcoming visit to St Mungo's. He would have to spend a night there in the hospital. Healer Tonks had already explained it to him with a serious expression: part of his bones had to be magically regrown because his bone fractures had grown back poorly, because his magic had somehow tried to mend him as a child.

Harry, however, desperately wanted to take the opportunity, if he was already escaping the Burrow, to get presents and all the other things on his list. He had written a letter to Andromeda Tonks asking if he could meet her a little earlier on Monday and if she could go to Diagon Alley with him. Otherwise, he had desperately explained in the letter, he would probably never get out of the Burrow, because the entire wizarding world believed Sirius Black was after him, and he was therefore not allowed to set foot outside without proper escort.

Harry had cunningly mentioned in his letter to Andromeda that the errands were for Neville's birthday, in the silent hope that she would then be more likely to agree. Andromeda knew exactly what a deep and special bond connected him and Neville; she had witnessed it with her own eyes during her visits to the hospital.

To Harry's great disappointment, however, Andromeda replied that she unfortunately, absolutely had no time to go to Diagon Alley with him. But she solemnly promised to find someone who would take care of it with him and then bring him to St Mungo's punctually and unharmed in the evening. So Harry had arranged to meet at the Leaky Cauldron on the morning of the twenty-seventh of July, that shady but somehow also cosy pub that concealed the secret entrance to Diagon Alley. Arthur Weasley would accompany him there and hand him over to his "watchdog for the day," as Mr Weasley had called it with a wink.

So that Harry wouldn't forget any of his important errands during this unique opportunity, he had made a detailed list of everything he had to do in Diagon Alley. Fortunately, Neville, with a view to the upcoming "fitting reception" that his strict grandmother Augusta was planning for her grandson, had already sent him a list of suitable shops in advance:

• Gringotts -> withdraw money (very, very urgent!)

• Twilfitt and Tatting -> A decent set of dress robes including matching shoes for Neville's birthday + perhaps one or two more robes for "special occasions" (whatever that might mean, it sounded terribly formal)

• Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions -> Everyday robes for Hogwarts and leisure (just nothing that looked like Dudley’s old clothes!)

• Gaberlunzie Garments -> Normal Muggle everyday clothes like shirts, trousers and, most importantly, new underwear (finally!)

• Noltie's Botanical Novelties -> Present for Neville (something really special was needed, perhaps a rare plant?)

• Flourish & Blotts -> Present for Ginny (a new book perhaps? Something more exciting?)

• The Capacious Carry-All -> A new trunk with all the great enchantments Neville's also had: feather-light, bottomless, and equipped with a practical shrinking charm.

 

Harry desperately hoped that he would have a little time afterwards to simply stroll through the bustling Diagon Alley and marvel at the fascinating displays of the many magical shops. But he wasn't sure if there would even be enough time for that, with all the shops he had to visit. Now that he finally had the chance, he also wanted to replace his entire wardrobe. No more of Dudley's old, worn-out, and far too big clothes! His plan was packed to the brim. He was ready.

But it wouldn't have been a typical morning at the Burrow if something unforeseen hadn't happened. And on this Monday morning, it was Harry, of all people, who had overslept hopelessly.

"Harry? Harry, are you awake yet? Arthur's about to leave!" Mrs Weasley's worried voice drifted up the creaking stairs from downstairs. Harry shot up and sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding in his throat. He had overslept! Never in his life had he overslept. At the Dursleys', he had always been the first one on his feet, and had to make sure, punctual as clockwork, that breakfast was on the table before Uncle Vernon came thundering down the stairs in a bad mood. And today, of all days, when he had so incredibly much planned, today of all days he had overslept!

Panic, icy cold and tingling, rose within him. Harry rushed like a startled chicken to his trunk, ripped it open, and changed at lightning speed, almost tripping over his own feet. Fortunately, he had already placed his shopping list on top of the trunk the evening before, so he couldn't forget it in his haste now. Ron, by the way, hadn't noticed any of the commotion. He lay sprawled on his stomach in bed, his mouth slightly open, snoring softly, while his loyal rat Scabbers had made himself comfortable on his back and also seemed to be slumbering.

Harry hurried down the stairs, being careful not to slip on the uneven steps. Downstairs in the warm, fragrant kitchen, Molly and Arthur Weasley were already waiting. Ron's mother was still wearing her floral dressing gown, but Arthur was already in his dark green Ministry robes and was spooning his porridge with visible appetite.

"Come on, Harry, dear, eat quickly, you two have to leave soon!" Mrs Weasley said, pushing a plate with a huge mound of toast and homemade strawberry jam towards him. Harry had never eaten so fast in his life. Toast, a few juicy apple slices, and a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice he had swallowed in no time, as if there were no tomorrow. Then he quickly downed the mushy-peas-tasting but strengthening nutritional potion that Healer Tonks had prescribed for him, and Harry was, albeit with a pounding heart, ready to set off with Arthur Weasley. "All set, Harry, my boy? Do you have everything important with you?" Ron's father asked him, surveying him with a friendly but also slightly worried smile. Harry nodded, the ill-fitting taste of the potion for the time of day still on his tongue.

He had barely swallowed it properly when Mr Weasley already pressed a handful of silvery shimmering powder into his hand. Floo powder. That special powder that one had to throw into a fireplace to travel as if by magic from one fireplace to the next – provided, of course, the fireplace was connected to the Floo Network. Fortunately, Ron and Neville had shown him how it worked during Neville's last visit. Harry didn't even want to imagine where he would end up if he mispronounced or indistinctly spoke his destination now, in the rush of his overslept morning. Neville had told him with a shudder that as a seven-year-old, he had once ended up in the "Green Brass Inn" instead of the Greengrasses', just because he had been so terribly nervous. It had taken an age to find him there again.

Mr Weasley had already disappeared with a soft hiss into the emerald green flames that carried one away as soon as the powder was thrown and the name of one's destination was called out loud and clear. Harry now stepped somewhat apprehensively into the soot-blackened fireplace. He took a deep breath and called out as clearly as he could: "Diagon Alley!" Then he let the Floo powder fall onto the glowing logs. At the exact moment the cool, green flames engulfed him and pulled him upwards, he saw out of the corner of his eye Ron's mother sprinting towards him with wide eyes. "Wait, Harry, your k...!" he heard her call, but it was too late.

With a strange tugging sensation in his navel, Harry arrived at his destination. He stumbled more than walked out of the fireplace and was fortunately caught by Ron's father, who was already waiting for him.

"Everything alright, Harry?" Mr Weasley asked worriedly. "Yes, yes," Harry nodded, a little dazed. That had definitely been an experience in itself. Not quite as bad as the dreadful feeling of Apparating, but pleasant was different.

Harry looked around. He was in the Leaky Cauldron, the infamous wizarding pub that was so dark and dim that Harry first had to get used to the sparse light after the green flames of the Floo Network had blinded him so much. Just as his eyes began to make out the outlines of the tables and the shady figures at the bar, he heard a cheerful voice behind him.

"Wotcher, Harry!" It was the young Auror Harry and Neville had briefly met before. Andromeda Tonks's child, Nymphadora, or as they preferred to be called, simply Tonks. With their bright pink hair, which looked as if they'd stuck their finger in an electrical socket, they definitely stood out. Though, Andromeda had once explained to him that her child could change their hair colour on a whim. It was something special, a gift. But Harry, of course, had promptly forgotten what that gift was called. She also explained to him that Andromeda's child doesn't see themself as either female or male. Harry didn't quite grasp it, but Andromeda had assured him it was perfectly alright; he was just a child and didn't have to understand everything. As long as Tonks was nice, Harry didn't much care whether they saw themselves as a boy or a girl.

So Tonks was his "watchdog for the day," Harry wondered. That made sense. Andromeda wanted someone to look after him, and who better than her own child, who was also an Auror in training? Probably that way the Ministry couldn't raise any flimsy objections either.

"Right then, Harry, we'll see you tomorrow morning," Mr Weasley said, patting Harry encouragingly on the shoulder and bidding him farewell. "And Tonks, you look after him properly, won't you?"

"Will do, sir!" Tonks said, saluting with two fingers to their forehead as if they were a soldier receiving orders. Then they grinned at Harry with an almost childlike smile. "So, Harry, where to first?"

"Um," Harry stammered a little shyly. He wasn't sure how the young Auror would react to him after he had more or less fled from them and their colleagues a few weeks ago.

"I've got a list here." Harry fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out the crumpled note with everything he wanted to get done today.

"Blimey, Harry, that's quite a lot!" Tonks said after a quick glance at the list. "If you want to be at my mum's on time later, we'll have to get a move on." Harry nodded eagerly, and together they left the Leaky Cauldron through the back exit into the small, walled courtyard. Tonks pulled out their wand as they stood before the plain brick wall. In the same pattern as Hagrid had shown him a year ago, Tonks tapped certain bricks with the tip of their wand, and with a soft rumble, the wall before them opened up the entrance to Diagon Alley.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley! Here you'll find everything a young wizard's heart desires," Tonks said to Harry in a theatrical voice, as if they were presenting the wonders of Diagon Alley for the very first time to an unsuspecting Muggle-born or a sheltered, country-raised first-year. Harry rolled his eyes.

"Right then, where first?" they then asked quite normally, as if they were the one who was here for the first time.

"Gringotts," Harry said dryly and walked determinedly ahead. Tonks whirled around him the whole time like an over-excited rubber ball. Harry had really not imagined Tonks, the young Auror, like this. They seemed incredibly energetic and a bit... well, chaotic. Harry thought a little of Neville, how he had dragged him enthusiastically across the fairground back then.

They arrived at Gringotts. The imposing, snow-white marble building with its huge bronze doors was unmistakable and radiated a certain, awe-inspiring coolness. Harry and Tonks walked up the wide steps. Two goblins in scarlet and gold uniforms, which looked a little like hotel bellboys, only much grimmer, guarded the entrance armed with sharp spears. Harry politely nodded to the goblin guards. They returned the gesture with a curt, stiff bow, but maintained their unmistakable, expressionless demeanour. Though – had Harry just fleetingly seen one of the goblins raise an eyebrow mockingly?

As they entered the huge, marble hall, Harry saw endless rows of high counters stretching along both sides of the room. Where on earth was he supposed to queue here? He was absolutely not sure. Witches and wizards stood everywhere in long queues, waiting to conduct their financial affairs. Countless goblins in their striped banker uniforms bustled back and forth among them, who, due to their small stature, seemed ideally suited to skilfully navigate through the legs of the queuing wizards.

"You can queue over there, Harry," Tonks said, who had apparently noticed that Harry looked a little lost and overwhelmed, and pointed to a row of counters located at the back of the hall. They walked there together. The queue was fortunately not particularly long, probably due to the many open counters. Most witches and wizards, like Harry, were probably at Gringotts to withdraw or deposit money.

When Harry finally reached the front of the queue, a particularly grim-looking goblin sat behind the counter. He wore the typical banker's uniform that all the other goblins at the counters also wore, and looked down at Harry from his high chair, who didn't quite reach the counter.

"Um, Harry Potter," Harry began a little shyly and cleared his throat. "I, I'd like to get something from my vault."

"Ah yes," the goblin croaked, leaning forward slightly, his small, black eyes scrutinising Harry suspiciously. "Then the key, please."

"Yes, of course, the key." Harry was about to routinely reach into his trouser pocket to pull out his small, golden vault key, but he froze. The pocket was empty. Where was it? Where, for heaven's sake, was his key? Panic, cold and paralysing, crept up on Harry. Tonks and the goblin both seemed to be eyeing him with a mixture of scepticism and impatience. The key! In all the rush this morning, he had forgotten it! Ron's mother still had it! That's what she had called after him! He had forgotten the damned key!

"Um," Harry stammered, feeling the flush rise to his face. "What, what if you don't have the key with you? Is there any other way?" Harry put on the most pleading face he could muster. He absolutely had to get into his vault today, he absolutely needed money today, today was the absolute only opportunity to get everything for Neville's birthday!

The goblin made a sound that sounded suspiciously like an annoyed sigh. "Come with me," he then growled curtly. Harry nodded in relief. The goblin jumped down from his high counter chair with astonishing agility.

"Follow me," he said in a voice as dry as old parchment. Harry obediently followed him. They walked past two heavily armed goblin guards who seemed to be guarding a dark passage.

"Hey, what's going on?" Harry suddenly heard Tonks protest behind him. Harry turned around, bewildered, and saw Tonks being prevented from following him by the two guards with crossed spears.

"Hey, you little gnome-heads...!" Tonks snarled, but before they could say anything else, the guards pressed the sharp ends of their spears threateningly in front of their nose.

"Okay, okay, calm down!" Tonks said quickly, raising their hands in appeasement.

"Harry, we'll see each other again in a moment, alright? Everything will be fine!" Everything will be fine? Did Harry have something to fear? He just wanted to withdraw some money!

"Come with me!" the goblin barked sharply at Harry again. Harry nodded apprehensively and followed him. The magnificent, brightly lit hall was abruptly replaced by dark, damp stone passages. Harry followed the goblin deeper and deeper into the labyrinth under Gringotts. Where was he leading him? Had he done something wrong?

Finally, Harry was led into a small, unadorned room where only a simple wooden table stood. Behind the table, countless dusty paper scrolls overflowed from crowded shelves. Other parts of the room were adorned with old, rusty weapons and dented shields. Where on earth had he ended up? "Wait!" the goblin commanded curtly. Then he left the room, and behind him the heavy oak door slammed shut with a dull thud that sent a chill down Harry's spine.

Harry was alone now. In a room that looked as if nothing had been touched in centuries, except perhaps a few cobwebs. What should he do? What was happening to him here? What, for heaven's sake, did these goblins want from him?

He looked around a little apprehensively. He had to admit, an uneasy feeling was creeping up on him. Hagrid had, after all, emphatically warned him that goblins were not to be trifled with. Harry swallowed hard. Slowly, as if fearing the floor might collapse beneath him, he moved to one of the creaking wooden chairs standing at the wobbly table and sat down.

His gaze wandered uncertainly around the room. What kind of strange place was this? A kind of storage room for forgotten treasures and dangerous artefacts? Harry waited. And waited. At least ten endless minutes, which felt like an eternity, passed until the heavy door finally opened again with a loud creak and an unfamiliar goblin entered. Behind him, the door slammed shut with a dull thud, and two grim-looking goblin guards, armed with shining halberds, positioned themselves in front of it. They seemed to be guarding the door to make sure Harry didn't get any ideas about running off. Harry suddenly felt as if he were a hardened criminal about to be interrogated.

The goblin who had entered hopped onto the chair opposite him with astonishing agility and scrutinised Harry with his small, pearl-like eyes.

"Mr Potter, I presume?" he asked in a voice that sounded as dry as the rustle of old parchment.

"Y-yes?" Harry stammered, his voice sounding anxious and more like a question than an answer.

"Don't you know that yourself?" the goblin retorted, and a hint of something that sounded suspiciously like mockery flitted across his wrinkled face. He was clearly amused by Harry's uncertainty.

"Be that as it may, I am here to unequivocally establish your identity. My name, by the way, is Godmurk." Harry nodded silently.

"How... how do you propose to do that?" Harry asked with a trembling voice.

"Well," Godmurk said, interlocking his long, bony fingers on the table in front of him, "I will conduct a blood test. That will unequivocally tell me whether you are indeed who you claim to be." Harry nodded again. A blood test. That sounded ominous somehow.

"Then, of course, we also need to determine whether you are truly here of your own free will. Lest you be under the influence of an evil curse or a treacherous potion," Godmurk now grinned quite openly mischievously, "though I don't seriously assume that a cheeky, pink-haired Auror would dare to hit the famous Boy Who Lived with one of the Unforgivables." A soft, gurgling laugh escaped Godmurk.

"So, Mister Potter. Your hand, please." Harry reluctantly obeyed. What else could he do? Running away was hardly an option given the two muscular guards at the door. And refusing the blood test probably wouldn't do him much good either, because this seemed to be the only way he would get his money without his cursed key. So Harry hesitantly extended his hand. It trembled slightly.

"Nervous?" Godmurk asked with feigned sympathy, as he pulled a long, silvery needle and two blank parchment scrolls from a drawer. Even the two guards at the door now seemed to straighten up and stare at Harry with inscrutable expressions. Harry's nervousness reached a new peak. His heart hammered in his throat.

"One scroll," Godmurk explained, pointing a bony finger at the first parchment, "will confirm your identity and show us which vaults you might rightfully be entitled to. The second scroll, however, will reveal any magical influences you may be under." Harry understood. Or at least he thought he understood.

The goblin took Harry's trembling hand and pressed the needle into his index finger with a short, firm prick. Harry hissed softly. He was to let a few drops of his blood drip onto each of the two parchment scrolls. After Harry, with gritted teeth, had let seven deep red drops of blood fall onto each parchment, the goblin carefully took them in his bony hands and shook them a little. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see words slowly forming on the blood-soaked areas, as if written by an invisible hand. But he couldn't for the life of him make out what was written there.

"Interesting," the goblin murmured after a while, raising one of his bushy eyebrows in surprise. Interesting? What on earth was interesting, pray tell? What was written on those cursed scrolls?

"You'll excuse me," the goblin then suddenly said, stood up with a jerk, and left the room without another word. Harry was left alone again, apart from the two silent guards who remained like stone statues outside the door. What had this test revealed? Was he not who he had always thought he was after all? Was he under some mysterious influences that he himself knew nothing about? The uncertainty gnawed at him like a hungry Niffler at a gold piece. What if he wasn't who he thought he was? His breathing became faster and shallower. But before he could completely lose himself in his gloomy thoughts, the door opened again.

Another goblin entered, taller and older than Godmurk, and in his hands he held – were those Harry's parchment scrolls with the test results? Harry swallowed hard. This goblin wore an elegant, black uniform, adorned with fine, silver patterns, and on his long, pointed nose sat a small, round pair of spectacles. He visibly took his time settling into the chair opposite Harry. His spectacles slid down a little as he scrutinised Harry with a penetrating gaze over the rim of his lenses.

"Well, Mr..." the goblin began, and his voice faltered for a moment. It sounded old, very old, and somehow solemn. "The good news first: you are completely free of any magical influences that could affect your behaviour or your decisions." Phew, Harry thought with relief, at least that. But he still had the uneasy feeling that something was completely wrong. "Mr... Black," the goblin then continued with a meaningful voice.

Black? Had Harry heard correctly? Black? Not Potter? But Black? Harry's mind began to whir like a broken till. What, by all exploding cauldrons, was that supposed to mean now?

"Mr Black, or perhaps I should say, Heir Black-Potter," the old goblin continued with a slight, almost amused smile, "you are indeed who you claimed to be."

He was him? Harry thought, confused. But why Black and not Potter? And why on earth Black-Potter? What did all this mean?

"Well, to alleviate your obvious confusion a little," the old goblin said, pushing one of the parchments across the table to Harry, "perhaps you should take a look at the test result yourself." Harry took the parchment with trembling fingers. On it, in flowing, golden script, was written:

---

Goblin Blood Test Result

Gringotts Wizarding Bank – Department of Genealogy & Inheritance Claims

Date of Test: 27th July 1992

Subject: Harrison (Harry) James Potter

Personal Data

• Birth Name: Haedus James Arcturus Black-Potter

• Date of Birth: 31st July 1980

• Current Name: Harrison (Harry) James Potter

• Name Change: Blood adoption and renaming to Harrison (Harry) James Potter on 31st July 1980 by James Fleamont Potter.

Biological Parentage

• Father: Sirius Orion Black III

  • Date of Birth: 3rd November 1959

• Mother: Liliy J. Evans (née Liliane Juliette Riddle)

  • Date of Birth: 30th January 1960

  • Date of Adoption by the Evans Family: 27th October 1960

Godparentage

• Godfather: Remus Lyall Lupin

  • Date of Birth: 10th March 1960

• Godmother: Alice Miranda Longbottom (née Fowler)

  • Date of Birth: 8th July 1959

Inheritance Claims & Titles

Based on this Goblin Blood Test, the following inheritance claims and titles for Harrison (Harry) James Potter are confirmed:

• Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

• Heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Potter

• Heir to the Noble and Ancient House of Gaunt

• Heir to the House of Slytherin

• Heir to the House of Peverell

Gringotts Bank Notes

All information listed above has been verified by the Gringotts Blood Test and is legally binding. For the activation or claiming of inheritances or associated vaults and possessions, a personal appearance of the heir or an authorised representative at Gringotts Wizarding Bank is required. Further information on individual inheritances can be requested from the Department of Genealogy and Inheritance Claims.

---

 

Harry read the test. The first time, he merely skimmed the lines, already feeling a faint, nauseating sensation rising in the pit of his stomach. He read it a second time, slower this time, word by word. The discomfort grew stronger, turning into a cold knot that tightened inside him. His breath became faster, shallower. Sirius Black was his father. Harry couldn't understand the world anymore. Why was Sirius his father? Why had he, Harry, been blood-adopted by his supposed father, James Potter, on the day he was born? A stabbing pain shot through Harry's chest. He had so many questions, but he couldn't form a single one clearly. The letters on the parchment began to dance before his eyes, blurring into an unreadable mess. Harry or Haedus. He no longer knew. His breathing became faster and faster, more gasping, but he felt as if no more air was reaching his lungs. Water. He needed water. His mouth felt like parched desert earth. He had to get out of here. Out of this stuffy, eerie room. Where was the exit? Harry couldn't see it. Haedus didn't know where the door was. Air. He couldn't get any more air. He couldn't move. Why couldn't he stand up? He couldn't speak. Why was his voice failing him? Fresh air. He desperately needed fresh air. Why wasn't anyone helping him? Why was no one there for him? Why... air... Did it feel like dying? Was Harry dying right now? Why couldn't anyone see that he was about to die?

"Heir Black," Harry heard a voice as if from a great distance. "Mr Black-Potter," it was the voice of the old goblin.

"Drink something." Harry felt a cool glass of water being pressed into his trembling hand. His shaky hand clutched the glass, he brought it to his mouth and took a small sip. But shortly afterwards it slipped from his fingers and shattered with a loud clatter on the stone floor. The sound of the breaking glass sharply jolted him out of his daze and made him realise where he was again. He was in Gringotts. In this eerie room.

"Don't worry about it," said the goblin's voice, which now sounded clearer again. Harry was handed a new glass of water. He felt incredibly exhausted, as if he had just run a marathon. He knew again why he was here. The blood test. Oh God, what had that just been? Should he be ashamed of it? He definitely was ashamed of it. He took another deep gulp of water.

"Well, Heir Black," Harry heard the goblin say, who, as Harry could now clearly see again, was still sitting calmly opposite him. "As you can see, you are who you claim to be." Was he really? Was he Harry Potter? But the test said he was Haedus Black. Harry had so many questions buzzing around his head like a swarm of bees. Why was his name Haedus James Arcturus Black-Potter? Why was Sirius Black his father and not James Potter? Why had he been blood-adopted? Why didn't he know that his mother had also been adopted? And what, by the holy Hippogriff, were these adventurous titles he had supposedly inherited? Harry, Haedus, Harrison, whatever his name really was, desperately tried to order his swirling thoughts. Neville had told him several times that he was the Heir to the House of Potter. So that wasn't really new information. But the rest? Was it normal to have so many titles at once?

"Heir Black," the goblin said with an angelic patience Harry wouldn't have credited him with, "it seems you have a few questions. Let me tell you beforehand: You inherited the titles of the House of Black and the House of Potter through your fathers. The titles of the House of Gaunt and the House of Slytherin seem to originate from your maternal side. The only thing I don't quite understand at the moment is how you came to acquire the title of the House of Peverell. This House, as far as we know, died out around eight hundred years ago, and since then no one has borne this title." Harry was completely overwhelmed by all these titles and their enigmatic meanings. He absolutely had to talk to Neville about it. Neville knew about such things.

Sirius Black was his father. So much suddenly made a terrible, confusing kind of sense. The dream he'd had in the tent. How Sirius had so lovingly cared for him there. Sirius knew. Of course, he knew. And Remus was his godfather. Why had he never told him that? Alice Longbottom was his godmother – that, at least, wasn't entirely new information; Neville had told him about it for the first time last year. Harry felt his head spinning. He had to let all this sink in first. It would surely take days, if not weeks, for him to even begin to process it all.

"Heir Black," the old goblin now said with a hint of impatience in his voice, "I would now like to proceed with the protocol, if it pleases you." Harry nodded silently. "Good," the goblin continued, "the tests have shown that you are neither under the Imperius Curse nor influenced by any love or confusion potions." So far, so good, Harry thought, trying to follow the goblin's explanations.

"The only things we found were the blood adoption, which is logical given the blood test result, as well as an owl post protection ward and something we cannot precisely identify, though I strongly suspect it is connected to your scar. All in all, nothing truly alarming." Nothing alarming? Someone had placed an owl post protection ward on him – something he had suspected all along, and now he had it in black and white! And then there was this indefinable something with his scar. How could this goblin be so completely calm?

"Heir Black-Potter," the goblin said again, looking intently at Harry, "I would suggest we now proceed to your vault and withdraw some money, as you originally intended. In the meantime, my employees will attend to the rings." What rings?, Harry thought, but the word "vault" sounded good to his ears for now. Harry nodded again. He had been completely silent the whole time anyway, unable to utter a single word.

"Very well then, follow me. Oh, I haven't even told you my name yet. My name is Ragnok, and I am the Account Manager of the House of Black. So, in a way, I am now your personal Account Manager as well." He had an Account Manager? Did all wizards have that, or only particularly rich and important families? Another of countless questions Harry now had. He really ought to get into the habit of carrying a notepad and quill to write down all the things he still wanted to find out.

Harry silently followed Ragnok through the dark, winding corridors until they finally arrived at one of the small, rumbling carts that took one at breakneck speed to the underground vaults. Just like a year ago, when Hagrid had first brought him here to access his inheritance – Vault Number 687. Harry and Ragnok got in, and no sooner had they taken their seats than the cart sped off, through a labyrinth of tunnels that stretched like the intestines of a giant beast beneath Gringotts.

During the wild ride, which turned Harry's stomach, he asked Ragnok with a slightly trembling voice: "Um, what would you have done if I had come here today under foreign influence or, well, wasn't who I am?" Ragnok let out a dry laugh that echoed in the narrow tunnels. "Then we would have fed you to the dragon, young sir," he said and grinned at Harry with his sharp teeth. When he saw Harry's startled face, he laughed again. "Of course not! We would have handed you over to the authorities. Do you seriously believe we goblins are some almighty super-beings who can do everything, heal everything, and know everything? If so, then you flatter us greatly." Ragnok seemed to be thoroughly amused by Harry's naivety. "We're here," he finally announced, as the cart came to a sudden halt.

Harry stood before his vault again. How was he supposed to get in without a key? But Ragnok walked past Harry without a glance, ran one of his long, bony fingers over the massive door and drew his sharp nail through something that looked like a tiny, inconspicuous slit. At that exact moment, the heavy door swung open with a soft creak, revealing the piles of gold that were stacked inside. Harry was less overwhelmed this time than the first. He knew what to expect now. He stuffed a decent amount of golden Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts into the leather pouch Ragnok had handed him.

As he looked around his vault, his gaze fell on a small, leather-bound book he had overlooked last time. Curious, he picked it up and leafed through it a little. It was his mother's handwriting. It seemed to be a kind of diary. Harry opened the first page. Written there in flowing, green ink was: For Haedus, may this book help you answer your questions when no one is there to answer them for you. Harry's heart gave a little jump. His mother had left him something! Something that might answer all the questions that were now buzzing around his head like a swarm of angry hornets. He quickly put the book away. He absolutely had to read that later.

"Do you have everything, Heir Black-Potter?" the goblin asked with a hint of impatience in his voice. "Yes," Harry said, trying to hide his excitement. "Everything's here."

Ragnok and Harry rode the rumbling cart back up and returned to the same gloomy room where Harry's world had been completely turned upside down earlier. On the old wooden table now stood a dusty, wooden chest. Ragnok and Harry sat down at the table again. Ragnok opened the chest. Inside, next to a note on which something was written in a scrawling language completely unknown to Harry, lay something shiny.

"It seems that only the rings of the Black family and the Potter family have appeared so quickly for now," Ragnok explained, gesturing to the contents of the chest. "But that should be enough to clearly identify you in the future." Harry didn't really understand what Ragnok meant by that, but he simply nodded as he so often did.

"We will certainly find the remaining rings in the next few days and create a precise overview of all your possessions that are rightfully yours." Even more information. Harry definitely had to be better prepared next time. He had thought he was well-equipped with his plan today, but what awaited him here in the bank now far exceeded his wildest imagination.

"Well then," Ragnok said and took the small, velvet-lined box from the chest. He opened it, and Harry saw two rings floating inside, which couldn't have been more different. One ring was made of rose gold and set with a large, blood-red ruby, framed by something that looked like tiny, golden feathers. The other ring was made of shimmering silver, artfully formed from several fine lines that twisted around each other and held a deep black, gleaming gemstone.

"Merely staring at the rings will certainly not reveal the power within them," Ragnok said to Harry with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Harry hesitantly took the silver ring. As soon as he picked it up, he felt a faint tingling, and the ring magically adjusted to his finger size. Magic, it seemed, had been deeply woven into these old heirlooms. Harry slipped the ring onto his left ring finger. Immediately, a strange sensation ran through him. It was like a cold breath brushing his skin, but instead of making him shiver, it was an astonishingly pleasant feeling. Like a cool breeze on an unbearably hot summer day.

"The Heir Ring of the House of Black," Ragnok said with a certain solemnity in his voice, as if he had performed this ceremony a hundred times before. "It can warn its wearer should someone try to take control of their mind. It should then give off something like a warm vibration." Harry nodded. The rings actually seemed to have a practical use. Did Neville also possess such a ring? He absolutely had to ask him that. But he had never seen a ring on Neville's hand. Perhaps Neville didn't have one. But the Longbottoms were an old, respected house, Harry knew, and Neville was the heir. Neville had told him himself.

Harry took the second ring. The rose gold ring, just like the Black ring before, adjusted to his size. Harry slipped it onto his right ring finger. But instead of cold, Harry now felt a pleasant warmth, like that of a crackling fireplace on a frosty winter's day.

"The Heir Ring of the House of Potter," Ragnok explained. "It functions similarly to the Black ring, only it warns its wearer of poisonous potions instead." Harry looked at both his hands. It still felt a little unusual and strange to wear such heavy, old rings.

"Um, Ragnok," Harry asked uncertainly, "do all these rings have magical powers?" Ragnok let out a dry laugh. Had Harry asked something foolish? "Heir Black-Potter," Ragnok said, shaking his head slightly, "the rings are not magical per se. They simply have exceedingly strong and complex enchantments woven into them. What, by Ragnuks's sword, do they actually teach you at Hogwarts?" Definitely not this , Harry thought to himself.

"Among the other useful enchantments is that you must hold down the stone of the respective ring, and the ring will become invisible to all outsiders. Only you yourself will still be able to feel it." Harry tried it out immediately and watched fascinated as first the silver and then the golden ring disappeared before his eyes. But he definitely still felt them on his fingers, a slight tingling. Nothing was visible anymore, just his bare fingers. Then Harry made both rings visible again.

"Another, extremely practical enchantment is that if you stroke the gemstone in a certain direction, the ring will transform into a signet ring and display the respective family crest. This is not only practical for sending post, but it can also be used to officially confirm important documents and, what might be of interest to you, open the vaults of Gringotts." Harry found that a truly excellent function. He would never forget his key again!

Harry stroked the black gemstone of the Black ring, as Ragnok had described. The stone seemed to change under his touch, and in its place appeared an artfully crafted crest. It showed a shield, on which three ravens were depicted at the bottom, and above it a hand holding an outstretched wand. Above the shield, the skull of a death's head was enthroned. So that was the crest of the Black family. His family crest. It still felt terribly strange to say that somehow.

Then Harry transformed the ring back to its original form and did the same with the Potter ring. Now the crest of his other family was visible. It showed two majestic hippogriffs, which, as Ragnok explained, held a golden amphora on the left and right. Harry transformed this ring back too.

"Well, that's all for now, Heir Black-Potter," Ragnok said, closing the small velvet box. "In a few days, we'll know more about the other things. I suspect the pink-haired Auror out there is already missing you. If there's anything, just ask for me." Harry stood up, still slightly dazed. He had so many thoughts he needed to sort out first. Black was apparently his father. His father, a wanted murderer. What if the Dursleys had known his father was a wanted murderer? Would they have treated Harry the same way? And then it dawned on him: The Dursleys! The Dursleys weren't his real relatives at all, not blood relatives anyway. His mother had been adopted. Surely Harry would find answers to all these questions in the book his mother had left him and which he had taken from the vault earlier. He would read that later, in peace. He too had been adopted, blood-adopted. Whatever that exactly meant.

And then the goblins had found out that Harry was under an owl post protection ward. Perhaps he should ask Andromeda about it later. Andromeda! By Merlin's beard, Harry still had his appointment with her today! And who knew how long he had taken for all these revelations now? He quickly cast one last glance around the room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. Then he thanked Ragnok for everything and hurried out the door. He still had so many tasks to complete, and he had only just finished the first one. Hopefully, the other things he had planned for today would go a little faster. He hadn't quite left the door when Ragnok called something after him.

"And one more thing, Heir Black-Potter," the goblin said with a serious voice. "It might be better if you only wear the Potter ring openly for now and also do not use your birth name. There will be a good reason why this has been kept secret until now."

Notes:

Thanks so much for reading Chapter 2!

Wow, what a chapter for revelations!🤯 Sirius is Harry's father, the blood adoption, and his mum being adopted—it's a lot to take in, even for us. I won't spill all the beans about his mother's lineage just yet, but if you've guessed by the name, kudos to you! Of course, Harry (and almost everyone else in this world) has no idea.

So, why this direction? As I mentioned before, my goal with this series is to weave in various story ideas I've had. This is one of them, and I hope you're still on board as we delve deeper into this world. For now, Harry's just a kid and doesn't care much for his titles, but they'll become important as he gets older. Perhaps Neville, with his upbringing as a future Lord, can offer some guidance!

I'm a huge fan of headcanons involving titles and rings; I think they add so much to world-building. Major kudos to whoever first came up with these concepts and to everyone who incorporates them into their stories! I've read many fics where Harry discovers these elements at different ages, and if you recognize any ideas, it's because I genuinely loved them and wanted to adapt them for my own narrative. Many hints were dropped throughout Book 1, so in my head, Harry's story has always unfolded this way.

Oh, and Tonks being non-binary is another wonderful idea I encountered in fanfiction. The decision to include it solidified after hearing a particular song during my research—feel free to guess which one, or just wait for the next chapter where it'll become clearer!

Speaking of the next chapter, I'm aiming for two updates a week, with the next one planned for Wednesday.

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments!

Chapter 4: Chapter Three: New Clothes and Old Wounds

Summary:

After a rather intense encounter with the goblins, Harry finds himself on a long-overdue shopping spree, eager to acquire all the things he's missed out on for the past eleven years. His day culminates with a healing session at St. Mungo's, where he finally has a quiet moment to delve into the mysterious book his mum left for him.

Notes:

Welcome back to Chapter 3!

As you read, please remember that Harry is a traumatized child, and his past neglect and abuse at the Dursleys' hands will continue to influence his memories and thoughts

Harry was led back into the large, marble reception hall of Gringotts by the goblins who had previously escorted him into the depths of the bank. The bright light momentarily blinded him after he had been in the gloomy passages and the eerie room for so long. As soon as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he spotted Tonks. They were sitting impatiently on one of the stone benches against the wall, blowing huge, pink chewing-gum bubbles that popped with a soft bang. Their hair had now taken on a vibrant turquoise hue.

"There you are at last!" Tonks exclaimed, relieved, upon spotting Harry, and sprang to their feet. "I was beginning to worry the goblins had arrested you for forgetting your key and locked you in one of their deepest vaults!"

"Sorry," Harry said, feverishly wondering what he could tell Tonks about his... well, interesting experience in the depths of Gringotts. Ragnok's warning not to reveal his real name or the business with the houses and titles still echoed clearly in his ears. "They just had to make absolutely sure who I was before I was allowed into my vault. But now I've got enough," Harry said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. He held up the bulging money pouch with his right hand and grinned as widely as he could.

"Wow, Harry, snazzy ring!" Tonks said, their eyebrows shooting up as their gaze fell on his right hand, where the rose-gold Potter Heir Ring now sparkled. "So, should I call you Heir Potter now?" Tonks asked with a mischievous grin as they began to make their way through the busy hall towards the exit.

"How do you know that's an Heir Ring?" Harry asked, surprised.

Tonks shrugged, their turquoise hair bobbing amusingly. "Well, just because my mother was disowned by her oh-so-noble family doesn't mean she's forgotten her heritage or the traditions that come with it." You can be disowned from houses? Harry thought, confused. He still had so incredibly much to learn about this whole business with old wizarding families and their titles. He desperately hoped Neville could help him out a bit with that. But what should he tell Neville at all? Ragnok's warning kept coming back to him. There had to be a reason why all of this had been kept so strictly secret until now.

"And well," Tonks continued, rolling their eyes slightly, "my mother probably thought it was a good idea to educate me in etiquette and all that posh stuff too." They paused briefly and then grinned broadly, their hair suddenly flaring up in a garish neon green, and their features for a moment looked wild and almost a little frightening. "Didn't quite work out for me, as you can see!" Harry had to laugh, and Tonks's expression relaxed again, their hair taking on a slightly less shocking shade of purple. They seemed pleased by Harry's laughter.

Together, they set off for Twilfitt and Tatting. Along the way, as they pushed through the colourful bustle of Diagon Alley, Tonks asked with a sceptically raised eyebrow: "Are you sure you really want to go into that shop, Harry? It's more for wizards who think they're better than the rest of the world and need everyone to know it."

Harry sighed. "I'm afraid I have to go in there," he explained. "My godbrother Neville has a birthday soon, and his grandmother is organising quite a fancy reception for the occasion. I need appropriate clothes for it, and Neville told me I'd get the things there. He even wrote down exactly what I need."

Twilfitt and Tatting was different from what Harry had imagined. From the outside, the shop looked surprisingly small and unassuming. It's wasn't heavily advertised, no screaming posters or glittering displays. Just a discreet, old-fashioned sign with the shop's name elegantly curved in golden letters and a single, immaculately clean display window showcasing a few elegant leather shoes like precious museum pieces. Harry opened the heavy oak door, and a soft, melodic chime announced their arrival.

The shop itself, as so often in the magical world, was significantly larger inside than it appeared from the outside. In the front area, bolts of the finest fabrics in every conceivable colour and pattern were piled high on artfully draped tables. Velvet, silk, brocade – fabrics whose names Harry didn't even know, but whose luxurious appearance immediately caught his eye. A long, polished sales counter made of dark wood dominated the room. Behind it, it seemed, another passage led to another area of the shop. And it was from this back area that an older gentleman now emerged. Not as old as Dumbledore, more Mr Weasley's age, Harry estimated. The man had a full head of brown hair, which he wore severely combed back. He was dressed in a perfectly fitting black tailcoat, embroidered with fine, golden ornaments. Beneath it, he wore a white-gold waistcoat over a pristine white shirt. He combined this with close-fitting, dark leather trousers and gleaming, reddish-brown shoes that clicked softly on the wooden floor with every step. Harry thought the man looked as if he had stepped directly out of an old period film. He seemed elegant, but at the same time, he exuded a certain haughty arrogance. His posture, the way he strutted, involuntarily reminded Harry of Draco Malfoy.

As the man caught sight of Harry and Tonks, he surveyed them from head to toe with a look that made Harry feel like a particularly uninteresting beetle that had been accidentally stepped on. "Oh, my dear child," the man then said in a voice as cool and smooth as polished marble, "Hogwarts robes and similar trivialities can be found at Madam Malkin's." He pronounced Madam Malkin's name as if it were a dirty word. "Furthermore," he added, letting his gaze sweep disdainfully over Harry's shrunken Muggle clothes from Dudley, "I believe this establishment might be a little beyond your budget, young man." Then his gaze seemed to casually fall upon Harry's right hand, where the Potter ring gleamed. The man's expression changed instantly. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and a look of surprised recognition flitted across his face. "Oh, pardon me, Heir...?" he now said with a distinctly more respectful, almost subservient tone in his voice, as he had apparently recognised Harry's ring.

What should Harry say? Black? Black-Potter? He opted for the safest option, the one Ragnok had advised him. "Potter," he said as firmly as he could. Should he do something else now? A bow? A curtsy? He didn't know the etiquette for such situations for the life of him. At that moment, Tonks, who had imperceptibly moved closer, whispered softly in his ear: "Say, 'Well met.'"

"Well met, Mr...?" Harry repeated, a little uncertainly.

"Tatting, Sir," the gentleman replied hastily and made an impeccable, deep bow that Harry found rather exaggerated. "An extraordinary honour to welcome you to my humble establishment, Heir Potter. You'll forgive my initial... misjudgement. I did not immediately recognise you in this... well, unusual choice of attire." Mr Tatting seemed visibly embarrassed by the situation, but at the same time, he could barely conceal his disdain for Dudley's old clothes – which, incidentally, was entirely mutual. "I thought you were a Mu... a Muggle-born first-year accompanied by a guardian," he said and cast Tonks a brief, assessing glance. Tonks merely raised an eyebrow and crossed their arms over their chest, their expression unreadable.

"So, what can I do for you, Heir Potter? How may I be of service?" Mr Tatting now asked in an exceedingly businesslike manner, rubbing his hands meaningfully.

Harry fumbled for his list. "I need a dress robe for a reception, a birthday reception," he said, trying to sound as grown-up as possible. "Preferably a complete outfit." He really had no idea what exactly he needed, but fortunately, Neville had written everything down in detail for him.

"And what precisely do you have in mind, Heir Potter? Classic, modern, perhaps extravagant? What colour do you prefer?" Mr Tatting asked, scrutinising Harry with the eye of a connoisseur.

"Um, I... I think, modern and elegant?" Harry stammered uncertainly.

"Very well then, Heir Potter, if you would kindly follow me." With an inviting gesture, Mr Tatting gestured towards the back of the shop. Harry followed him, while Tonks remained in the front part of the shop with a knowing look. They seemed anything but comfortable in this shop, Harry thought, and he couldn't blame them.

Harry found himself on a small, round podium, surrounded by mirrors that reflected him from all sides. Around him, bolts of fabric in the most dazzling colours were piled high, and the air was thick with the heavy scent of expensive perfumes and freshly ironed linen. Mr Tatting, moving with the agility of a circus ringmaster, conjured his wand with an elegant flick of his hand, which seemed magically attached to his sleeve, and gave it a brief wave. Immediately, a silver tape measure shot through the air like a startled Snitch and began to measure Harry from head to toe, humming and clicking incessantly. Mr Tatting took Harry's measurements with an expression as if he were inspecting the Crown Jewels, and dictated the numbers to a hovering sheet of parchment, on which an enchanted quill diligently wrote.

Harry silently endured the procedure, although he found it quite uncomfortable to be stared at and measured so intently. His thoughts involuntarily drifted to his mother's small, leather-bound book, which he had safely tucked away in the inner pocket of his much-too-large shirt. How he wished he could read it now! It was addressed to him, to Haedus. He so desperately hoped it would finally give him answers to all the questions that had been buzzing around his head like a swarm of angry pixies since his visit to Gringotts. Why was Sirius Black his real father? Why had James Potter blood-adopted him? And what, by Merlin's beard, was the deal with all these other titles he was now supposedly meant to keep secret? Black, Gaunt, Peverell, and – of all things! – Slytherin? It couldn't all be true!

But before Harry could sink deeper into his confusing thoughts, Mr Tatting's voice pulled him from his reverie.

"And what colour do you have in mind for the dress robe, Heir Potter? Perhaps a classic, neutral black with discreet, silver ornamentation? Or do you desire something more colourful? Or even something quite extraordinary?" Harry considered. He definitely didn't want black. It reminded him too much of Professor Snape. But it shouldn't be too colourful either; that just didn't suit him. And something extraordinary? That involuntarily brought to mind Professor Dumbledore's extravagant, star-spangled robes. No, that was certainly not him.

"Green? Perhaps?" Harry asked cautiously, unsure if it was appropriate to wear a green dress robe for such an occasion.

"Green! An excellent choice, Heir Potter!" Mr Tatting exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. "A noble green will perfectly complement your eyes." Harry was relieved that green apparently was acceptable. Green was his favourite colour, which actually didn't suit a Gryffindor through and through like him. But he didn't care about that at the moment.

Mr Tatting now held various fabric samples in the most diverse shades of green up to Harry, from a light lime green to a deep forest green. They finally settled on a rich, dark emerald green, which, Mr Tatting suggested, should be adorned with subtle, silver ornaments that mysteriously caught the light. The tailcoat itself was to be made from this fine fabric. Beneath it, the plan was for Harry to wear a simple, black waistcoat of the finest velvet, also embroidered with the delicate, silver ornaments, and a matching, elegant pair of black trousers. In addition, a simple but immaculately white shirt of Egyptian cotton.

Mr Tatting carefully noted everything on the hovering parchment, took the slip with the measurements and the desired garments, and disappeared with a nod through a velvet curtain into a darkened area of the shop. Shortly afterwards, he reappeared with several shoe boxes.

"While your dress robe is being worked on, Heir Potter," he said with an obliging smile, "let's take a look at some suitable footwear for you." So Harry slipped into a variety of shoes, from simple black loafers to almost boot-like high models in various shades of brown. They finally settled on a pair of elegant black leather shoes, which tapered slightly at the front and clicked softly on the polished wooden floor with every step.

Suddenly, the velvet curtain rustled, and a creature emerged from the darkened area that Harry had never seen before. For a moment, he thought it was a goblin, but on closer inspection, he realised it was somehow different. It was small and scrawny, with thin arms and legs that looked like twisted branches. Its head was unnaturally large in proportion to the rest of its body, and huge, round eyes, reminiscent of a frog's, stared expressionlessly at Harry. Its ears were pointed and long, reminding Harry of a bat's wings. The creature wore nothing more than a simple fabric toga, which looked as if it had been hastily cut from one of the many bolts of fabric lying around the shop. Harry didn't know what kind of strange creature this was, but he didn't dare to ask Mr Tatting about it either. What would the haughty shop owner think of him? He had already mistaken him for a clueless Muggle-born at the beginning, and they certainly didn't belong to his usual, well-heeled clientele. The creature held Harry's freshly made robe in its bony hands. Mr Tatting took it from them with a curt gesture and shooed the being back behind the curtain with an impatient wave of his hand, without even thanking them for their help. Harry found that quite strange and somehow unfair.

Then Harry was to try on the dress robe. The shoes and trousers were quickly put on. To his great relief, he was allowed to keep his old T-shirt underneath. He didn't even want to imagine what Mr Tatting would say if he saw the faded but still visible scars on his back. Those scars that Uncle Vernon had given him with his belt. Mr Tatting now handed him a leather holster. "For your wand, Mr Potter," he explained with a look as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You don't want to carry it unsuitably in your trouser or tailcoat pocket, do you?" The shop owner's tone left no doubt that he considered the idea of carrying his wand anywhere other than in such a holster to be more than just inappropriate, indeed barbaric. Harry nodded silently. In itself, such a holster was quite a practical thing, he had to admit. But how, for Merlin's sake, did one tie this thing on properly?

"Come, let me help you, Heir Potter," said Mr Tatting, who had apparently noticed Harry's helplessness. With nimble fingers, he tied the holster under Harry's right wrist and then elegantly pulled the sleeve of the white shirt over it. Then he helped Harry into the black velvet waistcoat and finally into the emerald green tailcoat. Harry looked at himself in the mirror. He found himself hardly recognisable. Well, apart from his raven-black hair, which still stuck out in all directions, his round glasses with the bright green eyes behind them, and his lightning-bolt scar prominently displayed on his forehead. But Harry liked the dress robe extraordinarily well. He felt strangely more grown-up, more confident in it. He was now Heir Potter, he thought, and a hint of pride surged through him.

"Looks fantastic, Harry!" Tonks suddenly called out, having appeared unnoticed in the doorway to the changing area where Harry was with Mr Tatting. "My Lord!" they added playfully, making an exaggerated bow and grinning broadly at Harry. Harry also had to laugh. Their good mood was infectious.

At that moment, the same bright chime could be heard as before, when Harry and Tonks had entered the shop. Harry peered curiously through the doorway and saw a girl, about his age, entering the shop. She had long, blonde hair, not quite as light and platinum as Malfoy's, but rather a warm honey blonde. Her hair was combed smoothly back and fell just below her shoulders. She wore a usual, dark wizarding robe over her everyday clothes. She also seemed to have come with company, as an elegantly dressed woman stood beside her.

"Ah, Lady Greengrass and Heir Greengrass," Mr Tatting greeted the newcomers with another deep bow and hurried towards them, heading for the entrance area of his shop. "Your order has just been completed. One moment, I'll fetch it straight away," Mr Tatting said and quickly disappeared behind the velvet curtain.

Harry recognised the girl, who now, as her companion conversed with Mr Tatting, seemed to be slowly approaching him. It was someone from his year. Daphne, if he remembered correctly. Daphne Greengrass. A Slytherin. Harry swallowed involuntarily. But then he remembered that Neville knew Daphne. Neville had told him that before Hogwarts, he had shared a private tutor with her and some other children from pure-blood families. Daphne saw Harry and seemed a little surprised to find him in this particular shop.

"Smart, Potter," she said with a voice that sounded surprisingly cool and confident. "Presumably you're invited to Neville's reception too? I suppose your daring little adventure... bonded you?" She scrutinised him from head to toe with a look that made Harry feel as if he were being examined under a microscope. She obviously didn't know that he and Neville were godbrothers. How could she? Neville probably hadn't told anyone, and Harry himself had only confided in the Weasleys, Remus, Hermione, Andromeda, and her child Tonks so far.

"After all the reports about you in the newspaper, I didn't expect to find you here of all places," Daphne continued with a slightly mocking undertone. "Raised by Muggles, as you are... it's a true miracle that you even appreciate something like this." Daphne didn't know him at all, Harry thought, annoyed. She didn't know what it had really been like at the Dursleys'. She only knew the sensational newspaper reports that had dominated the media during his and Neville's flight.

"The colour suits you perfectly, by the way, Potter," Daphne then suddenly said, and her tone softened a fraction, almost appreciative. "Matches your eyes perfectly. I'm looking forward to the dance." She now looked at Harry with an expression that confused him a little... Dance? What dance? Harry didn't know that such a reception, as Neville's grandmother was planning, also involved dancing. He couldn't dance! Not for the life of him! How on earth was he supposed to learn to dance so quickly? Panic began to rise within him.

"We'll see each other then..." Daphne began to say, but suddenly her eyes widened as her gaze fell on Harry's right hand. "Heir Potter!" She had apparently also noticed his Potter ring. Harry smiled uncertainly back, but hadn't uttered a single word the entire time. Daphne turned away with one last, inscrutable look and went back to her mother, who was just receiving her order from Mr Tatting.

Hardly had Daphne and her mother vanished from the room when Tonks appeared out of nowhere beside Harry. They had been observing the whole scene from the sidelines with a wide grin. "Ooh, Harry," they said, nudging him playfully in the side with their elbow. "Well, who was she then? 'Looking forward to the dance', ooh! Don't tell me there's more to it than meets the eye!" Harry glared at them furiously. "I'm eleven!" he hissed. "I won't be twelve for a few more days!" He wasn't thinking about girls at all! Certainly not in the way Tonks was implying with their suggestive grin. Yes, Harry knew what they meant. It had briefly been a topic in primary school when some of his classmates started secretly passing notes. But not much had been said about it, and Harry didn't really want to think about it at all. He truly had more important things on his mind.

Mr Tatting, who had handed the Greengrasses their order and politely escorted them to the door, now returned to Harry. "Everything seems to fit, as I see. You look exquisite, Heir Potter," he said with a satisfied nod. "Do you perhaps require anything else?"

"Um," Harry considered briefly. "Perhaps two more plain, black, elegant robes for... any other occasions?" He remembered Neville's recommendation to order those here as well. Not least, the revelations at Gringotts had painfully made it clear to Harry that he was now heir to several houses, even if publicly only his father's inheritance – or rather, what the whole world believed his father's inheritance to be – was known. Harry's biological father was, after all, Sirius Black, a wanted murderer. Something Harry still couldn't quite grasp. Everyone, and Harry himself, had until recently assumed he was James Potter's son. And in a way he was, but also in a way he wasn't. Blood adoption. Harry still didn't understand it. But he desperately hoped his mother's book would provide the answers he so urgently sought. But he couldn't read it now.

Mr Tatting, with practiced movements, helped him out of the dress robe, and Harry, with a feeling of relief but also a faint regret, slipped back into Dudley's old, worn-out clothes.

"Heir Potter," Mr Tatting said with a slightly disapproving expression as he handed Harry the freshly made dress robe, carefully wrapped in tissue paper and packed in an elegant bag. "You really should consider no longer wearing such... garments . They... don't truly suit you." Oh, really? Harry thought sarcastically. Of course, Harry knew that. His plan also included buying new everyday clothes. This had only been the first stop. But Harry said nothing, merely paying silently for everything. The two other robes Mr Tatting would have made; they should be ready for collection tomorrow. Harry politely said goodbye, and Tonks also seemed visibly pleased to finally leave this snobbish shop.

Their next stop was Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. No sooner had they crossed the threshold than the shop owner hurried towards them with a friendly smile. "Ah, Mr Potter, how lovely to see you again! Do you require new Hogwarts robes for the coming school year?" To her visible surprise, Harry shook his head. "No, thank you, Madam Malkin. My robes from last year still fit quite well." He had barely grown, not at all, in fact. A faint pang of disappointment went through him. Perhaps, he desperately hoped, the nutrient potion he now had to take with every meal would finally start to work. Now that he was finally getting regular and nutritious meals at the Burrow, he might still be able to catch up a little on his height. He was still the shortest in his year. Even Ginny Weasley, who was a year younger, towering over him. Though, the Weasleys were generally quite tall. So perhaps that was a bad example.

At Madam Malkin's, Harry acquired several plain wizarding robes for everyday wear, including a particularly warm one for winter, enchanted with a special warming charm. The last winter at Hogwarts was still a bitter memory for him. For this, however, he had to endure the same routine as at Mr Tatting's: having his measurements taken. To Madam Malkin's great astonishment, his measurements had not changed at all compared to last year. But Harry knew why.

Laden with another large bag, they left the shop. Harry handed the bag to Tonks, who had conveniently taken on the role of his personal pack-mule for this shopping trip. Tonks, however, found this less amusing than it might sound. Their job was actually to look after him, lest the escaped Sirius Black dare to approach him. But Harry knew secretly – and it still felt incredibly strange to think it, but it was the truth – his father wouldn't hurt him. "You're in quite the shopping mood today, aren't you?" Tonks asked him with a slightly pained undertone when he announced that the next shop on his list was Gaberlunzie Garments. "I've got eleven years of catching up to do," Harry replied with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Eleven years in which the Dursleys had only provided him with the bare necessities, if even that.

Gaberlunzie Garments was a shop that fundamentally differed from the two posh establishments they had visited previously. Even from a distance, one could see the brightly coloured, haphazardly hanging clothes dangling from washing lines outside the shop. Garish advertising signs adorned the entire house wall: "Special Offers!", "Discounts on Everything!", "Two for the Price of One!".

Harry entered the shop, which with its bustling chaos and crammed shelves reminded him more of a Muggle department store during a sale than a wizarding establishment. On long clothes rails hung rows of trousers, shirts, jumpers, and cloaks in every conceivable colour and shape. The principle here was simple: you grabbed what you liked and roughly fitted, and then went to one of the two sales assistants standing behind an overloaded counter. These would then perfectly adjust everything to the customer's size with a quick spell. The clothes offered here surprisingly resembled Muggle fashion, which suited Harry very well. He stocked up on a whole pile of trousers, shirts, jumpers, and T-shirts. With the huge stack of new laundry he had already accumulated, he would actually have been well-equipped, but he still needed something. Something that made him a little embarrassed, especially in front of Tonks. Underwear. With a bright red face, Harry crept into the relevant section of the shop and hastily grabbed a multipack of socks and underpants. To his great relief, the friendly cashier asked if they should magically shrink the bags with his purchases. Harry could vividly imagine what shrill hair colour Tonks would have gotten if he had arrived with even more huge bags for them to carry.

Now Harry finally wanted to go to Noltie's Botanical Novelties to get a birthday present for Neville. Tonks let out an audible sigh of relief. "About bloody time!" they muttered, probably hoping Harry's shopping spree was now coming to an end and he wouldn't buy any more clothes. But just before they reached the plant shop, Harry's gaze fell on a small, inconspicuous shoe shop he hadn't even noticed before.

"Oh, come on, Tonks!" Harry said with a wide grin, playfully tugging at Tonks's Auror robes. "Seriously now, Harry?" they asked with feigned despair, rolling their eyes. They had probably imagined their day as Harry's "watchdog" somewhat differently than it was now turning out. After not even ten minutes, the two were already emerging from the shoe shop, and Harry was the proud owner of two brand-new pairs of trainers – one in plain black and one in his favourite green. Harry left the shop overjoyed, closely followed by a Tonks who was slowly but surely having enough of his boundless shopping mood. But Harry was not to be deterred. He had, after all, years of neglect to make up for.

Finally, they had made it to Noltie's Botanical Novelties. And anyone who even cast a fleeting glance at this shop immediately knew what was for sale here: plants. The entire house was entwined from top to bottom with the most diverse growths. Thick plant tendrils spilled out of the windows like wild ivy and climbed up to the roof. Inside the shop, it was no different. It was a miracle if one could even find a path through the green thicket. Mr Noltie, an older, somewhat eccentric wizard with earth under his fingernails and a straw hat on his head, turned out to be a true plant lover. He asked Harry with shining eyes what he was looking for. Harry explained that he needed a present for his godbrother, who had a very special knack for plants. But Mr Noltie offered him all sorts of growths that either looked far too dangerous in Harry's eyes – during the demonstration, there was one or two carnivorous plants that greedily tried to snap at him – or were so incredibly complicated to handle that Harry wouldn't for the life of him manage to keep them alive until Neville's birthday. A little disappointed, they finally left the shop again.

But then Harry's gaze fell on a shop he hadn't noticed before. A small, old-fashioned sign announced in ornate letters: Grandma Gramercy's Grandiloquent Gramophones. Gramophones. Music! Harry thought excitedly. The perfect present for Neville! Harry practically stormed into the shop. It not only had an impressive selection of gramophones in all sizes and shapes but also countless records. These, however, as it quickly turned out, were exclusively by wizarding musicians. Disappointed, Harry was about to leave the shop when the shopkeeper, a friendly, older gentleman with a long, white beard, stopped him.

"You're a Muggle-born, aren't you? Looking for music from your parents' world?" he asked with a knowing smile. "I'm Grandma Gramercy's husband, and a Muggle-born myself, just like you. Here, wait a moment," he said and disappeared behind a heavy wooden door in the back of the shop. Should Harry tell him that he wasn't Muggle-born, but a half-blood? Was he even that? Was his mother Muggle-born or a half-blood or perhaps even a pure-blood? Harry didn't know, and the test at Gringotts didn't seem to have given any precise information about it either. Unlike some wizarding families, the goblins didn't seem to care much about this whole blood business. And Harry didn't care either. Blood status aside.

The man returned with an old, dusty box. "Here," he said, placing the box on the counter, "I have a box with five records of the best Muggle music. The Beatles, Rolling Stones, The Who, Deep Purple, and David Bowie." When Harry heard the name David Bowie, his eyes widened with joy. "The records are all enchanted so they should work on any magical gramophone," the old man added to his explanation. "I'll take them all!" Harry said determinedly.

Throughout the day, he seemed to have completely lost his sense of money. This was probably also because, thanks to his Potter side – or rather, the side of his family that the whole world believed to be his – he had access to what seemed to him incredible amounts of gold. And who knew what else would come from the other families. Actually, Harry didn't care about money. He had had almost none until last year, and now it wasn't really important to him either. He just had to be careful not to show off too much to the Weasleys about all that was now available to him. For Harry had quickly noticed one thing: the Weasleys were not exactly the wealthiest family. But what they lacked in money, they made up for a thousand times over with their endless love for their children and their friends, Harry thought gratefully. He was so incredibly glad to be allowed to live with the Weasleys. Harry left the shop with a wide smile. The five records hadn't even cost him a whole Galleon.

As Harry and Tonks left the shop, Harry proudly admiring the five newly acquired records he had bought for Neville, Tonks laughed. "Seems you're quite the music enthusiast too, Harry," they said to him. "Yes, why?" Harry asked curiously.

"I had an uncle," Tonks began to explain, "who showed me all sorts of Muggle songs when I was very little. And to this day, my absolute favourite artist is David Bowie."

"You're joking!" Harry exclaimed, astonished, looking at them with wide eyes. "Really?"

"Yes, really, Harry!" Tonks confirmed, laughing.

"Wow, I love David Bowie too!" Harry said, pleased to realise that he and Tonks suddenly had something in common. "And which of his songs do you like best?" Tonks asked him, now seeming just as excited as Harry to have met a kindred spirit. "I like 'Space Oddity' and 'Starman'," Harry said proudly, though he had to admit he didn't know that many Bowie songs yet. But those two were definitely his favourites. "Cool!" said Tonks, who apparently knew both songs.

"My absolute favourite song is 'Rebel Rebel' from the Diamond Dogs album. My uncle gave it to me when I turned six, along with a gramophone that one of his friends from school had specially enchanted for me back then," Tonks told Harry enthusiastically. Then they dramatically opened their Auror robes and proudly showed that they were wearing a T-shirt underneath that read "Rebel Rebel" in bright red lettering. Thereupon, they let their currently purple hair shift to a garish red and changed their hairstyle so that it was short and sassy at the front and long and shaggy at the back. Both burst into loud laughter. Harry envied Tonks. They could just play Muggle music whenever they wanted. He desperately hoped Remus would also find a solution for him, as he had promised in his letter.

Flourish & Blotts was now their next stop. Harry desperately wanted to find a book for Ginny. Even though her birthday wasn't until next month, he didn't think he would get another chance to get her something before then.

Harry entered the crammed shop with Tonks. Bookshelves piled high to the ceiling, and the scent of old parchment and ink hung heavily in the air.

"And what do you need here again, Harry? Haven't you bought enough by now?" Tonks asked with a feigned groan. "I'm still looking for a present for Ginny," Harry told them, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "Ooh, a girlfriend, Harry? Tell me more!" Tonks teased him with a knowing grin. "No!" Harry quickly contradicted, blushing slightly. "She's my best friend Ron's little sister, and since I'm living with them right now, I just thought..." "Hmm, what a shame," Tonks said with feigned disappointment, obviously a little put out not to be privy to any budding romances between young Hogwarts students, which weren't really romances at all.

But Harry hadn't stopped his answer because he didn't know what to say; rather, it was because at that moment he saw something that visibly angered him. Camila Sweeting, the author of those outrageous fabrications about him, in which Harry, as her main character, experienced all sorts of far-fetched adventures, had a prominent display right in the middle of the shop, and beneath it, her numerous children's books about him were stacked high. Harry marched straight to the display.

"Well, a bit self-absorbed, aren't we?" Tonks needled him, grinning. "No!" Harry said through gritted teeth. "I heard about someone writing about me and then spreading such blatant lies! I haven't actually experienced any of what's written here!" said a visibly agitated Harry, staring in disbelief at the collected works of the children's book series that described the alleged adventures of young Harry Potter.

"You could take legal action against her," Tonks said with a shrug.

"I can do that?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Of course," Tonks said. "If you haven't given your consent, then it shouldn't be a problem. The whole thing would then have to go through the Wizengamot."

"The Wizengamot is a court too?" Harry asked, astonished. He knew next to nothing about the political or legal system of the wizarding world. Unfortunately, he hadn't really listened to Neville's attempts to explain it last school year. He had thought there would be time for that later. Now he regretted it a little.

"Don't tell me you're Heir to a House and haven't the faintest idea about this sort of thing?" Tonks asked incredulously, shaking their head. How was Harry supposed to know all that? He had been kept in ignorance his whole life.

"Forgotten eleven years of living with Muggles already?" Harry retorted somewhat snippily.

"So, have you found a present for Ginny now, Harry?" Tonks then asked him, deftly changing the subject. "Yep!" Harry said, who had indeed discovered the perfect present for Ginny during their conversation. Something he hoped would put an end to Ginny's exaggerated adoration of him once and for all.

Satisfied, he left the shop, and Tonks had another bag to carry.

 

"Just one more stop!" Harry said to Tonks, who was visibly relieved that their role as pack-mule would soon come to an end. Harry opened the door to the shop "The Capacious Carry-All". The shop smelled intensely of new leather, and suitcases of all conceivable sizes, colours, and shapes were stacked everywhere.

"Hi," Harry said to a salesman who was polishing a particularly large wardrobe trunk. "I'm looking for a trunk for myself that..." But Harry couldn't even finish speaking before the salesman launched into his spiel. "Ah, another first-year who needs a trunk for school! I've got just the thing for you!" Harry rolled his eyes inwardly. Why on earth did everyone today think he was a fresh first-year coming new to Hogwarts? But he followed the salesman anyway.

"This here," the salesman said proudly, presenting Harry with a rather plain, brown model, "is the perfect starter model. Lots of storage space and exceedingly inexpensive too." At that moment, Harry cursed Dudley's old, worn-out clothes even more than usual. Again, someone was taking him for a poor Muggle-born who was short on cash.

"Sir, I'm looking for something very specific," Harry said firmly. "Oh really?" the salesman seemed to say, astonished, and now scrutinised Harry a little more closely. "Yes," Harry said firmly. "A trunk with a Feather-light Charm, an Undetectable Extension Charm, and shrinkable to backpack size." He essentially wanted an exact copy of Neville's trunk, which had been such a loyal and invaluable servant to them during their shared escape.

"Well then, please follow me, young sir." They went to the second floor of the shop. Trunks were displayed there that actually looked like Neville's. They had wide straps so they could be comfortably carried on one's back, and otherwise, at first glance, they hardly differed from the usual Hogwarts students' trunks. The salesman showed Harry all sorts of models. There were trunks with special book compartments – "the Ravenclaw Edition," as the salesman jokingly remarked – then models with extra holders for potion vials and even a device for a small cauldron. There were even models with all sorts of possible storage space for the most obscure things, such as rare, delicate plants, magical terrariums, or even crystal ball holders.

Finally, Harry decided on a dark green trunk in the special Quidditch variant. It had various compartments, including one large enough to safely store a broom as well as a complete set of Quidditch balls and bats. Perfect! Harry thought, satisfied. He left the shop with his new, dark green trunk. "Come on," he said to Tonks outside, "put all the bags in here." Tonks seemed visibly relieved not to have to lug all of Harry's heavy shopping bags anymore. Then Harry pressed the small, inconspicuous shrinking button on the side of the trunk, and with a soft hiss, it shrank to the handy size of a backpack. Harry shouldered it contentedly.

"Couldn't we have bought that first ?" a visibly aghast Tonks asked, hands on their hips. "Perhaps," Harry said, grinning cheekily from ear to ear, "but it was at the very bottom of my list, so: nope!" "You little devil, you!" Tonks said, shaking their head, but couldn't help but laugh. Both laughed, and together they left Diagon Alley towards St Mungo's.

 

***

After Harry had been taken to St Mungo's by Tonks, they said goodbye to each other. It was already late evening, and dusk cast a gentle veil over the busy streets of London.

Harry was led into a room that felt eerily familiar. It looked almost exactly like the one he had been in after his illness, but he knew instinctively that it was different. A simple bed with pristine white bedding stood against the wall, next to it a small bedside table. There were two doors, one leading to the corridor, and another presumably to the bathroom. A chair for visitors stood somewhat forlorn in a corner, and a light curtain covered the window, through which one could probably look out onto the bustling streets of London. Otherwise, the room was very sterile and white, almost a little intimidating in its sobriety.

"Hello Harry," Andromeda Tonks said with a warm smile, shortly after Harry had arrived in the room. He had just placed his suitcase, which still had the practical size of a backpack, next to the bed. "How was the day with Tonks? Did you get everything done you set out to?"

"Yes, everything done," Harry said and patted the backpack, which was actually a suitcase, with satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear that," Andromeda replied, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Before we begin the treatment, Harry, do you perhaps have any questions?" Did he? Did he have questions? Since today, he had more questions than ever before in his life. Questions that swirled around his head like a swarm of wild pixies. But what could he ask Andromeda? What was he allowed to ask her without disregarding Ragnok's urgent warning? Then something occurred to him. Andromeda had told him about her scans back then, when she had ruthlessly confronted him with the truth about the Dursleys. About the magical scans that had ruthlessly revealed all his old, hidden injuries. What exactly had those scans been? He had never asked her about them. But now, after he had been with the goblins today and they had turned his world upside down with just a few drops of his blood, he wondered if Andromeda's scans might have revealed other things too. Things she hadn't told him about yet. After all, the goblins had also been able to detect magical influences on him with a few drops of blood.

"Um... the scans..." Harry began cautiously, "the scans you did back then, when I... when I, well, was unconscious... what exactly did they do?" The last stay here at St Mungo's still weighed a little heavily on his mind. Not because he hadn't been well looked after here, quite the opposite. But rather because of everything that had come to light.

"Well, Harry," Andromeda said, her voice taking on a gentle, explanatory tone, almost like that of a patient teacher, "I used a medical diagnostic spell. We urgently needed to find out what was wrong with you, and this spell also showed all your old injuries that your... relatives inflicted on you." Harry swallowed hard. This topic was visibly still incredibly uncomfortable for him.

"Did the spell... did it also show if any other spells were on me?" Harry asked even more cautiously, barely daring to look at Andromeda. "Yes," Andromeda confirmed his question calmly.

"Did... um... did it also show that an... an owl post protection ward is on me?" Harry finally managed to ask. "Yes, it did," Andromeda said, and a barely perceptible smile flitted across her lips. "I then simply wove myself into the ward. I hope that was alright with you?"

"You can do that?" Harry asked, astonished. He had meanwhile sat down on the edge of the bed; his legs ached from all the walking around Diagon Alley. "Yes, Harry, you can," was Andromeda's answer, and she seemed visibly amused by Harry's ignorance.

"I... I can't write to Neville directly," Harry now said, a little disappointed. It still bothered him that he could only communicate with his godbrother through cumbersome detours. "But with Hermione and Ron, it works."

"Harry, that's probably because Neville wasn't woven into the protection ward from the beginning," Andromeda explained patiently. "But if you like, I can weave Neville in retrospectively."

"Can't the protection ward perhaps be removed from me entirely?" Harry asked, feeling uneasy at the thought that someone was trying to stop him from writing to whoever he wanted.

"Harry," Andromeda said gently, but firmly, "whoever put this ward on you made a right and important decision. You were and still are a child, and... for many wizards, you are a celebrity, someone they look up to, someone who stands for something. If you didn't have this protection ward on you, you would probably suffocate under the sheer number of fan mail, threats, or simply crazy requests." Harry hadn't even thought until now that the protection ward could also be there to protect him. Who knew how the Dursleys would have reacted if they had received a huge amount of letters by owl post every day? Fleeing to a lonely rock in the middle of the sea probably wouldn't have been enough then. And constantly being reminded of being the Boy Who Lived wasn't exactly thrilling for Harry either. He didn't really want to be special, especially not for something he had absolutely no control over and that constantly painfully reminded him of having lost his parents – well, part of his parents, as he now knew.

"Tell me, Harry, how do you know about the owl post protection ward anyway?" Andromeda then suddenly asked him, and her eyes scrutinised him with a hint of curiosity.

"Um... I forgot my key for my vault," Harry confessed, a little ashamed, "and then... then I had to do a blood test with the goblins." Andromeda's expression suddenly became very interested. At least her attention now seemed fully focused on Harry.

"And? What came out of it?" she then asked him in an eager voice. Harry wasn't sure what to tell her. Andromeda had always been there for him and knew most of his secrets. He didn't want to tell her anything that Ragnok hadn't explicitly advised him to keep secret. But instead of saying anything, he simply held out his right hand and showed her the rose-gold ring that sparkled on his finger.

"Heir Potter," Andromeda said, smiling and tilting her head slightly, a gesture that looked like a hinted bow. Harry already knew from Tonks that their mother came from an old, noble house, even if he didn't know the exact reason why she had been disowned by her family.

"Um... Tonks told me... well, that... well, when I showed them the ring... that you also come from a noble house, but... um, how should I put it... were disowned?" Harry asked hesitantly and very cautiously, so as not to perhaps touch on a sensitive topic for her. Andromeda's expression became a little subdued for a moment when Harry asked her that. "That," she then said with a soft sigh, "is, I think, a story for another time, Harry. And also less for children's ears."

At that moment, there was a soft knock at the door, and a young Healer in lime-green uniform entered. She brought Harry a tray with a simple dinner – chicken soup and a few slices of toast – and, of course, the obligatory nutrient potion. While Harry ate, Andromeda then asked him that one uncomfortable question again, which he had actually successfully suppressed.

"Harry, have you reconsidered about the Phrēntrist?"

"No!" Harry said immediately and with surprising vehemence in his voice. "Out of the question. I won't do it."

"Please, Harry, it's really important," Andromeda tried to persuade him, her voice gentle but insistent. "Only with their statement and my examination results combined can the Ministry's Department for the Protection and Care of Magical Children open an official case against the Dursleys." But Harry remained stubborn. No matter how much Andromeda kept asking him, he would not meet with a Phrēntrist. He wasn't mad!

"Harry, your placement with the Weasleys is only a provisional solution," Andromeda continued, her voice now becoming a little more serious. "If you really want to permanently leave your... relatives, then we can't avoid this step."

"I'll think about it, okay?" Harry finally said, to end the discussion. "Please, not now." He suddenly felt incredibly tired. He had found out so many new and confusing things today, enough to process it all somehow first. Andromeda sighed softly, but then indeed left it at that and didn't ask Harry about it further.

As she began to carefully position his right leg, she explained that they would start with that leg. First, she would magically make all the bones in his leg disappear, so that Skele-Gro, the abominably tasting bone-growing potion, could ensure that Harry's bones could grow back properly and straight. Harry's exposed leg was now clamped into a kind of splint. Then Andromeda took her wand, murmured a spell that Harry didn't understand because she spoke it so softly, and tapped his leg after swirling her wand with a sweeping gesture in the air. Harry didn't really feel his bones disappearing, perhaps a slight, strange tingling, but his leg suddenly felt and looked like a limp rubber hose.

"Okay, a good swig of that," Andromeda said and poured some of the notorious potion from a bottle that looked like a grinning skeleton into a cup. Harry took the cup and grimaced. It tasted even worse than he imagined. He almost had to shake himself to keep from spitting it out immediately. "I told you, it won't be pleasant," Andromeda said with a sympathetic smile. "And the night probably won't be much better either. I'm sorry, Harry."

"It's alright," Harry said bravely, although he already felt queasy. He would have to prepare himself for it. And besides, he now had something to distract himself with. Finally, finally he could read his mother's book. He so desperately hoped to find answers in it. Answers as to why Sirius Black was his father and why James Potter had blood-adopted him. Blood adoption was still a huge mystery to him anyway. His mother had been adopted, the test at Gringotts had shown that. He, on the other hand, had been blood-adopted. What exactly was the difference? Andromeda was just about to leave when Harry gathered all his courage and asked that one question that so preoccupied him.

"Um..." Harry began, not quite knowing how to phrase it. "Yes, Harry?" Andromeda asked, turning in the doorway and smiling kindly at him. "What is... blood adoption? I... um... I've heard it mentioned a few times... So... well... I don't know exactly what it is. Is it something similar to a normal adoption?" Harry was so unsure about asking Andromeda without revealing more than he wanted to.

"Well, blood adoption," Andromeda explained, looking deep into Harry's eyes as if to find out how he came to ask this unusual question, "is a very old and powerful magical ritual. It makes you a full member of the adopting family, both in magic and in blood." She paused briefly. "I won't go into more detail now, Harry, but it's one of the few blood magic rituals that aren't forbidden."

"Mhm... Okay... Um, thanks," Harry mumbled. "Always a pleasure, Harry," Andromeda said, already standing in the doorway again.

"Tell me, Harry," she then suddenly continued, and her voice now sounded strangely thoughtful, "have you ever experienced your hair changing perhaps? Like its style or colour? Perhaps when you were younger, particularly stressed or something?" Now she was asking him a strange question. How did she come up with that? What was she suspecting? Was there something in his life? Harry thought hard and remembered.

"Well, once... my hair... well, it kept growing back overnight when I was very little, and Aunt Petunia kept shaving my head because of it. I... I wasn't exactly thrilled about it, and somehow the hair was just back again," Harry tried to tell her haltingly. Had there been anything else? Then he remembered an incident in primary school. "And once... my primary school teacher's hair suddenly turned bright blue... and mine too." Harry was pretty sure that must have been an outburst of Accidental Magic.

"Interesting," Andromeda said thoughtfully and took a few more steps back into the room. "You must have been quite a powerful little wizard even as a child. To simply grow your hair or change its colour without a wand or a special potion is anything but common, even for children with outbursts of Accidental Magic." Was that really so special? Harry wondered. Tonks could change their hair at will too, but they also had that rare gift, whose name Harry still couldn't recall. But he had been a child when that happened, and outbursts of Accidental Magic in children were actually normal, Neville had at least explained that to him, especially in stressful situations. Was the dyeing of his hair and the sudden regrowth really something so extraordinary? A kind of particularly strong form of Accidental Magic?

"Tell me, Harry," Andromeda then asked with a scrutinising look, "was anything else perhaps found during the goblin blood test? Perhaps another house you belong to?" Now Harry was absolutely sure: Andromeda suspected something. She had definitely seen more during her scans back then than she had told Harry so far. But what was it? What had she seen? "Nah, why?" Harry tried to lie as innocently as possible. "Just wondering," was Andromeda's brief reply. Then she finally said goodbye to Harry and quietly closed the door behind her.

 

Harry was now finally alone in the quiet hospital room. He had to try to lie still, at least so that his leg didn't move too much. He already felt an unpleasant, dull tugging sensation that slowly turned into a throbbing pain – probably the bones already starting to regrow. He reached for his mother's small, leather-bound book, which he had guarded like a treasure the whole time, and began to read.

---

For Haedus, may this book help you answer your questions when no one is there to answer them for you.

---

My dearest Harry, my little star Haedus,

I don't know when you'll read these lines, or if you'll ever find them at all. But I want to tell you something, something important that you might need to understand one day when I'm no longer here to answer you myself. It's a story about you, about us, and about how life sometimes finds the most beautiful paths when you least expect it.

You know how much your Dad, James, and I wanted a child. It was our greatest dream. We tried everything, every remedy, every Healer, every old recipe, but it just wouldn't work. Your Dad was infertile for some reason no one could explain. Time passed, and our hearts grew heavier and heavier. I remember so many sleepless nights where we just held each other and wondered why we were denied this happiness.

You also know how much I love Potions, don't you? I owe that to my best friend Sev. He opened this world to me, and I lost myself in it, spending hours upon hours in books, searching for a solution. And then, one day, I found it. An ancient, almost forgotten potion that could give us our greatest hope. It was complicated and required an ingredient that not everyone could give: the magical inheritance of another.

And this is where Sirius comes in. He was immediately willing to help, without hesitation, without thinking for a second about what it would mean for him. His selflessness touched my heart so deeply back then, and it still does when I think about it. Thanks to him, I became pregnant, and I can't tell you how happy we were when we found out you were on the way. It was like a miracle, a gift from the stars, for which we will be eternally grateful to Sirius.

When you were born, a tiny, red-haired bundle of joy with the brightest grey eyes I had ever seen, it was Sirius who gave you your first name. He followed the old tradition of the Black family. He called you Haedus , like the star. It was a beautiful name that suited you so well. Then came James , after your Dad, even though Sirius was your biological father in that moment, James is your father by heart and always will be. And then Arcturus , after Sirius's grandfather and the head of the Black family. Your full surname was to be Black-Potter , a union of the two houses you belong to.

Just a few hours later, you were still tiny and fragile, your Dad James performed the ritual of blood adoption. It was a deeply emotional moment in which he accepted you as his own son, with every fibre of his being and, regrettably, appearance, sorry darling. You were then officially a Potter. But Sirius still had one wish. He insisted that your name be changed. He said the Black family was so fractured, and you, as Sirius's child, would only bring more discord to the already broken family. He wanted to protect you, my darling, to keep you away from all that old pain.

So you became Harrison James Potter . I must admit, your Aunt Alice and I don't like Harrison. We always used to make a bit of fun about it when the boys weren't listening. That's why I always and everywhere just called you Harry. We shared a room at St Mungo's back then, shortly before your birth. You and Neville were born only a few hours apart, weren't you? And you were practically inseparable from birth. You surely know that, my little Harry.

Right now, as I write these lines, you're lying next to Neville, both of you are only six months old and sleeping peacefully. Alice is with me, as always, when your fathers are on dangerous missions. I hope every day that this terrible war will soon end. The news of what happened to the Rosier children still weighs heavily on us. That's why Alice and I try never to be alone when Frank and James have to work. We look after each other, just as we look after you.

My sweet Harry, you are the light in our lives. No matter what happens, never forget how much we love you. More than words can say.

---

Harry read these lines from his mother. Tears ran down his cheeks, hot, salty drops that fell onto the old paper. His mother loved him more than anything in the world. And Sirius was his father because James couldn't be. But why did they have to keep it a secret? What was wrong with Sirius's family? Why were they supposedly so fractured?

And Neville and he had had such a deep bond so early on? He had always felt that something was missing, but had always thought it was his parents. But could it perhaps have been Neville? Could magic create such an invisible but strong bond between two people?

He desperately wanted to read on, to learn more of what his mother had written to him. But the unpleasant, throbbing feeling in his right leg grew stronger, more unbearable. He could barely concentrate. Again and again, he had to think about how Dudley had pushed him down the stairs even before they started primary school – exactly the leg that now hurt so terribly while the new bones grew within it. But instead of taking him to a doctor, the Dursleys had simply locked him in the dark, cramped cupboard under the stairs. Again and again, this terrible thought circled in Harry's head, mingling with his mother's words and the throbbing pains in his leg.

But eventually, exhausted by the day's events and the unsettling revelations, he finally managed to fall into a restless sleep.

Notes:

Thank you everyone for reading! 😀
I really hope you're still enjoying the story, even though we haven't had any Neville interaction just yet. But I promise, he'll be back in the next chapter!

What did you think of Tonks's favourite song? A bit too on the nose? And what's with Tonks trying to ship Harry with everyone?🙄
And Lily... she truly loved her little star, didn't she? So now we finally know why Sirius is Harry's father.

As always, I appreciate your thoughts and comments!

Chapter 5: Chapter Four: Two Birthdays and a Surprise

Summary:

Two birthdays, two very different worlds. As Neville navigates a grand wizarding society event, Harry grapples with uncomfortable truths and newfound connections.
Meanwhile, Harry's own family celebration at the Burrow promises warmth but delivers more than just cake: two unexpected visitors arrive.

Notes:

Welcome back to Chapter 4!

Please be aware that Harry is a traumatised child, and his mistreatment by the Dursleys is mentioned but not described in detail.

The days between Harry's trip to Diagon Alley and Neville's upcoming birthday reception were, at least where Ron was concerned, marked by him initially looking at Harry with a mixture of disbelieving astonishment and a pinch of envy because of his many new clothes. But Harry had secretly expected it. When he arrived in Ron's room with his brand-new trunk, shrunk to backpack size, Ron had been quite amazed. "Blimey, Harry, that must've cost a fortune!" was Ron's first comment when Harry had demonstrated the trunk's various functions. In truth, the trunk hadn't cost that much – okay, quite a few Galleons, but his dress robe from Twilfitt and Tatting had been many times more expensive.

At the Weasleys', Harry kept not only the Black ring hidden but also the Potter ring. Not because he feared the Weasleys would hold anything against him or treat him differently, but because he felt a little ashamed that he was financially so infinitely better off than this dear, red-headed extended family. And that they, regardless of their own modest financial situation, still possessed the incredible goodness to take him in, filled Harry with deep gratitude. One day, Harry quietly swore to himself, one day I'll be able to repay them for everything. Promise.

Dudley's old, worn-out clothes, incidentally, were burnt in a flash in the Burrow's garden. Harry had grabbed the twins, who with gleeful delight and loud whooping helped him destroy these unwelcome remnants of his years of neglect once and for all.

"You're welcome, Harry!" Fred said with a wide grin as Dudley's far too large trousers disintegrated in the flames.

"But then," George added, poking absentmindedly at the ashes with a stick,

"you've got nothing left to wear and," Fred said again, his eyes twinkling mischievously,

"have to run around the house naked?" George finished the sentence with a loud laugh.

"No, don't worry," Harry explained, grinning too. "I completely restocked in Diagon Alley, much more than you've seen so far. But please don't tell Ron, I don't think he'd take it too well."

"Pity, Harry, Ginny would have been pleased," Fred teased Harry with a suggestive wink.

"And our old Ickle Ronnikins shouldn't make such a fuss," George added, rolling his eyes.

"Thanks, lads, you're the best!"

"Anytime, Harrykins!" both twins said in unison.

"Our brother from another mother," Fred then added.

"And another father," George finished the sentence.

If only they knew, Harry thought to himself, and a faint pang of melancholy shot through him. More than just another father. The three boys then built a neat pile from Harry's old clothes, which had actually just been Dudley's hand-me-downs, and ceremoniously set fire to it. It was an incredibly liberating feeling to watch the flames greedily lick at the fabrics. Finally, at least it felt like it, he could be a bit more himself.

 

The remaining days between his visit to St. Mungo's and Neville's upcoming reception were marked by Harry having to rest his leg continuously. He had also received a special walking stick to help him avoid putting too much weight on his leg. Quidditch was out of the question for the time being, which Harry found endlessly regrettable.

So he thought he could just sit on the comfortable, well-worn sofa in the Weasleys' living room and read a little. But while he was lying there on the sofa, he didn't have a single quiet minute. He wanted so incredibly badly to continue reading his mother's book, which he guarded like a treasure. But without any of the lively family members getting wind of the book, it simply wasn't possible. Yes, even Percy, by far the quietest and most reserved of the Weasley brothers, kept coming over, sitting down with him, and asking him if he should do this or that for him. Harry usually didn't know what Percy actually wanted from him, and Percy's hints always remained very cryptic and mysterious. Ginny also regularly kept him company. She wanted to know all the details about what it had been like, running away from home with Neville. So Harry only told her the good and exciting stories of his and Neville's escape, leaving out the less pleasant and frightening parts. Mrs Weasley also seemed to continue to mother him incessantly, constantly bringing him treats or a warm cup of tea. And if the twins and Ron weren't playing Quidditch out in the garden, they also spent their time with Harry in the living room.

At some point, Harry sighed, if he finally wanted to read his mother's book undisturbed, he would have to retreat upstairs to Ron's room. But that immediately brought another problem with it. He was still not particularly good on his feet, and the bathroom was two floors down, another one on the ground floor. So if he wanted to go to the toilet without constantly having to ask for help, he had no choice but to spend his time down here in the living room and hope for a quiet moment. And so the days until Neville's birthday reception generally passed in the same way, filled with the usual, lovable Weasley chaos and Harry's growing impatience to finally learn more about his true origins.

 

"That's not fair!" Ron cried out loudly on the afternoon of Neville's birthday, throwing himself onto his bed with a dramatic groan. "Why do you get to skip the dancing, and I have to go through with it?"

"Hello? Leg and all," Harry said, pointing to his walking stick leaning beside his chair. Ron had just learned from Harry that Daphne Greengrass had told him there would apparently be dancing at the reception, and he had been in a huge state ever since. At that moment, Ron's mother came into their room with a stack of freshly ironed laundry, bringing Ron something that looked suspiciously like a dress robe.

"Don't be silly, Ronald," Mrs Weasley said with a loving but also slightly reproachful look at her youngest son. "It's part of being a good and well-bred wizard to be able to dance. And you used to love dancing with Great Aunt Muriel, don't you remember?" Ron flushed crimson at his mother's comment. His face and his hair colour almost dangerously matched at that moment. "Right then, boys, get changed, you have to leave soon for Neville's birthday reception," Molly Weasley then said firmly, shooing them with a wave of her hand towards their wardrobes.

Harry went to his trunk, which still had the practical size of a backpack, and pressed the small, inconspicuous button on the side to make it return to its normal size. The trunk was now as tall as an adult person when standing upright. Ron seemed to be impressed by it every time. Harry briefly wondered if he should perhaps give Ron such a practical trunk for his birthday, just so Ron would finally stop glancing enviously at Harry's. Harry opened the trunk and took out his dark green formal robe. Then he began to change. Ron followed suit, though with significantly less enthusiasm.

"I'm not going to Neville's birthday!" said a horrified-sounding Ron who, after they had both changed, took a look in the mirror for the first time. Harry now also looked over at Ron.

Ron was wearing a somewhat ill-fitting, brown tailcoat, under which a beige, slightly crumpled shirt emerged. With it, matching, but also not particularly well-fitting brown trousers and clumsy, black boots that didn't at all match the rest of the outfit. No comparison to what Harry was wearing.

Harry's dark green tailcoat with the elegant, black velvet waistcoat he wore over the pristine white Egyptian cotton shirt, all subtly adorned with delicate silver ornaments, as well as his matching black leather shoes and perfectly fitting dark trousers actually looked appropriate for the occasion, in contrast to Ron's attire. Harry raised an eyebrow. How, in Merlin's name, was he supposed to break this to Ron gently, without making him even more insecure?

"I mean, look at you, Harry!" Ron said, staring at Harry with a mixture of admiration and despair. "With the walking stick and the green tailcoat, you look like a proper, pure-blood Lord." If only Ron knew that, given the occasion, this was actually quite a fitting compliment. And that Harry would indeed one day be a Lord. Of several Houses, even. How would Ron react then? While Harry was thinking, he involuntarily fiddled with his invisible Potter ring, a habit he had picked up in the last few days when he was nervous or deep in thought.

"It won't be that bad, Ron," Harry tried to cheer him up, but he didn't quite know what else to say. The whole occasion was also his first time moving in the world of noble and ancient wizarding houses. Something that, he suspected, would happen more often sooner or later.

Ron helped Harry down the narrow, creaking staircase. Downstairs in the living room, besides Mrs and Mr Weasley, the twins were already waiting. They certainly wouldn't want to miss the spectacle of their little brother going to such an exquisite event. Apparently, they already suspected what kind of outfit Ron would be wearing. Because no two seconds later, there was a bright flash, and with the help of a magical camera, a photo was taken showing Ron in his unflattering dress robe, desperately trying to move his hand over his face again and again to avoid being photographed.

Harry asked the twins with a mischievous grin if they would hang the photo on the bulletin board in the Gryffindor common room. "You bet!" was their unanimous and enthusiastic reply. Harry couldn't suppress a grin.

"Right then, boys, you're already far too late!" Molly Weasley said, pressing Neville's gift into each of their hands. Ron's mother had been kind enough to wrap the records for Neville for Harry. Ron had a suspiciously large box to carry. Harry wondered what he would give Neville. But when he had told Ron about the records when he had returned from St Mungo's, Ron had only mumbled that his Mum had already sorted something out.

Mrs Weasley grabbed Harry's arm, and Mr Weasley took Ron's hand, as they stood outside the Burrow. Before they even Disapparated, Mrs Weasley whispered softly in Harry's ear: "You look really good, Harry."

"Thanks," Harry could just manage to say, as the sudden Disapparition pulled his feet off the ground and the Burrow vanished before his eyes with a strange pop .

As soon as Harry could see clearly again, he stared in astonishment. Before him lay an estate so overgrown with lush greenery that the actual building behind it was barely discernible. It was no sign of neglect, quite the contrary; the plants seemed carefully tended, yet the sheer size of some trees and bushes almost obscured the turquoise stone mansion that could be glimpsed behind them.

Ron stood open-mouthed, staring at the building that was obviously Neville's home. "Blimey, and Neville lives here all alone with his gran?" he blurted out, awestruck.

Harry leaned over and whispered, "Until recently, his Great-Uncle Algie lived here too, but he had to go. Best not to mention it." It was good that Uncle Algie was gone; it had been one of the conditions Neville had set to even come home again. Ron, however, seemed to have barely registered Harry's remark about Algie, for he merely uttered an approving "Mmm," still visibly impressed by the imposing nature of the house. Harry wondered involuntarily if all noble wizarding families lived in such magnificent estates. And if his parents, the Potters, would have lived in such a house with him, if everything had turned out differently.

"Have fun, boys!" Ron's parents wished them both before they Disapparated again with a loud pop.

Harry and Ron made their way together to the entrance of the estate. Ron supported Harry slightly, as he still wasn't allowed to put full weight on his leg.

"I hate this, Harry," Ron grumbled, plucking morosely at his brown, out-of-fashion tailcoat. "I mean, I look like a complete idiot." Harry didn't envy him at all and was heartily glad he had listened to Neville's advice and got himself a suitable dress robe in Diagon Alley.

The two continued towards the heavy, oak front door of the estate, which stood invitingly open. Beyond it, in the brightly lit foyer, stood Augusta Longbottom. She wore an elegant, black dress and a matching hat, fortunately without the stuffed vulture this time. A sparkling brooch with the Longbottom family crest adorned her dress, and her hands were encased in black velvet gloves. Neville had sent Harry a message by owl via ron shortly before, impressing upon him what he absolutely had to remember regarding etiquette. Without this prior warning, Harry was sure, what followed would have ended in a full-blown disaster.

"Well met, Dowager Longbottom," Harry began and bowed slightly, just as Neville had described to him. Since Neville's father, though unable to exercise the title, was still the acting Lord Longbottom, and Augusta had married into the family, "Dowager" was the correct address. "Forgive our late arrival, but I'm not quite as steady on my feet at the moment," Harry tried to play down their lateness with a small jest, pointing to his walking stick.

"Well met, Heir Potter," Augusta Longbottom replied, and a hint of surprise and recognition was in her voice. "I didn't expect you to be so well-versed in etiquette. A pleasant surprise. Your lateness is forgiven." A barely perceptible smile flitted across her stern features, and Harry had the feeling she must have even chuckled a little at his joke.

Neville, who stood beside his grandmother in his equally black dress robe, seemed visibly relieved that his godbrother had mastered this first hurdle with flying colours. Ron, however, had less luck. He nearly tripped over his own feet trying to make a similar bow to Harry's, and instead made a far too deep, clumsy bow forward just as he was about to address her. Neville's grandmother smiled indulgently at this faux pas. "It's quite alright, young Mr Weasley," she said in a gentle voice.

Before Harry could present Neville with his gift, the two exchanged a few more polite pleasantries, much to Augusta Longbottom's visible approval. When Neville finally unwrapped Harry's gift and realised it was the enchanted Muggle records, his godbrother's eyes lit up with joy.

"Harry! This is incredible! How...?" But Harry couldn't answer, for Neville threw his arms around him. Harry heartily returned the embrace and felt the deep, invisible connection between him and Neville seem overjoyed to be reunited. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see how, somewhat off to the side, the other guests at Neville's birthday reception – all of them, as he knew, from Neville's old tutor group: Daphne Greengrass, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, and Ernest Macmillan – reacted with a mixture of scepticism and astonishment to the intimate embrace of the two.

After Ron had also presented Neville with his gift – a rare plant from his mother's garden, in which Neville had shown great interest during his last visit to the Burrow – Neville escorted all his guests into the drawing-room.

The room was smaller and more intimate than the large, imposing foyer with its impressive grand staircase in the centre, which inevitably drew all eyes. The drawing-room, by contrast, felt cosy and inviting. Surprisingly, it wasn't, like the corridors in Hogwarts, hung with countless portraits. Only a few paintings adorned the walls here and there. Instead, small groups of plants stood everywhere, sometimes on dainty side tables, sometimes so large and sprawling that they had to stand directly on the floor. Relatively close to the large bay window stood a round table with exactly seven chairs. It was already lightly set, and in the centre, a multi-tiered cake stand sat enthroned, laden with tiny pastries and carefully cut cucumber sandwiches.

Hardly had they all entered the room when Daphne began, her voice dripping with feigned surprise: "Potter, I see your stable boy has wandered in here too. I didn't realise you employed staff to bring along to such occasions." Harry felt his anger flare. Ron shot Daphne a dark look. And to Harry's great surprise, even Neville's face contorted disapprovingly at Daphne's condescending remark.

But before Harry could give her a sharp retort, Hannah Abbott broke the tense silence and skilfully tried to redirect the topic. "Harry, what happened to your leg? The stick…" What should Harry tell her? The truth? That his bones had to be regrown gradually because his magic had spent years trying to patch up the injuries his so-called relatives had inflicted on him? No, he couldn't. Not in this company. Apart from Neville and Ron, he didn't really know anyone here, except that they were all in the same year at Hogwarts.

"Oh, that's just a little Quidditch accident," Harry lied, trying to make it sound as casual as possible. "Just had a bit of an unlucky fall from my broom during practice at the Burrow."

To Harry's relief, no further biting comments from Daphne regarding Ron came for the time being. Susan seemed to have taken Ron under her wing and was keeping the visibly uncomfortable boy a little company. At least, Harry thought, Ron seemed to be gradually relaxing; he saw Ron laughing at something Susan was currently telling him.

Harry, meanwhile, tried to intercept Neville. He urgently needed to talk to him. He wanted to tell him at least part of what he had learned at Gringotts and what was in his mother's book. And he wanted to ask him if he could tell him something about the different families and Houses. But each time he thought he had Neville to himself for a few seconds, someone else was already with him. Finally, however, he had managed it; he had intercepted Neville.

"Neville, at last! I need to tell you something," Harry blurted out, relieved. Neville looked at him, a little irritated. "Is everything alright, Harry?"

"Um, yes, it is… somehow… well, somehow not…," Harry stammered, not quite knowing where to begin. Neville seemed to notice Harry's unease. "What's wrong?"

"Phew, um… so many things, really… I mean, I'd rather tell you everything… but not here, okay? Maybe I can't tell you everything… at least not all at once." Harry didn't know how to start. Could he really confide everything in Neville?

"Harry?" Neville asked gently, visibly sensing Harry's inner turmoil.

"Well, I was at Gringotts… and well…" But instead of continuing to speak, Harry pressed the invisible stone of his Potter ring, whereupon it became visible. Harry showed it to Neville. Neville immediately understood what Harry had done. He embraced him enthusiastically, and Harry's hand with the sparkling ring was probably clearly visible on Neville's back in the drawing-room, for Ernest Macmillan seemed to have noticed the ring on Harry's finger.

"Potter! You're finally wearing your Heir Ring! Excellent! I congratulate you on finally seeming to be aware of your responsibility as a member of our society!" the Hufflepuff student announced loudly and with a theatrical gesture that reminded Harry a little of Percy.

Ron, who had apparently overheard the conversation, stared at Harry with wide eyes. An expression of disappointment and anger was reflected in his face. And what happened next was that Ron, with a stifled cry, stormed out of the drawing-room. Harry wanted to follow him immediately, but Ron turned around in the doorway once more.

"Just stay here, Harry! I… I don't need you!" he called out with a trembling voice and waved him back with a dismissive hand gesture before disappearing. Neville placed a calming hand on Harry's shoulder to stop him from running after Ron.

"Leave him, Harry. He needs a moment. He'll calm down again," Neville said quietly.

"Do you think so?" Harry asked uncertainly, looking worriedly at the door.

"I'm sure," Neville replied confidently.

"Thanks, Neville," Harry said, grateful to his friend for the support.

Ernie Macmillan, who apparently wanted to quickly gloss over Ron's embarrassing exit, walked over to the magical gramophone standing in a corner of the room and put on a new record. Gentle, classical melodies, played by string instruments, filled the drawing-room.

Ernest, who now presented himself entirely as the refined young gentleman again, approached Hannah with an almost stiff posture, who was standing somewhat apart by a wall. He bowed deeply before her and asked in a formal voice: "Heir Abbott, might I have this dance?" Hannah, visibly flattered, accepted his invitation somewhat shyly. And so Ernest and Hannah danced elegantly through the room to the music. Ernest turned out to be an exceptionally good dancer; skilfully and with confident leading, he guided Hannah across the parquet.

Harry and Neville stood somewhat to the side, observing the scene. Neville and Daphne had already told him that it was customary for such an occasion to include dancing. But Neville himself seemed far too shy to ask Daphne or Susan, who were also still standing somewhat indecisively in the room, to dance.

It was finally Susan who dared to take the first step. She moved somewhat hesitantly towards Neville. "Neville, would you… dance with me?" she asked him with slightly flushed cheeks. Neville was visibly surprised, but happily agreed. And Neville, too, skilfully and appropriately to the music, led Susan across the parquet. Harry knew, of course, that Neville could move rhythmically to music. He had to think of their shared day in the music shop. There, he and Neville had also danced wildly and exuberantly, only to music that didn't at all suit this refined occasion.

Everyone from Neville's former tutor group must also have had dance lessons, Harry thought, seeing how elegantly and confidently they moved to the music. A faint pang of melancholy shot through him. What would have happened if his parents hadn't been killed? Would he also have belonged to Neville's tutor group? Would they have learned together before Hogwarts, would they have had dance lessons together? Would his parents also celebrate such receptions if it were his birthday? But he hadn't had any of that. He hadn't grown up with Neville, as his mother and Alice Longbottom had so desperately wished. He had had to grow up with the Dursleys. They would never have taken him to such an event, although Aunt Petunia would probably secretly have liked something like this reception. They would never have organised dance lessons for him. He couldn't dance. But he was glad that he was now spared this, thanks to the medical order to rest his leg, and the practical walking stick.

What Harry didn't notice, as he was lost in thought and watched Neville with Susan and Ernest with Hannah dancing, was that Daphne had silently positioned herself next to him. With one of her typically barbed remarks, she abruptly pulled him from his reveries.

"I'd ask you to dance, Potter, but with that walking stick, that's probably not going to happen. And I certainly don't want to dance with that stable boy over there," Daphne said with a smug, slightly condescending voice and gestured with a contemptuous nod towards the foyer, where Ron had stormed off. Harry couldn't stand it anymore, Daphne's constant, poisonous jabs at Ron.

"What's your problem, Greengrass? What's all this about?" Harry snapped at her, his voice choked with suppressed anger.

"My problem, Potter," Daphne retorted coolly and glared at him, "is that you suddenly appeared in Neville's life. All these years you were with some Muggles, and suddenly you get along brilliantly with Neville. And he seems to know you better than us. We, who had to fight together for all these years under the unbearable pressure of the expectations that weigh on all of us, we have suddenly become a mere side issue!" Daphne seemed to be working herself into a veritable tirade of rage, but Harry understood. Daphne was envious. Envious of his and Neville's deep, unshakeable friendship.

"And then he invites you and that Weasley! I might understand you, you're an Heir of a House after all, but Weasley…" But before Daphne could finish her sentence, she was interrupted by Neville. His usual shyness was gone, and for a moment, Harry saw again the brave, determined Neville he had come to know during their shared escape.

"Daphne, be quiet already! Harry is family to me! He's my godbrother!" Neville snapped at her, his voice trembling with anger. Ernie, Hannah, Susan, and Daphne stared at him, shocked. An icy silence fell over the room, for the gramophone had stopped playing at that very moment. Their eyes widened in disbelief. "Godbrother?" Ernie muttered, stunned. "But…"

Harry too was shocked. He didn't want Neville to shout it out like that. It was actually a childish thought, but he didn't want Neville to announce to the whole world that they were godbrothers. And now Harry, overwhelmed by his emotions, also stormed out of the drawing-room.

In the generous foyer of the Longbottom estate, Harry saw Ron sitting on the wide marble staircase. He had buried his head in his hands and seemed to be deep in thought. Harry sat down silently next to him. Ron only noticed after a while that Harry had joined him.

"Everything alright, Ron?" Harry asked cautiously. He himself was still quite agitated, not because of Neville, but because of Daphne's hurtful words. Ron looked up, his eyes bloodshot. He looked at Harry with an expression as if he was mourning something incredibly important and precious.

"Nothing's alright, Harry!" Ron sobbed quietly. "I'm losing my best friend to these elitist, stuck-up circles! To these people who treat me like… like dirt!" He sounded so infinitely pathetic that Harry would have loved to put his arms around him. Instead, he put a comforting arm around his shoulder.

"No, you're not, Ron. Never," Harry said firmly, trying to inject as much confidence as possible. "Just because I might be Heir to a House doesn't mean I'll forget my best friend." Ron leaned into Harry's embrace, and for a moment they just sat in silence. And Harry and Ron both felt that there seemed to be nothing in the world that could truly shake their friendship.

Harry took the opportunity to tell Ron part of the truth about what had happened at Gringotts.

"I was at Gringotts, Ron," he began quietly. "And there I really became aware that I'm Heir and later even Lord of a House. And that I'll have a permanent seat on the Wizengamot." Harry took a deep breath. He was actually Heir to five Houses, but he didn't want to tell Ron that yet. He hadn't even told Neville yet.

"But no matter what happens, Ron," Harry said, looking his friend firmly in the eye, "you are and always will be my very best friend. And you'll always have a place by my side."

"Promise?" Ron asked with a voice still trembling slightly.

"Promise," Harry replied with a confidence that surprised even himself. Their friendship would last forever, he was sure of that.

"Besides…" Harry then added with a touch of feigned desperation to lighten the mood a little, "I have absolutely no idea how all this wizarding world politics works. And frankly, I don't fancy it at all. Neville will have to teach me all this sometime." And indeed, Ron laughed, a real, liberating laugh.

"You're going to be the most un-Lord-like Lord of all time, Harry!" he spluttered. And at Ron's funny remark, Harry also laughed. As they both sat on the stairs now, all their previous tension and uncertainty fell away from them. Relieved, they finally stood up and went back to the party together.

 

When they opened the door to the drawing-room, they were quite astonished. A recurring, powerful organ melody, underpinned by loud guitar riffs, blared towards them and had completely supplanted the previous stiff ballroom music.

“The happy ones are near

Let's get together, before we get much older

Teenage wasteland

It's only teenage wasteland”

Neville must have put his gift on the gramophone, Harry thought, and a wide grin stole onto his face. It was unmistakably Muggle music.

When Neville saw Harry and Ron come in, he happily held up the album cover. It was "Who's Next" by The Who, Harry recognised immediately.

"Come on, I've just put it on!" Neville called out cheerfully to them. And so all the guests – five of them, as Harry knew, for the very first time in their lives – listened to the sounds of Muggle music. Even Daphne, who had been so critical and dismissive before, seemed to like the music; at least she tapped her foot lightly in time.

When the record ended, Harry said to Neville: "Please, let's listen to this one now, please, please!" With an almost childlike plea and a look reminiscent of a begging cat, Harry held out the David Bowie record to Neville. Harry knew that Neville could hardly refuse his godbrother a wish, so he took the record and put it on. Harry proudly told everyone present that David Bowie was his absolute favourite artist. And so they all sat in a circle around the magical gramophone and listened devoutly to the music.

But already by the third song on the album, "Let's Dance," everyone was swept away. Bowie's infectious invitation literally ripped them from their chairs. And they all danced together, wild and exuberant, but somehow still in time, each in their own way, to the music. Even Harry, who wasn't actually supposed to put weight on his leg, enthusiastically swayed along. It was as if the music freed them from everything that had weighed them down all day.

“

Let's dance, for fear your grace should fall

Let's dance, for fear tonight is all

Let's sway, you could look into my eyes

Let's sway, under the moonlight, this serious moonlight”

 

***

 

The first morning rays crept through the tiny, crooked windows of Ron's attic room, painting delicate, dusty streaks of light on the warped walls and the overflowing pile of clothes that lay like a sleeping monster in one corner. Harry lay sprawled on the makeshift bed next to Ron's own, his striped pyjama bottoms half-exposed, the duvet having slipped onto the wooden floor in his sleep. Ron, in turn, a picture of peace, snored softly, his red hair sticking out in all directions like exploded fireworks, and one arm dangled casually over the edge of the bed, as if to greet the dust bunnies lurking beneath.

Gradually, like the slow swelling of a distant melody, voices from downstairs drifted into Harry's sleepy consciousness. Soft, whispering voices at first, but with each creak of the old wooden stairs, they drew closer and grew louder. Voices he knew all too well and which usually boded no good, at least not for whoever their target was.

"...Bet you they had Firewhisky?" one of the voices hissed conspiratorially.

"At Neville Longbottom's? They're only twelve, you prat! I'd be surprised if there was even Butterbeer, let alone anything stronger," the other voice retorted, laboriously suppressing a guttural laugh that sounded like the gurgling of a blocked drainpipe.

"True, you're probably right. Definitely not. A pity, really."

Harry blinked sleepily. A slight, dull ache made itself known in his leg. Having danced so exuberantly to Muggle music last night had probably not been good for his healing leg. But now Harry recognised with infallible certainty whose voices they were: Fred and George. The two mischief-makers had secretly crept into Ron's room, probably to concoct one of their pranks.

"So, what do you reckon happened at Neville's fancy party last night?" Harry heard Fred's voice again, almost bursting with curiosity. "They came back jolly late, I heard."

"Ron definitely danced," George surmised with feigned seriousness. "Who knows, probably stumbled more than gracefully glided, clumsy as he sometimes is."

A suppressed chuckle. Harry couldn't help but grin.

"Harry probably didn't, though," Fred then said. "Because of his dodgy leg, I mean."

"Mind you…" George mused aloud, and Harry could vividly imagine him tilting his head and raising an eyebrow. "I say Harry's a dashed good dancer, if he puts his mind to it."

Harry pricked up his ears. That was, however, a new and rather surprising assessment.

"Oh really?" Fred asked sceptically. "And what's got you to that conclusion, you clever clogs?"

"Well," George replied, his voice now sounding almost philosophical, "just look at Harry on his broom! That elegance, that grace! It's like… like ballet in the air."

Fred snorted disdainfully. "What you pay attention to, George. Sometimes I truly wonder…"

"And what about snogging?" George suddenly steered the conversation, with mischievous delight, to a new, promising topic. "Ooooh, who do you suppose our little Ronnie might have been snogging last night?"

Harry barely managed to stifle a loud laugh. Ron let out a deep, contented snore beside him, as if he'd heard George's question in his sleep and was answering it in his own way.

"We'll see at Hogwarts then," Fred replied dryly and matter-of-factly. "The first girl Ron blushes bright red around and looks away awkwardly, that's who he was canoodling with at Neville's party. Simple as that."

Another suppressed, but this time distinctly gleeful chuckle.

"And Harry?" George then asked with an eager voice.

A short, telling pause. Then Fred's voice, this time a little more thoughtful and quieter than before. "Believe me, George, I've got a feeling about this. Harry doesn't care for girls in the slightest."

A surprised, almost disbelieving silence from George. "Are you sure?" he then asked with feigned disappointment. "A Galleon on it?"

"A Galleon," Fred confirmed without the slightest hesitation.

Harry closed his eyes and a soft, amused smile crept onto his lips. A bet about him. The twins were simply incorrigible.

Ron, too, now seemed to have finally noticed the presence of his brothers, for suddenly, as if stung by a tarantula, a pillow flew with astonishing speed across the room and hit George squarely on the head.

"Oi, you two!" a sleepy and visibly ill-tempered Ron grumbled at the two intruders. "What are you doing in my room again? Clear off!"

But Fred and George, masters of the quick escape, had already vanished before Ron could properly wake up.

"Sorry, Harry," Ron apologised with a tired yawn, rubbing his eyes. "They're really impossible sometimes."

"It's alright," Harry said, grinning.

"Oh yes, Harry," Ron then said, and a wide smile lit up his face. "Happy Birthday!"

"Thanks, Ron!" Harry replied happily, feeling a warm wave of joy wash over him. It was his birthday! And for the very first time in his life, as far as he could remember, he wasn't spending his birthday with the hated Dursleys. But here, with his friends, at the Burrow. Harry could hardly believe his luck in that very moment. It was an indescribably beautiful feeling. He felt free, light, and simply… happy.

 

Ron and Harry lay comfortably in their beds for a while longer, reviewing the past evening. Neville's birthday reception had really gone on late, Harry thought. He couldn't quite remember how they had actually got home. At some point, when the music had long faded and Hannah, Ernest, Daphne had been picked up by their respective parents – Susan went with Hannah – Mr and Mrs Weasley had collected them. And Neville had been right, his grandmother Augusta had indeed tried to show a different, less strict side of herself. Even when they had listened to the Muggle music, which was quite unusual for her, for the rest of the evening, not a single critical word had come from Augusta Longbottom, no sign that she considered this type of music inappropriate.

Slowly, a delightful scent of freshly fried bacon and sweet pancakes wafted up to the top floor of the Burrow and tickled Harry's nose.

"Ron?" Harry asked softly.

"Mmmh?" Ron replied with a sleepy grunt. He seemed to have almost fallen asleep again.

"I think it's breakfast," Harry said, and his stomach rumbled in agreement.

"Oh, okay, is it that late already?" Ron asked, yawning. "When did we actually get home yesterday?" He, too, seemed to have no clear recollection of the party's exact end.

As on the other days, Ron carefully helped Harry down the narrow, creaking stairs of the Burrow. Harry sincerely hoped he would soon be able to walk properly again, without needing help or his walking stick. Andromeda had assured him it would only take another week if he rested, then his leg would be all right again. She also wanted to "treat" his other leg during the holidays, so he wouldn't need a walking stick for a few days at Hogwarts.

 

Downstairs at the large kitchen table, all the Weasleys living in the house were already gathered, most of them, like Ron and Harry, still in their pyjamas or dressing gowns.

"Happy Birthday, Harry, my love!" Mrs Weasley called out, beaming, and hugged him so fiercely he almost lost his breath.

"Thanks," Harry replied, unable to suppress a wide grin. The other Weasleys also wished him a happy birthday warmly. For the very first time in his life, people – apart from Hagrid, of course – wished him a happy birthday of their own free will and with genuine joy. Harry couldn't help but surreptitiously wipe away a small tear that trickled down his cheek. He sincerely hoped no one had noticed.

"Come on, Harry," Mrs Weasley then said with a loving smile, "before we have breakfast, why don't you open your presents first."

"Presents?" Harry asked, surprised, his eyes widening.

"Of course, Harry!" she said, leading him into the cosy living room, where a colourful pile of presents awaited him on a small table. There might have been fewer than Dudley received every year for his birthday, but these were presents meant only for him. Harry was completely overwhelmed. One after another, he unwrapped them with trembling hands.

Mr and Mrs Weasley gave him a brand-new pair of leather Quidditch gloves, into which his initials – HJP – had been finely engraved. HJP , Harry thought, Harrison James Potter . Although the whole world actually only called him Harry. Who even knew that Harry was just his nickname, given to him by his mother, because his actual name was Harrison? And that secretly wasn't entirely true anymore either. Actually, as the test at Gringotts had shown, HJABP should be engraved in his glove. Haedus James Arcturus Black-Potter. But no one was supposed to know who he really was. That he was a Black. That Sirius Black was his father, and not James Potter. He absolutely had to keep reading his mother's book. But how, if the Weasleys simply wouldn't leave him a moment's peace?

"Hey Harry, this one's from me," Ron said, handing him a small, somewhat awkwardly wrapped parcel.

"Thanks, Ron! Thanks to all of you for this, you really didn't have to!" Harry said, and he meant it with all his heart. The Weasleys didn't have to give him presents; it was gift enough that he was allowed to be with them today and for the rest of the holidays.

Harry unwrapped Ron's present. Inside was a poster of the Chudley Cannons – Ron was probably still trying to convert him into a fan –, two bulging packs of Chocolate Frogs and, to Harry's great delight, a complete broomstick care kit. Harry had already guessed he'd get Chocolate Frogs from Ron, because Ron had eaten some in his room a few days ago and had almost let slip that he'd give Harry some for his birthday too.

"Thanks, Ron!" Harry said, hugging his best friend fiercely.

The twins had also given him something. As expected, they were various joke articles from the joke shop in Diagon Alley, including a pack of Stink Pellets and some Whizzing Whizbangs, but also a brand-new, high-quality Quidditch goggles.

"Can't risk losing when it rains again, can we?" was the twins' dry comment as Harry held the Quidditch goggles admiringly in his hand. Here too, Harry thanked the twins with a hearty hug.

Lastly, Ginny and Percy had also given him a present together. It was a thick, richly illustrated book about Quidditch and a picture painted by Ginny herself, showing him, Ron, and the twins playing Quidditch in the Burrow's garden. Harry also thanked them both profusely. Ginny seemed somewhat overwhelmed and turned bright red when Harry hugged her.

Mrs Weasley then said to Harry with a slightly apologetic smile: "Had we known about your leg, Harry, we wouldn't necessarily have planned today around the theme of Quidditch."

"It's alright, Mrs Weasley," Harry said, waving it off. The leg was only for a short time, and he would certainly be able to get back on his broom soon.

After opening the presents, it was finally time for breakfast. And what a breakfast it was! Mrs Weasley had outdone herself. There were mountains of pancakes with syrup, scrambled eggs with bacon, sausages, grilled tomatoes, toast with countless different kinds of jam, and of course, plenty of pumpkin juice. During the meal, everyone naturally wanted to know exactly what Neville's birthday reception had been like yesterday. Harry and Ron enthusiastically recounted the party, but preferred to leave the little incident, where they both, for a brief, terrible moment, had believed their friendship was lost, unmentioned.

After breakfast, Ron and the twins went out into the garden to play a round of Quidditch. Harry sat down with his Nimbus 2000 at the edge of the improvised pitch and tried out Ron's new broomstick care kit. His broom, Harry quickly noticed, didn't actually need it yet; it was still in excellent condition. Perhaps he should lend the kit to Fred and George, he thought, their old Cleansweep Five brooms needed it more urgently. And Ron's broom, which was actually Charlie's old, rickety one, probably needed it the most urgently of all.

So Harry sat there in the sunny garden of the Burrow, enjoying the warm sunbeams on his skin, carefully placing his freshly polished broom to one side, and watching with a chuckle as the twins dodged and tricked Ron in every conceivable situation during their Quidditch game. Ron desperately wanted to be Keeper, but then, Harry thought, he'd have to try awfully hard if even two Beaters managed to outwit him so effortlessly. But then an idea came to him. He called Ron over.

"Come here, Ron! Take my broom, then you're sure to beat the twins!"

"Do you really think so, Harry?" Ron asked, incredulous, but his eyes lit up hopefully.

"Of course!" Harry said, giving Ron his Nimbus 2000. And it was true. With Harry's fast and nimble broom, Ron now stopped almost every Quaffle the twins tried with all their might to sink into the goal built by the Weasley boys themselves. What Ron didn't know, but Harry did, was the fact that it actually didn't really matter whether he had a fast Nimbus like Harry's or his older brother's old, slow Cleansweep Three. As a Keeper, at least if there was only one goal, the speed of the broom didn't really matter. Harry watched the three of them play for a while longer. He was happy for Ron and thought to himself, yes, if Oliver Wood wasn't there one day, Ron would certainly become a really good Keeper for Gryffindor.

 

Suddenly, a loud crack! made Harry jump. He whirled around and saw a figure appear in front of the Weasleys' creaking garden gate.

"Remus!" Harry cried out in surprise and jumped up as quickly as his leg allowed. Remus Lupin actually stood before him in the flesh. He had promised Harry in his letter to visit him on his birthday, and now he was here. To Harry's considerable astonishment, Remus looked distinctly less drawn than at their last meeting. He looked neater, his clothes were no longer so threadbare and dishevelled, and a hint of colour had returned to his otherwise pale cheeks. But as much as Harry rejoiced at the visit of his parents' old friend, an uneasy feeling mingled with his joy. The revelations at Gringotts still weighed heavily on his mind. Remus was his godfather. Did Remus know that? And if so, why hadn't he contacted him all these years? Alice, his other godmother and Neville's mother, was in St Mungo's, he knew that. But what had been Remus's excuse for abandoning him for so long?

"Hey, Harry," Remus greeted him with a warm smile that didn't quite reach his tired eyes. In his hand, he held a suspiciously large parcel wrapped in colourful paper. "Happy Birthday." Remus was just stepping through the garden gate towards him when his gaze fell on Harry's outstretched leg and the walking stick lying beside it in the grass. "Are you alright, Harry? Have you hurt yourself?" Remus asked with a hint of concern in his voice.

"No, I'm fine," Harry tried to brush it off, waving his hand casually. "Just have to rest my leg a bit. New bones and all, you know." He wasn't sure if he should tell Remus the whole truth. Remus knew that Harry had to go to St Mungo's a few more times because he had, well, been a little neglected by the Dursleys. But how much and what that really meant for Harry, Remus had no idea.

"Shall we go inside?" Remus then asked, holding out the parcel to Harry. "I've got something for you." Harry nodded eagerly. He stood up and walked slowly, leaning on his walking stick, towards the Burrow. Remus gently put an arm under him to support him. Ron and the twins, who had interrupted their Quidditch game, also followed them curiously into the house.

"Remus, how lovely that you made it!" Molly Weasley greeted the newcomer with a beaming smile.

"Molly, Arthur," Remus returned the greeting and nodded kindly to Ron's parents.

"Some tea? Or perhaps a slice of Harry's birthday cake?" Mrs Weasley asked Remus, indicating the magnificent chocolate cake she had just placed on the kitchen table, where it sat enthroned. Remus politely declined.

"I'm afraid I don't have much time, I'm sorry, otherwise I'd love to."

"But, but, Remus," Mr Weasley now chimed in, "it's Harry's birthday today! Surely you can spare a little time, can't you?"

"I'd really like to, Arthur, but I have to catch an international Portkey in time."

"Um, what's an international Portkey?" Harry asked, who at the word "Portkey" couldn't help but think of his and Neville's hasty journey to St Mungo's. He seemed to be the only one who had this question, as everyone else nodded knowingly.

"Well, Harry, you know what a Portkey is, don't you?" Mr Weasley began his explanation, while Mrs Weasley, despite Remus's protest, placed a steaming cup of tea and a generous slice of Harry's birthday cake in front of him. Harry nodded.

"International Portkeys," Mr Weasley continued, "are basically the same, only they are meant to leave the country. They are strictly regulated by the Ministry so that no wizard or witch can travel into or out of the country unregistered. A pure precautionary measure, you understand. Since the business with Sirius Black's escape, however, security precautions have been drastically increased again."

"Though it does precious little good if the Ministry only controls magical transport methods and completely disregards those of Muggles!" Molly Weasley suddenly interjected with an energetic shake of her head. "But enough of that! It's Harry's birthday, and Remus is here to celebrate with him." With that, she practically pressed the cake plate into Remus's hand.

While Remus was thus forced to eat a piece of the delicious chocolate cake – which, Harry thought, tasted even better than the one Hagrid had given him last year – Harry was to unwrap the present Remus had brought. Carefully, Harry removed the colourful paper, revealing a small, elegant case, not much larger than a briefcase. Another case? Harry thought, a little confused. He had just bought a new one himself.

"Go on, open it," Remus said to Harry with an encouraging smile.

When Harry opened the case, the golden-gleaming horn of a gramophone sprang out as if by magic. Remus had kept his promise! He had given Harry something with which he could finally play music! Harry was overjoyed.

"Thanks, Remus!" he cried, hugging his presumed godfather so enthusiastically that he almost spilt his tea.

"Harry, the needle is enchanted," Remus said, visibly touched by Harry's exuberant reaction. "It can play both magical and Muggle records. I found the good piece at a bazaar in Spain."

"Really?" Harry asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes, and look inside the lid of the case, there's more," Remus added to his explanation, pointing to the inside of the case lid. Harry peered in curiously and discovered three record sleeves, each containing a record. It was music from the Muggle world. One record was the album "Aftermath" by The Rolling Stones, on whose cover the musicians looked somewhat blurred and mysterious. Another album was by a band called Black Sabbath; the cover of "Paranoid" featured a dark figure with sword and shield, seemingly sprung from a nightmare. The last album, however, to Harry's complete surprise, was by David Bowie – "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars." And when Harry looked at the list of songs on it, he immediately recognised "Starman," one of his two absolute favourite David Bowie songs.

"How... how did you know I liked Bowie so much?" Harry asked Remus in an incredulous voice.

"Well," Remus explained with a wistful smile, "Lily always played his albums for you when you were very little. I thought, perhaps you still like his music." Harry was deeply moved. He now had something else that could remind him of his mother. As soon as he finally had the time and peace for it, he absolutely had to continue reading his mother's book. Perhaps, he earnestly hoped, she had written something in it about their shared love for David Bowie's music.

"Come on, Harry, let's hear it!" urged Ron, who had already enjoyed Muggle music yesterday evening and apparently wanted more.

"Yes, Harry, don't keep us in suspense!" Fred called impatiently.

"Show us what good music Muggles can make!" George added, grinning expectantly.

Harry had to smile at the enthusiasm of the three Weasley boys. He carefully took the David Bowie record from its sleeve and placed it with deliberate movements on the turntable of the case-gramophone. Immediately, as if endowed with its own magical sense, the gramophone recognised that a record was on it, and the needle gently lowered onto the rotating disc. Slowly, at first with just a soft crackle, then with a striking drum intro, the music began, and shortly thereafter, David Bowie's unmistakable voice filled the room.

As the boys devoutly listened to David Bowie's music, Remus stood up. "Excuse me, I must just step out," he said and disappeared from the kitchen with Mrs Weasley, who presumably wanted to show him the way to the bathroom.

Arthur Weasley, on the other hand, seemed just as fascinated by the Muggle music as his sons and Harry. Of course, Harry thought, and a small smile played around his lips, Mr Weasley thinks everything Muggles do is great.

After the first three songs had faded, it was finally time. Harry's absolute favourite David Bowie song began to play, which he announced with a chest swelled with pride. He couldn't help himself; as the first notes of "Starman" sounded, he not only involuntarily tapped his feet to the beat, no, he also closed his eyes and completely lost himself in the music. And precisely at that moment, like a bolt from the blue, that image reappeared before his eyes, the image he had last seen in the tent when he was ill and feverish. He saw himself, a small child, lovingly held in the arms of a black haired man, and this man danced with him to the music. But unlike then, Harry now knew who this man was. Sirius Black. His father. A wanted murderer. But he was his father, and he was alive. He was out there somewhere. Was he thinking of him right now? On his birthday? Harry so earnestly hoped he would get another chance to meet Sirius someday, to ask him all the questions that burned in his soul. For even if Sirius was a wanted criminal and a follower of Voldemort – which Harry instinctively knew was a lie, he felt it very clearly – Sirius would do him no harm. Not his own son. No one should know his true identity. Sirius had wanted to protect him, so no one should know that Harry was in truth a Black.

When "Starman" had faded, Ron asked him with a worried expression: "Are you alright, Harry?"

"Um, why?" Harry asked, a little clueless, and rubbed his eyes.

"Harry, you were just crying," Ron said cautiously. "Tears were running down your face during the song." Harry now also noticed that his cheeks were damp and self-consciously wiped away the tears. He was a little embarrassed by it now.

"I... I..." what should he say? Harry wasn't sure. "I think," he finally lied, "I was just remembering how my mother always played the song for me." Actually, he thought, it wasn't even a proper lie. Lily, his mother, also appeared in that blurred but so vivid memory.

They listened through the rest of the album, and to Harry's great relief, he had no further emotional outburst. They were just about to put on the next record when they heard Mrs Weasley's voice from the hallway.

"Do you really have to go already, Remus?"

"Yes, I'm really sorry, Molly, but I have to catch the Portkey," Remus replied, and his voice indeed sounded a little rushed. "Harry, I hope you have fun with the present, but you'll forgive me, I really, really have to hurry now," Remus said in passing as he came back into the kitchen.

But Harry didn't want to let him get away so easily. He wanted to talk to him about it, about Remus being his godfather. Now or never, Harry thought determinedly. Outside the Burrow, he might still be able to intercept Remus.

"Wait, Remus!" Harry cried, limping as fast as his injured leg and walking stick allowed, after the man who was already leaving. It wasn't easy to keep pace with a grown wizard when you were still quite small yourself and, on top of that, had an aching leg.

"Harry, what's wrong? I'm really in a hurry," Remus said to him when Harry had finally caught up with him in the garden. Remus tried to be nice, but his voice sounded noticeably stressed. The two were alone outside, everyone else was still in the Burrow. Now or never, Harry repeated in his mind.

"Remus…" Harry began, unsure how best to phrase it. "Why did you… erm… never tell me that you're my… well… my godfather?" Remus's eyes widened in surprise. He seemed completely bewildered.

"Your… your godfather?" he stammered.

"Yes," Harry confirmed softly.

"I… I didn't know that, Harry," Remus said, sounding so genuinely stunned that Harry instinctively believed him. "Really not."

"Why didn't you know that then?" Harry asked, who was now in turn astonished by Remus's reaction.

"I… I mean, when you were little, I only visited you very rarely," Remus tried to explain, and his voice trembled slightly. "I always thought James and Lily had… well, they had made someone else your godfather."

"Who then?" Harry asked curiously. "Who else would they have made my godfather? The Gringotts test only listed you, Remus, and Alice Longbottom."

"What Gringotts test, Harry?" Remus asked, still visibly confused by everything he was currently learning. Harry began to explain how he had forgotten his vault key, how the goblins had then taken him for these strange tests, and how it had turned out that Remus was his godfather.

"Wow, Harry," Remus said after a while, and his voice now sounded very quiet and somehow moved. "I'm so sorry I didn't know that." His apology sounded sincere, and Harry felt a small burden lift from his shoulders. "I… I'll write to you, Harry, absolutely. We'll definitely see each other again. I mean, I… wow… godfather…" Remus still seemed unable to fully grasp what he had just learned. "Harry, I'll figure something out, promise. But I really, really urgently need to catch this Portkey now. I'll write to you, alright? Promise!" Remus then said, and his voice now sounded a little firmer again, but also still a little agitated. He seemed to be in a real hurry now.

"If you want to write to me," Harry said quickly, before Remus could disappear, "you'll have to somehow weave yourself into my owl post protection ward. That's probably why your letters never reached me." Harry knew, thanks to Andromeda, that such a thing was possible.

"If that's all, Harry," Remus suddenly grinned and pulled out his wand. "Please give me your hand." Harry gave him his hand. Remus then made gentle, circling movements with his wand around their clasped hands. It truly looked as if he was weaving something invisible into an existing web of magic that seemed to surround their hands. Harry was astonished that Remus apparently didn't have to say a complicated incantation for this, as Andromeda had done when she wove Neville into the protection charm.

"Good, Harry," Remus said when he was finished, and squeezed Harry firmly again. This time the hug felt warmer, firmer, as if Remus had finally accepted the fact that he was now Harry's godfather. They said their goodbyes, and within a short moment, Remus Disapparated with a soft pop . He was gone. But Harry had told him. He was his godfather, and Remus, just like Harry himself, seemed to have known nothing about it for a long time. But it was not a goodbye for long, Harry was suddenly quite sure of that. Remus would get in touch. Limping, Harry went back into the house. If I don't slowly start to rest my leg properly, he thought to himself, it'll never get better.

 

Remus had barely been gone an hour when the next guest announced himself. The flames in the Weasleys' fireplace roared green with a loud whoosh, and Neville stepped through with a slight stumble, kicking up a small cloud of soot and ash. Harry, who was currently eating his prescribed lunch and his abominably tasting potion, jumped.

"Neville!" Harry cried out, overjoyed, as he recognised his godbrother. Unlike yesterday at his own reception, Neville was now wearing more normal clothes again. He wore a simple black wizard's robe over his Muggle jeans and jumper. The crest of the House of Longbottom – two eagles holding a shield displaying three cornucopias in their claws – was neatly embroidered into the collar. Should I perhaps have that done to my new robes too? Harry thought. Only with the Potter crest?

Neville handed Harry a small, carefully wrapped gift. But before Harry could even unwrap it, he threw himself impetuously into Neville's arms.

"Great to have you here!" cried an energetic Harry, who was thrilled to see his godbrother.

"Harry, happy... happy birthday," Neville stammered, visibly surprised by Harry's enthusiastic embrace. "Here, this is for you."

"Thanks, Neville!" Harry beamed and impatiently began to tear open the wrapping paper. What appeared was... a pot of earth. Nothing else.

"Um... Neville?" asked a somewhat perplexed Harry, turning the pot this way and that.

"That is, or rather, that will be a Summer Night's Lily," Neville tried to explain to Harry, his cheeks turning slightly rosy.

"Okay?" Harry replied, still a little sceptical.

"Yes, it only blooms in the last days of July and the first days of August," Neville explained.

"Wow," said Harry, who was as always deeply impressed by Neville's knowledge of plants. "So, whenever we have our birthdays?"

"Exactly," Neville confirmed Harry's question with a proud smile. "I have one too. This is a cutting from my plant." Harry's eyes widened. So this plant was connected to Neville's, just as he was connected to Neville.

"And do you know what, Harry?" Neville then asked him, his voice now sounding almost conspiratorial, as if he wanted to entrust him with a very special secret. "My plant was given to me by Lily, your mother, when I was one year old," Neville explained. "At least, that's what my Gran says."

Tears streamed down Harry's face, not from sadness, but from pure, unbridled happiness. Happiness at having received something again that connected him to his mother, something that reminded him of her.

"Thanks, Neville,... um... you don't even know... how... how much this means to me," Harry sobbed, completely overwhelmed by Neville's gift. Perhaps, Harry thought, something about my mother giving Neville the plant was in her book too. Harry was just wiping the first tears from his eyes and was about to start telling Neville about his mother's book when he suddenly heard three voices.

Hermione Granger stood by the open garden gate with her parents. Arthur Weasley greeted them with a wide smile. "Ah, welcome, welcome!" he called out and took care of the two adults. Harry could still hear Hermione's parents saying that they had to drive for quite a while to get there. At the mention of "car," Ron's father seemed to immediately perk up. "Oh, I must show you something! Come with me!" he said excitedly and already took Hermione's parents towards his shed, where he often tinkered with Muggle artefacts until late at night.

Hermione saw Harry and ran towards him. She was probably about to hug him enthusiastically when she saw his walking stick and how he was carefully not putting weight on his leg.

"Harry, what happened? I mean... Happy Birthday," said Hermione, her voice filled with concern.

"Thanks, I'm fine, Hermione," Harry tried to reassure her.

"Seriously, Harry, what happened?" Hermione asked, her eyes practically drilling into his. Could Harry tell her? Could he really tell her that he had to regrow his bones? Neville and he had already hinted to her that things hadn't been particularly good for him at the Dursleys'. So he tried.

"Well, um..." Harry began falteringly, "I have to gradually regrow certain bones because they've healed badly. Because, well, when I was younger, my magic... well, it just tried its best to take over the healing when my bones were broken." He desperately hoped Hermione would understand what he meant. She first looked at him with a strange, incredulous expression, but Harry saw her processing the information she had just received. Her expression changed, her eyes widened in horror.

"Oh... Ohhh," Hermione finally gasped, as if she was gradually understanding everything. "Harry, I mean... oh... and I wanted you to go back there... I mean, Dumbledore... Oh... Oh, Harry, I'm so, so sorry!" Hermione said, her voice trembling. She hugged him tightly.

"It's alright," Harry said softly. "I mean, I'm here now." And he was. He was finally in a place where he was cared for when he needed it.

Ron, too, seemed to have noticed Hermione's arrival by now. "Hermione!" he called from the kitchen doorway. The two hugged each other affectionately. Who would have thought a year ago that these two would become best friends? Hermione and Ron's friendship had certainly had a rather bumpy start, but over the course of their first school year, they had become an inseparable trio.

"Say, Harry, how does this house actually hold together?" Hermione suddenly asked, looking around the interior of the Burrow with a mixture of fascination and slight concern. It occurred to Harry at that moment that it was Hermione's first time visiting the Burrow, probably even her first time ever in a magical house. For Hermione, just like him, had grown up in the Muggle world, only her parents, unlike Harry's, were Muggles. "Magic," Harry said simply, hoping desperately that it wasn't just simple spell-o-tape holding the Burrow together.

Ron also seemed to have noticed that it was Hermione's first time seeing a proper wizard's house from the inside. So he began a small tour of the rambling building with her, closely followed by a curious Ginny. Harry wondered where the twins had disappeared to. And where was Percy? Percy seemed to have been retreating to his room suspiciously often lately anyway, but when the twins were missing for a longer period, it usually meant nothing good.

 

Ron leading Hermione through the house was the opportunity Harry had been waiting for all this time. Now he could finally talk to his godbrother undisturbed. So Harry grabbed Neville and led him to a somewhat more secluded corner of the house.

"Neville, I need to talk to you," Harry began, but at the same time had to consider everything he even wanted to tell and ask his godbrother. Too much was still swirling in his head.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Neville asked him, his voice sounding a little worried.

"Well, I told you yesterday, I was at Gringotts," Harry explained. Neville just nodded. "Well, I got my ring there... um, the one for the House of Potter... and well, the goblins did a test and found out why we couldn't write to each other," Harry told Neville. Neville seemed to follow what Harry was explaining to him.

"Well, there's an owl post protection ward on me, and that prevented us from writing to each other," Harry concluded his explanation.

"Oh... that... and we thought our relatives had actively... Oh, that makes so much more sense," Neville said, and seemed to understand that their idea that their relatives had actively tried to separate them was probably a bit childishly naive after all.

"You probably have one too. Andromeda said it's not uncommon, especially for children from more prominent houses or those in the public eye," Harry explained. Neville might now be less in the public eye than Harry, who, to his great annoyance, was always seen as the Boy Who Lived. But when Frank and Alice had been attacked along with Neville, and he was the only one who got away, while his parents were admitted to St Mungo's, the media echo had been huge at the time. Neville couldn't really remember exactly what had happened, but he was portrayed by the media as the tragic child, which is why Neville was so reluctant to talk about what had happened to his parents. But he had opened up to Harry.

"And what do we do now? How can we circumvent the protection ward?" Neville asked.

"Andromeda wove you into mine. Maybe your grandmother can weave me into yours," Harry said, hoping Augusta Longbottom would see him less critically now that he had surprised her so positively yesterday.

Harry slowly noticed that standing here in the corner wasn't particularly good for his leg; the pulling grew stronger.

"I need to sit down, sorry, Neville," Harry said and slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the wooden floor of the Burrow. Neville did the same. Harry was overjoyed to have found some time again to talk to his godbrother undisturbed. He leaned his head on Neville's shoulder.

"I found out something else," Harry began quietly. "My mum left me something, a book. I... um... I haven't read much of it yet, but it definitely contains explanations and stories from her. About her, about me, and about you."

"About me?" Neville asked, astonished.

"Yes, well, Mum wrote that we two were inseparable when we were babies, and that she and your mum shared a room in St Mungo's shortly before we were born," Harry explained to Neville what was in his mother's book. But somehow it seemed as if this wasn't entirely new information for Neville.

"Oh yes, and my full name is actually Harrison."

"Harrison?" Neville asked, puzzled.

"Yes, but let's stick with Harry. Even our mothers didn't like the name Harrison for me," Harry laughed a little. Neville also had to smile. They sat there for a while longer until the twins found them.

 

"Well, what are," Fred began in the usual twin-speak.

"you two doing here? Our Mum," George continued.

"is looking for you," Fred added.

"She finally wants to serve the cake," George finished the sentence with a wide grin.

Neville and Harry looked at each other. There they felt it again, this invisible but so strong bond between them. Without a word, Neville stood up and helped Harry up. The twins came with Harry and Neville in tow into the kitchen, where the magnificent birthday cake was already on the table. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny also seemed to be returning from their tour of the house. And from his room, Percy slowly crept out, who had been astonishingly withdrawn in the last few days.

"Harry, you haven't even unwrapped my present yet!" Hermione suddenly said and handed him a small, carefully wrapped gift. Harry unwrapped it. Typically for Hermione, she gave him a book. To his great surprise, however, it was a Muggle book. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler was written on the cover. Hermione explained that the story in the book reminded her a little of Harry's and Neville's antics this summer holiday. Harry thanked Hermione warmly, and Mrs Weasley began to put a large slice of the delicious chocolate cake on everyone's plate.

At the table, Hermione desperately wanted to know what they had all done during the holidays. At some point, the conversation turned to whom they would get as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher this year. Then it was about Harry again and how he liked his birthday so far. What should he say? He had no idea. He had never celebrated his birthday with other people. So this, without a doubt, was the best birthday ever.

 

As the afternoon progressed, Harry wanted to help Mrs Weasley with the washing up, but she firmly refused to let him lift a finger in the household. In the meantime, Hermione and Ginny had retreated to a corner of the living room and were chatting animatedly about their upcoming time together at Hogwarts. The twins had grabbed Neville, and Harry heard from a distance how they were still peppering him with questions about yesterday's party. They apparently still wanted to know if their little brother had kissed a girl. But Neville, Harry knew, stood firm and revealed nothing. Harry didn't know where Ron had gone; he had only mumbled that he had to go get something quickly. So Harry decided to go and see Neville, to perhaps relieve him of the curious questions of the red-headed mischief-makers. But just as he was about to set off, a loud, panicked scream echoed through the entire Burrow.

"SCABBERS! SCABBERS IS GONE!"

It was Ron's voice. He came running down the stairs, distraught, his face pale and distorted with panic.

"He's not there anymore!" he cried loudly and looked around desperately. Apparently, his rat, which he had inherited from Percy, had vanished without a trace. "He was still here this morning," Ron said with a trembling voice. The twins, who had rushed over immediately at Ron's scream, looked at each other with a suspicious glance. Did they have something to do with the rat's disappearance? It was usually gone most of the time anyway. The rest of Harry's birthday afternoon was therefore quickly transformed into a large-scale search operation for Ron's vanished rat. Even the most complicated searching spells from Mrs Weasley and Mr Weasley, which they murmured with worried faces, did not make the rat appear.

"I'll check upstairs again, okay, Ron?" Harry said to his best friend, who was sitting miserably on one of the kitchen stairs. Perhaps the rat had really just crept in somewhere. And in the worst case, it flashed through Harry's mind, she had climbed into his new case. With the enchantment that made it so huge from the inside, the rat would probably be almost impossible to find in it.

As Harry ascended the narrow, creaking staircase to Ron's attic room, strange noises reached his ear – a soft scratching and an angry hiss, followed by a dull thud that sounded as if someone were repeatedly banging against the foot of a bed.

"Scabbers?" Harry muttered, questioning. So she was still up in the room after all, and Ron had just overlooked her in his agitation.

Carefully, Harry pushed open the door to Ron's room, which gave way with a loud groan. In the faint light filtering through the dusty dormer window, he saw two small figures wrestling on the floor. They were creatures he had only seen once before, in Mr Tatting's shop. So it wasn't a rat.

The creatures had enormous, bat-like ears. While one creature had gigantic, green eyes reminiscent of tennis balls, the other was wrinkled and grim, with a nose more like a small snout. They tugged and tore at each other with all their might, tumbling across the wooden floor between Ron's carelessly discarded clothes and the empty wrappers of Chocolate Frogs.

"Hey! What are you two doing here?" Harry cried out in dismay, rushing forward to separate the two brawling creatures. He grabbed the large ears of the creature with the tennis-ball eyes and tried to pull him away from the other.

No sooner had he spoken the words than the creature with the large eyes recognised him. His gigantic green eyes widened in fright, and a heartbreaking, pitiful sound escaped his throat.

"Harry Potter! Harry Potter shouldn't have seen us! Harry Potter shouldn't have been here! Dobby wasn't careful! Dobby is a bad elf!" The voice was high-pitched and so full of self-loathing that it pricked Harry.

Harry, now holding the small fellow securely by the arm, looked at him in confusion. "But I am here. So now what?"

Thereupon, the other creature, painfully picking itself up, snorted contemptuously. Its voice was scratchy and dismissive, as if it were speaking over pebbles. "Harry Potter isn't here, you foolish elf! Young Heir Black is here, and Kreacher is protecting him from useless, stupid house-elves!"

"House-elves?" Harry asked, bewildered. "You're… house-elves?"

Kreacher made a sound that seemed like spitting gall. "Doesn't Young Heir Black even know what we are? No wonder, living with blood traitors and Mudbloods."

"Harry Potter doesn't live with blood traitors, Harry Potter lives with his friends!" Dobby retorted defiantly, and his large eyes sparkled with an almost fanatical loyalty.

"Thank you, Dobby, isn't it?" Harry said. He was astonished at how quickly this strange little elf had defended him.

"Harry Potter knows Dobby's name?" Dobby cried out in astonishment, and his eyes seemed to grow even larger, if that were at all possible. "Harry Potter is not only an outstanding, great wizard, Harry Potter knows a lot too!"

"Stupid house-elf said his name. Why wouldn't Young Heir Black know it then?" Kreacher snarled, rolling his bloodshot eyes.

"Okay, but what are you doing here?" Harry asked again, trying to regain his composure as he slowly realised that these two strange beings had absolutely no business being in Ron's room.

"Kreacher is here to protect Young Heir Black," Kreacher explained with deep disapproval in his croaky voice. "Kreacher sensed other house-elf magic on him, and Kreacher found this stupid house-elf rummaging through Young Heir's things."

Dobby looked utterly dejected, his shoulders slumping as if an invisible burden weighed upon him. "Dobby only wants to protect Harry Potter! Harry Potter must not return to Hogwarts!"

Harry stared at him. A terrible suspicion dawned on him. "The message… in the trunk… was that from you?"

Dobby trembled all over. "Dobby has said too much! Dobby must punish himself now!" And before Harry could even react, Dobby rammed his head with a loud, dull BONG against the wooden post of Ron's bed.

"Stop, Dobby!" Harry cried in horror, yanking the little elf away from the bed. "Stop that immediately! Dobby, why can't I go back to Hogwarts?"

Dobby rubbed his aching head with a soft whimper. "Hogwarts is too dangerous, sir! Hogwarts won't be safe this year for the great Harry Potter!"

"But Hogwarts wasn't safe last year either, and I still managed it!" Harry retorted impatiently. "Why should it be any different this time?"

"Oh, Dobby has said too much again! His master will be so angry with Dobby! Dobby is a disgrace to his family!" Dobby whimpered again, and his hand twitched towards the bedpost once more.

"Family?" Harry asked, before Dobby could hurt himself again, and held him fast.

"Do blood traitors teach Heir Black nothing at all?" Kreacher sneered. "House-elves serve families. They are bound to them."

"Dobby must punish himself!" Dobby said again, and thick tears welled up in his enormous eyes.

"Stop, Dobby! Why do you have to punish yourself?" Harry asked urgently, holding him firmly by the shoulders.

"Because Dobby's family wants it! If Dobby disobeys, Dobby must punish himself!" Dobby explained amidst heartbreaking sobs.

"But why don't you just leave your family?" Harry asked, the logic behind it completely incomprehensible to him.

Dobby looked at him with his huge, sad eyes. "Dobby cannot leave, sir. Dobby is not free. Dobby is bound forever."

"But how could you be free?" Harry asked, and a feeling of indignation and pity rose within him. "What would have to happen for you not to have to serve your family anymore?"

Kreacher snorted contemptuously. "House-elves are not meant to be free. House-elves must bind themselves to a great wizard. Without a master, a house-elf is nothing. A disgrace to its kind."

"Then… why don't you just bind yourself to another family?" Harry asked Dobby, who was still whimpering on his arm.

Dobby vigorously shook his large head. "That's not possible, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby cannot bind himself to another family. Dobby must first be freed by his master!"

"Who is your master?" Harry asked immediately, and a terrible suspicion dawned on him.

But Dobby flinched, his enormous eyes widening in horror. He tried to speak, gasping for breath, but no words came from his lips. His hand twitched uncontrollably towards his head again. "Dobby… Dobby mustn't…!"

"No, Dobby, stop!" Harry cried, trying to hold him back. But before he could grasp Dobby's hand again, Kreacher snapped one of his long, bony fingers. With a soft pop , Dobby simply vanished. He was gone.

Harry stared dumbfounded at the spot where Dobby had just been standing. "What have you done, Kreacher? Where has he gone?"

Kreacher looked at Harry with an expression that was almost smug. "Kreacher sent the foolish house-elf back to his family. To Miss Cissi."

Harry frowned. "Miss Cissi? Is she Dobby's mistress?"

"No," Kreacher said with a contemptuous snort. "Miss Cissi is the wife of Dobby's master. But Kreacher does not like the master. Kreacher only serves the honourable Black family."

Harry's heart gave a little leap. He looked at his left hand, at the invisible Black family ring he had only recently started wearing. "That means… you serve me?" he asked softly, barely audible.

"Yes," Kreacher replied, making a deep, almost reverent bow. "Kreacher serves Young Heir Black." So Kreacher knew who he really was. Ragnok's warning echoed in his ears. There would be a good reason why his true heritage was a secret.

"No one must know that I… that I'm a Black," Harry said, his voice pleading. "It's… it's a secret, Kreacher. No one must find out."

Kreacher frowned, the countless wrinkles on his face deepening. "Kreacher does not understand. The House of Black is an honourable house. Young Heir Black reminds Kreacher of young Master Regulus."

"Regulus?" Harry asked, confused.

"The brother of Young Heir's father, the traitor," Kreacher snarled, and an unexpected wave of pure hatred and fury resonated in his croaky voice.

Harry's eyes widened. He knew who his father was – at least, who his biological father was – and that only for a few days. "You… you know who my father is?" Harry asked, stunned.

"Yes," Kreacher said, and his old, bloodshot eyes fixed on Harry. "Kreacher senses the Black magic. And for a few days, Kreacher has sensed the presence of Young Heir Black."

Harry's gaze shifted again to his left ring finger. It had to be the ring. This invisible Black Heir Ring, which he barely felt, but which obviously possessed a power he didn't understand in the slightest yet. He touched the spot where he suspected the ring to be. If Kreacher served the Black family, then Kreacher probably also knew why Sirius wanted him to be Harry and not Haedus. "Kreacher," Harry began again, "why is the House of Black so fractured? Why…"

"The House of Black is not fractured!" Kreacher interrupted him in a sharp, angry voice, and his eyes sparkled dangerously. "The House of Black is honourable! Always was honourable!"

At that moment, Harry heard noises from the stairs. Heavier footsteps. Ron. Panic overwhelmed him. He couldn't let Ron see Kreacher, and he absolutely couldn't let anyone find out about his true heritage.

"Kreacher, please, vanish!" Harry pleaded, his voice sinking to a barely audible whisper. "Ron's coming! He mustn't see you, and no one must know I'm a Black, okay? Please!"

Kreacher looked at him with a strange mixture of pride and obedience. "If that is Young Heir Black's wish, Kreacher will obey." He bowed deeply, a last, quick snap of his bony finger, and in the next moment, with a soft pop , he had vanished, just like Dobby before him.

"Harry, everything alright?" Ron asked as he entered the room. "I heard noises."

"Um… That was me, I thought Scabbers might be in my trunk," Harry lied to him. He was glad to have found a somewhat plausible excuse so quickly, and Ron seemed to believe him.

"Blimey, it's a mess in here, Harry!" Ron said, looking around at the chaos the two brawling house-elves had left behind. The clothes were strewn across the room as if thrown through the air by a small whirlwind.

"Um… sorry, that was me," Harry lied again. "I was looking for Scabbers."

"Harry, thanks for your help, but do you have to turn our whole room upside down for it? Mum will make us tidy all this without magic, you know that," Ron said with a knowing look that told him there would be consequences.

"Sorry," Harry said again.

The two went back downstairs. But the encounter with the strange house-elves didn't leave Harry alone. What did Dobby want to warn him about? Who was his master? And why did Kreacher sense that Harry was truly a Black? Kreacher had called the Weasleys blood traitors and Sirius a traitor. But Kreacher seemed absolutely loyal to the House of Black, for he had immediately interrupted Harry when he wanted to say something negative about his house.

Downstairs, Mrs Weasley came up to him. "I'm sorry, Harry, if this wasn't the birthday you wished for," she said, a little dejected. Did Harry look so dejected, or how did she get that idea? Because this was, despite everything that had happened today, the best birthday he had ever had.

"I mean, Remus leaving so early, and then that business with your leg, and then everyone suddenly looking for Ron's rat instead of spending time with you. Besides, we didn't know who all to invite for you," she continued her apology.

"It's alright, honestly, that was the best birthday I've ever had," Harry said, and Mrs Weasley seemed to look at him a bit strangely, but then let it be.

The rest of the day passed without further major incidents. Ron's rat did not reappear, and Hermione and Neville said their goodbyes in the late afternoon. They had arranged to meet again in August in Diagon Alley to buy their school supplies for the new school year.

 

When Ron and he were in bed that evening, Ron, to Harry's great relief, quickly fell asleep, at least his loud, regular snoring suggested so. Harry took the opportunity to search his mother's book for further clues. He desperately wanted to find more about what was written there about the Black family. Kreacher's unexpected visit had more than just perplexed him. But unfortunately, he found no further entries about it. Only some about Sirius, but the Black family itself remained an impenetrable mystery to him. Then he checked if he could find anything about his and Neville's first birthday in his mother's book. And indeed, there was something, and Harry began to read.

---

I remember your first birthday so clearly, as if it were yesterday. It was the end of July, and we were at Frank and Alice's to celebrate Neville's birthday. The house was full of warmth and laughter, a little beacon of light in those dark times. We had given Neville a Summer Night's Lily . It's a special plant, my darling, it only blooms in the last days of July and the first days of August, and only at night. A small reminder that he is a child born at the end of July in the middle of the night. A sign of the magic that awakens in the darkness.

Augusta was there too, Neville's grandmother. I know some people are intimidated by her, with her strict manner and her piercing gaze. But if you truly know her, if you look behind that facade, then you see how much she loves her son Frank and her grandson Neville. Her love is deep and unwavering, just like her strength.

The day was long and exciting for both of you. In the evening, you were so tired, my little darlings, that we put you side by side in Neville's nursery crib. You fell asleep immediately, two little angels, snuggling up to each other. Later, when I checked on you, to see if everything was alright, I observed something very special. I opened the window a little bit, to let in some fresh air, as it got a bit chilly in the room. And then I saw it: Neville, quite instinctively, pulled the blanket over himself and you – with a first sign of magic .

It was such a sweet moment, my heart melted. You lay there, so peaceful, so protected under the blanket Neville had conjured for both of you. I didn't want to tell Alice about it. I didn't want to take away this magical moment from her, the first proof that her child can do magic. It's a moment every mother should experience for herself.

The next day was your birthday, my little wild one. You were completely over the moon, probably because you had slept so much and so well at Neville's. Sirius had given you a toy broom , and you ran riot with it all over the house! Luckily, you only destroyed an ugly vase – it had been sitting there far too long and I never liked it. And you terrorised the poor cat with it! Your Dad, James, was, of course, as proud as punch. In the evening, when Alice and Frank came to visit again, he boasted that you'd become a great Seeker one day. I hope you don't get as Quidditch-mad as your fathers, my darling. That would be just grand!

I hope we will experience many, many more joint birthdays for you and Neville, my little Harry. But I also know that in these times of war, not everything we wish for can come true. Yet no matter what happens, the memory of this first birthday, of both of you, lying there so peacefully and magically in the crib, will forever be in my heart.

---

And with his mother's words, Harry fell asleep, tears streaming down his face.

Notes:

Hey everyone, thanks so much for reading!
Sorry this chapter was a bit of a monster. It really didn't look this big when I planned it, but it just got away from me! 🫣

So, Harry and Ron's friendship is solid as ever, Neville's tutor group now knows Harry and Neville are godbrothers, Remus finally knows Harry is his godson, Neville's learned about the book, and the secret warning came from Dobby. Oh, and it seems Kreacher's taken a shine to his young master. Also, Scabbers is lost!

The whole Black family thing is still a huge mystery to Harry. He really needs to talk to Neville more, since we know Neville has more info, but Harry's definitely taking Ragnok's warning about his heritage seriously.

And woohoo, music is back!🪩 🎼🎶
What do you all think so far? Liking it? I know it's been pretty Harry-centric, but I've got plans for Neville's POV around Chapter 7, so look forward to that!

As always, thanks for all your lovely comments!

Chapter 6: Chapter Five: The Last Days of Summer

Summary:

As Harry's summer at the Burrow draws to a close, he navigates new freedoms and unsettling truths. Between trying to help his found family with looming school expenses and a chaotic second visit to Diagon Alley, Harry confronts unwelcome public attention and uncovers profound secrets that challenge everything he knows about his own past.

Notes:

Welcome back to Chapter 5!

Please note that this story addresses Harry's experiences as a traumatised kid, and his past continues to be a significant part of him.
Also abrief, subtle moment of inappropriate physical contact occurs.

The weeks after Harry's twelfth birthday passed in a nearly eerie quiet at the Burrow. To Harry's great relief, his leg healed so well that he could soon put his walking stick in the corner, which meant one thing above all: he could finally play Quidditch again. The sheer joy of soaring through the air on his Nimbus 2000 and feeling the wind in his face was indescribable. It was a feeling of freedom he had so sorely missed. Fortunately, there was no trace of the two strange house-elves, Dobby and Kreacher, who had surprised him on his birthday. Harry had decided to keep their sudden appearance and disappearance a secret from Ron. What could he have said? Oh, by the way, Ron, there were two house-elves fighting in your room. One of them, incidentally, serves me, because my name isn't actually Potter, but Black. No, Harry definitely wouldn't do that, he thought, shuddering at the idea. He'd rather take the blame for the terrible mess in their room. He'd even tidied it up all by himself while Ron was still fast asleep, but somehow, as silly as it sounded, Harry had been glad to do something around the house again.

Otherwise, Ron's old rat, Scabbers, still hadn't reappeared. Percy, who regarded the matter with a typical solemn expression, tried to gently explain to Ron that a rat of almost eleven years old had probably just died of old age. But even Percy's logical explanation couldn't initially stop Ron from searching the entire house and garden for the rat. Even if Scabbers was dead, Ron argued, his lifeless body must still be lying somewhere. But after a few days of combing every corner of the Burrow at least three times, he finally gave up the search and, fortunately, turned his attention to other, happier things again.

Ron, incidentally, wasn't the only one in the Weasley household who had been meticulously searching for something in those weeks. Arthur Weasley reported almost daily in the weeks between Harry's and Ginny's birthdays about the raids the Ministry was conducting in various wizarding households. They were, he explained with an important expression, looking for illegally enchanted Muggle objects. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic and Arthur's boss, had initially refused, Mr. Weasley reported with a slight shake of his head, to authorise a search of some esteemed, pure-blood houses. But Arthur had finally managed to convince Fudge that Sirius Black might have escaped abroad with the help of such an object, and urgently reminded the Minister for Magic of the witch who had recently tried to create a Portkey to Poland with a screwdriver. Generally, the frantic search for Sirius Black, since he had allegedly been sighted in France and Spain, had been somewhat scaled back by the Ministry. For Harry, however, the supposed danger continued to be used as a pretext – he was absolutely sure of that – to prevent him from possibly running away from home again. For he was still not allowed to move around in the wizarding world without official escort.

The days at the Burrow were otherwise characterised by Mrs. Weasley slowly but surely losing patience with her children. She couldn't stand it any longer that the four boys – Harry, Ron, Fred, and George – spent almost all their time playing Quidditch, Percy locked himself in his room for hours, and Ginny either looked enviously at her flying brothers or visited her friend, whom Harry was yet to meet. So Mrs. Weasley decided one day that it was time to rid the garden of the pesky gnomes. And like everything with the sports-mad boys, de-gnoming also became a true competition. For gnomes, Ron explained to Harry, had to be thoroughly dizzied by grabbing them by the ankle before being hurled vigorously over the hedge of the Weasley estate. Gnomes, incidentally, were small, strange magical creatures with potato-like heads and tiny but surprisingly sharp teeth who liked to infest wizards' gardens. Otherwise, Ron assured Harry, they were actually quite harmless.

 

One of the undisputed highlights in August for the Weasley family was Ginny's birthday. She finally turned eleven, and fittingly, on the eleventh of August. Her long-awaited Hogwarts letter had arrived by owl in July, but the remaining letters for the other household members also going to Hogwarts had yet to arrive. Ginny's birthday was similar to Harry's. Before they went for breakfast together, everyone gathered in the cosy living room, and Ginny was allowed to unwrap her presents. Harry was particularly keen to see how she would react to his gift.

"Harry?" Ginny asked, a little surprised, when she had unwrapped his present and now held a newly released edition of Camila Sweeting's popular children's book series: The Adventures of Young Harry Potter and the Missing Prince .

"I know how much you like the books," Harry said, trying to look as innocent as possible. And it was true, much of what Ginny thought she knew about him came from these outrageous books. But Harry himself didn't like the books at all, which was why he had not only written a dedication in the edition but also scribbled comments on some pages about what had really happened and what he had never experienced in his life. He was simply fed up with so many people falling for these blatant lies that painted a completely false and exaggerated picture of him.

"For Ginny, please don't believe everything written in this book. Your Harry," Ginny read his dedication aloud in a quiet voice. The living room suddenly fell completely silent; no one said a word. Had Harry had a bad idea with this birthday present? Had he perhaps gone too far? But to his great relief, after a moment of silence, Ginny looked at him with a wide smile and thanked him profusely. After unwrapping the rest of the presents, they went for breakfast, and later in the day, Ginny's friend also came to visit.

Luna Lovegood, as she was called, had stringy, dirty blonde hair that reached her waist, and a permanently slightly dreamy, surprised expression in her large, protuberant, silver eyes. Around her neck, she wore a necklace made of corks, and her ears were adorned with earrings that looked like tiny, orange radishes. She lived, as Harry learned from Ron, on the other side of the village in a house that looked just as secluded and peculiar as the Burrow. Luna and Ginny would now also go to Hogwarts together. Luna, Harry quickly noticed, was… well, a bit eccentric. She seemed to see things where there were none, and seriously talked about strange magical creatures Harry had never heard of in his life.

Harry asked Ron if there were any more wizarding families around Ottery St Catchpole. Ron told him about the Lovegoods, the Diggorys, and the Fawcetts. They all lived in the area. Harry also wanted to know if they, like Neville, had shared tutor groups before school. "Nah," Ron said, shrugging. "Mum taught us everything we needed to know. Only Ginny learned with Luna for a while, until her mum…" Ron paused briefly, and his voice became a little quieter. "…well, passed away." Harry just nodded silently. He would have loved to know exactly what had happened, but he knew it would have been impolite to ask.

Luna was picked up in the late afternoon by her father, a wizard who looked just as eccentric as his daughter. He wore a brightly coloured yellow cloak and a strange, crookedly sitting hat. He greeted everyone present with an exuberant gesture and seemed surrounded by an aura of slight confusion. Luna's father, Harry quickly found out, was the editor of a magical magazine called "The Quibbler". Before he took Luna away again, he left a few copies of it at the Weasleys'. Ron just shook his head, muttering that it only contained the craziest theories and most outrageous stories.

 

The day after Ginny's birthday, as the sun was just peeking over the rolling landscape, the Hogwarts letters finally fluttered through the kitchen window. A swarm of owls landed with an excited flapping on the kitchen table, causing utter chaos. Mrs Weasley, who was stirring a huge pot of porridge, let out a soft sigh. George was the first to tear open his envelope, and his face instantly darkened. "Oh, oh," he mumbled, staring at the long list of requested school supplies. "Mum won't like this at all."

Harry, who had opened his own letter, immediately understood what George meant. Besides the usual "Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2" for their second year, he apparently needed a seemingly endless list of books for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Five additional, thick tomes. Harry subtly glanced at Fred and Ron; they too were staring at their lists with incredulous expressions. Five new books for each of them. And then there was Ginny, who as a first-year needed a complete new set of everything. Harry felt a heavy knot form in his stomach. He knew what this meant for the Weasleys. Books, even if a large part of the school books were used for several years, were sometimes outrageously expensive.

The thought plagued Harry all week. He saw Mrs Weasley poring over the household ledgers in the evenings, and Mr Weasley coming home from work at the Ministry looking increasingly tired. The Weasleys had to turn every Sickle and every Knut over twice. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could help them.

A day before they all planned to set off for Diagon Alley together, he had another appointment at St Mungo's. Three weeks had passed again. That meant if he spent the night in hospital, he would join the others the next morning.

But before that, he had another appointment at Gringotts. Ragnok had written to him that they had found the other rings and an overview of his possessions had also been compiled.

Harry replied and made an appointment with him for the nineteenth of August. This is the perfect opportunity, Harry thought. He could get some more money from his vault and simply give the few Galleons he had left from his shopping trip in July to the Weasleys. This would cover the unexpected costs for the coming school year. He so desperately wanted to give something back to this wonderful family. But Harry had not, by any stretch of the imagination, anticipated the fierce resistance he would encounter.

Harry seized the opportunity when he found Mrs Weasley alone in the kitchen one evening, while the other household members were busy elsewhere. Harry hesitated for a moment, his heart thumping in his throat. Should he really do this? But in his eyes, it simply felt right. He pulled his money pouch from his pocket.

"Mrs Weasley," he said softly, and carefully pushed the pouch across the table to her. "Please, take this. It's… erm… just a small repayment for being able to spend the whole holidays here. And so that Ron, Ginny, the twins, and Percy have everything they need for school."

Molly Weasley's eyes widened, and she stared at the money pouch as if it were a venomous snake coiling on her kitchen table. "Harry Potter!" she cried in a voice trembling with indignation, and pushed the pouch back with a sharp jerk. "Are you out of your mind? Taking you in here was never a question of money! Never!" Her cheeks had taken on a deep red hue. "We didn't take you in so we could end up getting charity from you!"

"But… but I want to," Harry stammered, feeling himself flush. "I have to go to Gringotts anyway, I can get more anytime." He pushed the pouch back towards her. "Please, Mrs Weasley. I want Ginny to have everything she needs, and Ron, Fred and George also need so many new books. And Percy too, of course!"

Molly's gaze suddenly became very serious. She looked Harry directly in the eyes, and her voice dropped to a firm, urgent whisper. "Harry, listen to me now. We didn't take you in because of your money. We took you in because it was an outrage how you were treated by those… those Dursleys."

Harry's eyes widened. What… what did Molly Weasley know? Had she really…

A thick lump formed in Harry's throat. He felt himself flush, this time not from shame, but from a deep, unexpected emotion. "Thank you, Mrs Weasley," he said, his voice thick. "That… that means everything to me. But please, take the money anyway. So that Ginny, Ron, Fred, George, and Percy all get what they need for school." With a trembling hand, he pushed the money pouch across the table a third time.

Molly, however, pushed it back with a gentle but unmistakably determined hand. "Thank you for the offer, Harry," she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But no."

Harry couldn't understand the world anymore. Why was she so terribly stubborn? But he wouldn't and couldn't leave it at that. If she wouldn't take the money, then perhaps someone else would. But how could he ensure that everyone knew there was a solution to the problem of high school costs? And then, like a bolt from the blue, Harry had an idea. A brilliant, if somewhat sneaky, idea. And it would definitely work, he thought. At least, he sincerely hoped so.

It was shortly before Harry's appointment at St Mungo's. He would simply travel by Floo Network. He didn't need an escort, as he would emerge directly into St Mungo's.

"Do you have everything, Harry, my dear?" Mrs Weasley asked, as he stood in the kitchen with his small satchel.

"Yes," Harry replied. He was wearing one of his new black wizarding robes, which Mr Weasley had kindly embroidered with the Potter crest on the collar, just like Neville's. Beneath it, he wore his new clothes from Gaberlunzie Garments. In his satchel, he had stowed his mother's book and fresh clothes for tomorrow.

"Do you have your key with you this time?" Mrs Weasley asked with a knowing look. She had obviously not forgotten that he had forgotten it in the rush last time, which had led to that whole string of revelations.

"Yes, I have it," he lied, nervously twisting his invisible Potter ring. He knew he no longer needed the key. His actual vault key was safely upstairs in his trunk. He had everything. Harry said goodbye to everyone. It felt strange, almost as if he were leaving for a long time, yet he would only spend a single night in St Mungo's. This time, it was his other leg's turn.

As Harry took the shimmering silver Floo powder in his hand, he hoped with every fibre of his being that his plan would work. He was about to drop the powder into the fireplace to travel to St Mungo's when, even before the green flames carried him away, he saw Fred discover his money pouch on the kitchen table. "Mum, look!" Fred cried out in surprise. Harry had to grin. It had worked. He had simply "forgotten" his money pouch with a small, self-written note. Mrs Weasley wanted to scold him further, but Harry had already vanished into the swirling, emerald green flames and arrived a moment later in the reception area of St Mungo's, where Andromeda greeted him with a friendly smile. "Well, Harry, everything alright?"

"Perfectly," Harry said, feeling happy that his plan had worked.

 

It was almost the same procedure as last time. Andromeda now placed his left leg in a splint, magically made the bones disappear, and Harry had to swallow that abominably tasting Skele-Gro Potion again. Just as before, they had another heated discussion about the Phrēntrist. And Harry remained just as stubborn as last time.

But before Andromeda left him alone for the night again, she had something else to discuss with him.

"When you're at Hogwarts," Andromeda began, "we probably won't tackle the remaining fractures for now." Harry nodded. That meant he wouldn't have to drink that abominable potion at regular intervals for the time being.

"But what do you think about catching up on that during the winter holidays?" Andromeda asked him.

"Um…" Harry said uncertainly, "I'm staying at Hogwarts for Christmas. I mean, I don't know where else." Mr and Mrs Weasley weren't there over the holidays, and their children also stayed at Hogwarts.

"I know," Andromeda said to Harry. "I've already spoken to Molly, and that's why…" Harry's eyes widened. Andromeda had spoken to Ron's mother? Did she know then that the Dursleys had treated him badly? "…I'd like to offer you to spend Christmas and the rest of the holidays with us." Harry's eyes grew even wider. He was completely overwhelmed by this unexpected gesture.

"Thank you," he said incredulously.

"Tonks quite likes you, and that way we can also tackle the somewhat more uncomfortable fractures like those on your ribs or shoulders." Harry nodded silently. "Right then, I'll leave you alone for the night. We'll see each other tomorrow, yes?" Andromeda asked.

"Yes, and erm… thank you for the invitation," Harry said, still a little unsure whether he should be happy about it. He had spent last Christmas with Ron at Hogwarts, and that had been the best Christmas ever – which wasn't particularly difficult either, as everything he experienced without the Dursleys was the best.

"Good night, Harry," Andromeda said, and as she left, she seemed to murmur something he didn't quite understand. "Familia supra…" But it was so quiet he couldn't really hear it.

And now he lay there, alone in his bed at St Mungo's. Again he felt the unpleasant pulling in his leg. He had to think about everything. About Andromeda's surprising offer to spend Christmas with her family. His world seemed to have been completely turned upside down again since the beginning of these summer holidays, just like last year. He picked up his mother's small, leather-bound book and began to read again.

---

I want to tell you today about someone who played a very important role in my life, long before you were born. Someone who opened the door to the world we now live in – the wizarding world. I'm talking about my best friend, Sev.

Before I came to Hogwarts, I didn't know I was different. I was just Lily, a girl who lived in a very normal house on a very normal street. But sometimes, strange things happened around me. I remember once jumping off a swing and simply floating to the ground instead of landing hard. Or how I would just look at sad, withered flowers, and they would start to bloom again. These things were perfectly normal to me; I thought that was how it was for everyone.

But Sev observed me. He was a quiet child, often alone, but he had eyes that saw everything. The first time he truly noticed me was when I was talking to a snake in the bushes. I remember exactly how surprised I was that the snake answered me. Sev then explained everything. He knew about wizards and witches, about Hogwarts and all the things that had remained hidden from me. He was the first to tell me that I was a witch.

He taught me everything I needed to know about the wizarding world. He also gave me very important advice: I shouldn't tell anyone that I could talk to snakes. He said most wizards would find that disturbing. He was right, my darling, even if I didn't understand that at the time.

Your Aunt Petunia was always sceptical of Sev. She considered herself better because Sev came from a poor household. That made me sad, because Sev as a kid had such a pure heart and so much knowledge.

We went to Hogwarts together, Sev and I. Even though we were in different Houses – he in Slytherin and I in Gryffindor – we remained good friends. He was the one who awakened my love for Potions. It was his best subject, and he could talk about it for hours without it becoming boring. Thanks to him, I learned to love the subject as much as he did.

But our friendship didn't last forever, my little Harry. A time came when the atmosphere in the wizarding world became more divided year after year. More and more wizards believed in the supremacy of pure-blood wizards. They despised everyone who had Muggles in their family tree. It was a terrible time, full of fear and mistrust. And unfortunately, my darling, Sev also let himself be convinced by these ideas. It came to a point where he deeply insulted me, because of my supposed origin as a Muggle-born.

At the time, I didn't know it, but later I learned that I was adopted and was in truth a half-blood witch. But that doesn't matter, because a wizard's origin says nothing about their worth. What counts is the heart.

It was a painful, brief farewell from Sev, my heart. Sometimes friendships, even the deepest, can break under the pressure of the world. I hope you never have to experience something like that. But I wanted you to know, so you understand how complex and sometimes sad life can be.

---

 

"Gringotts again?" a visibly annoyed Tonks asked. Their hair glowed the same bright pink as the chewing-gum bubbles they impatiently popped.

"Yes," Harry said curtly. They had met him at the Leaky Cauldron again after his night at St Mungo's. "Should be quick, though," he added, flashing his rose-gold Potter Heir Ring. "I've got this one now."

"Let's hope so," sighed Tonks, who seemed utterly displeased at having to go through a similar procedure again as three weeks ago.

So Harry went to Gringotts with Tonks. But to his great displeasure, it seemed it hadn't been a particularly clever decision to wear his new wizarding robe with the embroidered family crest, even if it was small and discreet on the collar.

For, thanks to the walking stick, which he needed again for a few days to support his freshly healed leg and avoid putting too much weight on it, he was incredibly conspicuous. What twelve-year-old boy walks around with a walking stick? From everywhere, people seemed to recognise him and wanted to speak to him, whispered behind cupped hands, pointed a finger at him. And Harry hated it. He hated being the Boy Who Lived.

But fortunately, Tonks was with him. Like a veritable, fearless bodyguard, they pushed everyone and everything aside with a determination that brooked no argument, anyone who even came close to him. Thus, they made it to Gringotts without a single incident.

While Tonks, with a resigned sigh, slumped onto one of the cold marble benches in the entrance hall, Harry went to one of the high counters.

"Harry Potter," he said to the grim-looking goblin. "I have an appointment with Ragnok." He held up his ring, which he had cleverly transformed into its signet form earlier.

"Ragnok is a common name," the goblin croaked dismissively, without even glancing at the ring. "And I'm not aware that any of the Ragnoks here at Gringotts are the manager of the Potter account."

Harry rolled his eyes. He took his left hand, made his invisible Black Heir Ring appear with a brief touch, and stroked it with his finger so that the Black family crest became visible. Carefully, so no one else could see it, he held the ring out to the goblin. The goblin's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

"Why didn't you say you wanted to see Prince Ragnok, Heir Bl–," the goblin began, but Harry interrupted him with a sharp "Shh!" Prince? Harry was utterly bewildered. Prince Ragnok? Last time, he had only introduced himself as Ragnok. So his Account Manager was actually a Prince? The goblin grinned knowingly at Harry and hopped down from his high chair. "Follow me." And Harry did just that.

He followed the bank employee again through the endless, cold corridors of Gringotts until they arrived at Ragnok's office. The office was just as cool and uninviting as the room Harry had seen last time. Countless dusty scrolls and old, rusty swords hung on the walls again.

"Ah, Heir Black. I see you've had a new outfit," Ragnok, who was already sitting behind his massive desk, greeted him.

"Um... thank you... Prince Ragnok," Harry said cautiously. The information that his Account Manager was, of all people, a Prince of the Goblin Nation was still completely new and a little intimidating for Harry. Harry knew from Professor Binns' deadly dull lessons that the Goblin Nation was a monarchy, but should he bow now? Or even address him as "Your Highness"?

"Um... Your Highness... I..." Harry stammered, but before he could finish his sentence, Ragnok burst into booming laughter.

"Highness!" he snorted with amusement. "Yes, I may be a Prince, but Your Highness is my father, King Arnurk. And before I become King, my three elder brothers must first die. You amuse me greatly, Heir Black-Potter." Harry was infinitely relieved that he hadn't committed a faux pas regarding etiquette. But how old do goblins actually get? Harry wondered. Ragnok was no longer the youngest, and if his father was still King, then goblins must live to be ancient.

"Well then, let's get down to business," the goblin said and grinned, his sharp teeth flashing. "We have found the remaining rings and compiled a list of the possessions to which you have access. For a small fee, of course." Harry understood. Goblins did nothing without also deriving their own benefit from it.

"Sit down, Heir Potter-Black," Ragnok said. Harry did as he was told and settled onto one of the uncomfortable, stone chairs. The entire room exuded an icy coldness.

"Let's start with the rings," Ragnok said and rummaged out an identical velvet box to the last time. He opened it, and three more rings came into view. Probably Gaunt, Slytherin, and Peverell, Harry thought.

He reached for the left ring in the box. It was made of a silvery metal and had a small, greyish-brown stone in the middle, which was noticeably smaller than that of the Potter or Black rings. Harry slipped it onto his left index finger. He felt a similar cold breeze wash over him as with the Black ring, but this time, instead of a pleasant refreshment, it was an unpleasant, almost icy coldness.

"The Gaunt Ring," Ragnok explained. "The records state that it can create a weak shield if its wearer is hit by minor curses or similar."

Harry looked at the ring more closely and stroked the stone to see the crest. It was a circular shield on which three intertwined snakes were depicted. In the centre, an ominous skull was emblazoned.

Then Harry reached for the middle ring. From its appearance alone, Harry suspected this must be the Slytherin ring. A silver snake biting its own tail, with two tiny, green emeralds for eyes. Ragnok explained that the ring depicted an Ouroboros, a symbol dating back to ancient Egypt. Unlike the three previous rings Harry had put on, he felt nothing this time, no coldness, no warmth.

"Is it not magical?" Harry asked, confused.

"Well, Heir Black-Potter," Ragnok said, "this ring is significantly older than the other three you already wear. It was created before the 16th century, even before the Wizengamot existed. Unfortunately, we do not know what function the ring has. The same applies to this one," Ragnok said and held the box with the last ring towards him.

It was made of a bony, white material and looked uncanny, as if it had been carved directly from a bone. It had, just like the Slytherin ring, no gemstone in the middle. None at all.

"The Peverell Ring," Ragnok said. "Astonishing that you, Heir Black-Potter, are the heir to this House. As I mentioned last time, the family has been considered extinct for eight hundred years, and since then no one has had the privilege of bearing a title of this House." Harry nodded. All these rings and titles were still far too much for him. He slipped the ring onto his right middle finger, between the Slytherin and Potter rings. Harry didn't expect to feel anything, just as with the Slytherin ring.

But what happened next, he had by no means expected. The Potter, Black, and Gaunt rings suddenly began to vibrate slightly. Were they warning him about the bony ring? No, Harry felt them being formally drawn to it. Harry felt them calling to him.

"Interesting," Ragnok murmured. "Your rings, Heir Black-Potter, seem to positively glow." Harry looked at his hands, and indeed, they emitted a faint, warm glow, which, however, disappeared as quickly as the vibration. But neither Harry nor Ragnok seemed to know what this meant.

"Um... can the Slytherin and Peverell rings also become invisible?" Harry asked somewhat cautiously, as he noticed that pressing the rings, unlike the other three, had no effect.

"No, I'm afraid not," Ragnok replied. "As I said, these rings are much older than the other three. They were not created as symbols of political power or as instruments of verification." I can hardly wear these openly at Hogwarts, Harry thought to himself. It would be too dangerous for his secret about his heritage to come to light that way.

"Can I leave the rings at Gringotts?" Harry asked cautiously and took off both the Peverell and Slytherin rings.

"Of course," Ragnok said and allowed Harry to put the rings back into the velvet box. "We will simply store them in one of your two vaults."

"Two?" Harry asked, astonished. He had only known about his one vault.

"Yes, Heir Black-Potter, both. In addition to your parents' trust vault, you also have one from the Black family. I think now is the opportune moment to go through the list of your possessions." Harry nodded and took out his notepad to take notes.

The list was fortunately not too long. He was entitled to two vaults. The others he would only receive upon coming of age, in the case of the Potter vaults, or when he became Lord. For to Harry's great surprise, in addition to the acting Lord Black, who must be Sirius, there was also the Lord of the Houses of Gaunt and Slytherin. However, according to Ragnok, this individual had been missing since the late 1950s, simply untraceable. They had intended to inform him after the death of the previous Lord of both Houses that he could now claim the titles, but the heir to these Houses had never contacted Gringotts again. I wonder if that has something to do with my mother's adoption and her origins as a Riddle? Harry wondered. Somehow the titles must have passed to me. Perhaps there's something about it in my mother's book.

The possessions of the Peverell family, Ragnok explained, had passed into other families over the centuries, and there was no exact evidence of them anymore, as this had happened two hundred years before the founding of Gringotts.

"Regarding real estate," Ragnok began to explain, "you, Heir Black-Potter, can only access those of the Potter family, as, as I said, Lord Black is still alive and some of the properties are being used by other family members of the House of Black, which have been attributed to them." There are more Blacks? More than Sirius Black? Do I have more living relatives? Relatives who might take me in until I'm of age? Harry's mind raced. But he knew that would mean he would have to publicly reveal that he was a Black. Black-Potter. Not a particularly good option, considering he was supposed to keep his true identity a secret.

"The Potter family currently owns three properties according to our records, although only two of them would be habitable at all, if that," Ragnok informed Harry about his possessions from the Potter side. "In Stinchcombe is the old family estate, which has been uninhabited for almost thirteen years. Then there's a summer house in Marbella, Spain, which has been out of use even longer. And the small Potter Cottage in Godric's Hollow is uninhabitable, since..." Ragnok paused and pointed to Harry's scar. "...since this happened." Harry nodded silently. The house where he had lived with his parents seemed to be completely destroyed. Had it been Voldemort, or had it perhaps even been himself who had destroyed the building and thus defeated Voldemort?

"The possessions of the Gaunt family are manageable," Ragnok continued to explain. "They comprise merely scattered heirlooms. It seems the family fell from grace in the 19th century and lost most of their possessions and, as I see, most recently in the 1920s even their seat in the Wizengamot."

"The Houses of Slytherin and Peverell were absorbed into other Houses before the current system was established, so there are no significant possessions here either, merely a theoretical claim to Hogwarts under Goblin Law."

"Goblin Law?" Harry asked, confused.

"Yes, Goblin Law states that the owner of an object is always the creator. The buyer merely acquires a right of use. And since a Goblin Notary was present at the founding of Hogwarts, you, once you are Lord Slytherin, would be entitled to a part of Hogwarts, if it were according to Goblin Law. But I have my doubts that the wizarding world would accept this so easily." Harry was not a little astonished, but he didn't quite know what that meant for him.

"I think we'll end this for today. I'll take these two rings with me and have them stored in your Black vault, if you agree?" Ragnok said. Harry nodded. He said goodbye to Ragnok and thanked him, which visibly pleased the goblin. Are wizards generally not so nice to goblins? Harry wondered.

He withdrew some more money from his Potter vault; he still had to work through the long book list and also wanted to buy some things for Hedwig and some other school supplies.

When he met Tonks in the entrance hall again, they were still boredly blowing chewing-gum bubbles. Their pink hair matched the bubbles perfectly today.

"There you are again. That was quicker than last time," said a relieved Tonks, presumably glad that Harry hadn't been kidnapped by the goblins this time.

"Yes, there was still a lot to discuss, Potter Heir and all," Harry tried to play it down. Tonks already knew that Harry was Heir Potter, but they had no idea about the rest.

The two went out into the bustling Diagon Alley again. They wanted to meet the others, the Weasleys, Hermione, and Neville. Where are they now? Harry thought, looking around.

 

They finally found them at Flourish & Blotts. After Harry had quickly sorted out his ink, a new quill, and a pile of parchment for the coming school year, he and Tonks made their way to the famous bookshop. And there they were. A huge crowd was pressing in front of the shop, and in the middle of it, they recognised Mrs Weasley and Ginny, also standing in the long queue. But the people weren't waiting to pay at the till, but to have their books signed. Some Gilderoy Lockhart, a large, glittering poster announced, would be presenting his works today. Just as Harry was about to make his way through the crowd, he nearly collided with Fred and George, who were just leaving the shop.

"Hey, Harrykins, thanks again for the money pouch," Fred said with a wide grin.

"Mum was a bit angry with you yesterday," George continued, as he tried to dodge a particularly eager autograph hunter.

"But Dad managed to calm her down again, that you only meant well," Fred said again.

"Though Ron's been… well, he's just Ron, since yesterday," George finished the sentence, before the two disappeared into the throng. So Ron was having one of his, as Harry found, rather annoying fits of jealousy again.

Harry spotted Hermione, Ron, and Neville in a corner of the shop, somewhat away from the biggest commotion. He walked towards them, while Tonks joined Mr Weasley, who was currently chatting animatedly with Hermione's parents.

"Hey, you three," Harry said happily, as he reached them. "Harry!" Hermione and Neville exclaimed as if from one mouth, and one after another they hugged him warmly. Ron, however, merely gave him a brief nod. Okay, so Ron was still miffed.

"And, have you got everything?" Harry asked the group.

"Yes, we've got everything," Hermione said and proudly held up a huge stack of books. "But we were just about to go to Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour, do you want to come?"

"Yes, of course, I just need my books," Harry replied.

"I… I need mine too," Neville said a little shyly. "I was a bit late here today. Came out of the wrong fireplace."

"Everything alright, Neville?" Harry asked, concerned. He knew that Neville only mumbled or stuttered when he was agitated or otherwise emotionally charged, which could make Floo Network travel quite a tricky business.

"No, it's fine," Neville said, although he looked visibly intimidated. "Uncle Algie… he… he's challenging Gran's decision."

"Why?" Harry asked, while Hermione and Ron both looked a little sceptical; they weren't really clued in on Neville's complicated family life. "He… he wants the proxy for the Wizengamot, I think," Neville explained quietly. So it's about some political games, Harry thought. Then it occurred to him that he didn't even know who his own proxy for the seats in the Wizengamot was. Thanks to Ragnok, he now knew that he was entitled to two seats because of the Houses of Black and Potter. But since he was still a minor, they were under the guardianship of a proxy. Or rather, his father Sirius still officially held the seat of the House of Black, only he was on the run. Something Neville certainly knew more about. He was just about to cheer Neville up and tell him that everything would be alright with his Uncle Algie, when the mood in the bookshop suddenly changed.

Deafening cheers erupted as a Flourish & Blotts employee announced in a loud, booming voice that the star guest of the day, Gilderoy Lockhart, would now make his grand appearance. It was so loud you could barely hear yourself speak. And then, to the thunderous applause of the crowd, he stepped onto a small stage specially erected for him. Gilderoy Lockhart was a blonde, blue-eyed wizard of middle age, dressed in a noble, light blue wizard's robe that shimmered in the light with every movement. His radiant smile, Harry observed, seemed to make the female attendees swoon in droves. Lockhart stood there, clearly enjoying the adoration of the crowd, and let his gaze sweep over the heads of the people as if searching for someone. His gaze seemed to linger on Harry and Neville.

"Ah! Messrs Heir Longbottom and Heir Potter!" he suddenly cried out in a voice dripping with feigned delight, and waved them up to him. Harry and Neville stood rooted to the spot, but an overzealous photographer from the Daily Prophet roughly grabbed them by the arm and shoved them forward to Lockhart. He jovially placed his hands on their shoulders.

"Our two little runaways from the beginning of the summer!" he began in a booming voice, and Harry wondered, alarmed, what this puffed-up peacock was planning. Neville also seemed visibly uncomfortable, and Harry saw out of the corner of his eye how Ron gave him a resentful look.

"They wanted to run away from home, didn't want to return to Hogwarts!" Lockhart rattled off his preposterous lies. He didn't even know the two of them, but pretended as if they were old acquaintances. "But when the two of them learned that I, Gilderoy Lockhart, would be their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, that immediately moved them to return!" That was a blatant lie! Even the newspaper had said something completely different about their return! But the crowd seemed to believe him, for they erupted in loud applause. Harry cast a quick glance at Neville; he too looked anything but happy about Lockhart's embarrassing performance.

"And what's more," Lockhart announced with a wide grin, "the two of them will, of course, be personally equipped by me, Gilderoy Lockhart, with all my collected works!" No sooner had he said that than someone pressed a huge stack of books into Harry and Neville's arms. The photographers eagerly snapped one photo after another. "Smile!" Lockhart whispered conspiratorially to them, and Harry noticed with a hint of disgust how the hand of the author, celebrated by the crowd, slowly slid from his shoulder down his back towards his hip. What on earth is that about? Harry wondered, subtly stepping back. But Lockhart showed no reaction and continued to grin radiantly into the cameras. After barely two minutes, the embarrassing spectacle was over. Harry and Neville, whose discomfort was clearly visible, walked back to Hermione and Ron, laden with their stacks of books. But Ron seemed anything but happy that, in his opinion, two privileged people had once again received special treatment.

Ron was just about to say something, when, to Harry's great displeasure, Draco Malfoy sauntered down the stairs from the first floor of Flourish & Blotts.

"Nice performance… Heir Potter," Malfoy said in a voice dripping with envy and disdain. "Enjoyed being the centre of attention again, did we?" But before Harry or Neville could give the malicious Slytherin a fitting answer, Ginny bravely stepped forward.

"Leave them alone!" she said in a firm voice and glared furiously at Malfoy. Harry and Neville were quite surprised, and Ron's initial resentment towards Harry and Neville seemed to abruptly transfer to Draco, for he clenched his fists.

But before Malfoy could say anything nasty to Ron's little sister, a person appeared who looked as if they could only be Draco Malfoy's father. With the same supercilious, arrogant demeanour, as if the whole world belonged to him, the man pushed his son Draco aside with his silver-adorned walking stick. He had the same platinum blonde hair, long and tied back in a ponytail like Draco. His wizard's robe was tailored from the finest fabric, entirely in the style of Twilfitt and Tatting. Harry recognised the cut immediately; his own dress robe looked quite similar. And he too had a walking stick, just like Harry. Oh God, Harry thought, I really do seem to fit into these circles, if that's Draco's father. No wonder Ron's reacting so oddly.

"Heir Longbottom," the man said to Neville and inclined his head slightly. Then he turned to Harry. "Heir Potter, I presume? Well met." His voice was icy cold, and the aversion towards Harry was barely concealed.

"Well met, Mr…?" Harry said with a mocking smile, deliberately challenging him.

"Lord Malfoy, of the noble and most ancient House of Malfoy," he retorted with cutting sharpness and also bowed, but with significantly more contempt in the gesture than with Neville.

"Well met, Lord Malfoy," Harry said coolly and returned the bow, his gaze fixed on Draco's father.

"As I see," Lord Malfoy then said, letting his gaze sweep disdainfully over Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, "you both have chosen a very… unusual escort. Perhaps somewhat beneath… your station?"

"I think inner worth matters most," Harry countered sharply.

"That may well be the only thing these… ginger brats have to offer," Lord Malfoy hissed nastily.

"What's that supposed to mean?!" cried Arthur Weasley suddenly, who had apparently overheard the heated conversation and now approached the group with narrowed eyes. Hermione's parents and Tonks followed him with worried expressions.

Lord Malfoy's gaze fell on Tonks, and he twisted his face in disgust, then he directed all his contempt at Ron's father.

"It was clear you'd stoop to something like this, blood tr–" But before Lord Malfoy could finish his sentence, he was knocked over from behind. And no, even if one might have thought so, it wasn't Arthur Weasley, although he too seemed to have been about to strike. It was something else, for Arthur Weasley was also knocked to the ground by whatever had bumped into Lord Malfoy.

"Stop thief!" cried a shop assistant from the shop. It was a small, nimble figure, perhaps a child, who had run into both men and was now dashing out of the shop. "My cue!" Tonks cried and ran after the supposed thief.

Arthur Weasley had picked himself up again, but was held back by Molly Weasley, who had apparently also witnessed the whole spectacle. Lord Malfoy also picked himself up again, his platinum blonde hair slightly dishevelled.

"Arthur," Lord Malfoy said with a contemptuous nod to the group.

"Lucius," Arthur Weasley retorted just as dryly and with barely concealed disgust. A veritable staring contest seemed to have broken out between the two men. What no one had noticed was that the small shop thief had not only run into Lord Malfoy and Mr Weasley, but also Ginny, who was still sitting on the floor and was just picking up her books, which had fallen during the commotion.

"Where are my manners," Lord Malfoy said with a smug, oily smile. "A lady needs help, and we all just stand idly by." He bent down, helped her pick up the books and threw them into her cauldron with a contemptuous gesture. As Harry noticed, Ginny had got everything for school, and in good, new condition too. That meant the Weasleys had accepted his money after all, which filled Harry with quiet satisfaction.

"Arthur, I suppose we'll see each other at the Ministry then," Lord Lucius said, turned around with a wide sweep of his expensive cloak and strode out of the shop.

"And we'll see each other at school," Malfoy hissed contemptuously at the group of his schoolmates, before following his father with the same arrogant gait.

 

Once tempers had calmed down and everyone had gathered their belongings, they left the bookshop. Outside, Harry recognised a huge, bearded figure who towered over everyone else in Diagon Alley. It was Hagrid, and he carried a large bucket.

"Hagrid!" Harry cried out cheerfully.

"'Arry!" came his booming reply. The two hugged each other effusively. Harry was overjoyed to see him again.

"What are you doin' 'ere?" Harry asked him, puzzled.

"Oh, jus' gettin' somethin' fer Professor Sprout, fer the carniv'rous slugs, yeh know. Nothin' special," Hagrid rumbled. The others also seemed pleased to meet Hagrid. Eventually, Tonks also returned.

"And, did you catch the culprit?" Ron asked them curiously.

"Yep, they're with Kingsley. The little blighter didn't want ter pay for their school supplies," Tonks said, shaking their head. They went to Harry and whispered in his ear: "Sorry about my uncle and cousin just now." Harry looked at them somewhat puzzled. Was that the family Andromeda had been disowned from? Were they actually related to the Malfoys? Harry didn't really see any resemblance, well, perhaps a little with Draco, some of his facial features vaguely reminded him of Andromeda.

To conclude their turbulent shopping trip and to finally cool tempers again, everyone went together to Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour. Fred and George also joined them again, and Ron excitedly told them everything they had missed. The twins would have loved to see their father almost come to blows with Lord Malfoy. Percy also joined them. He seemed to have just said goodbye to a girl, if Harry had seen correctly, but no one else had noticed.

In the ice-cream parlour, there were the most unusual ice-cream flavours imaginable. Harry ordered a large portion of peanut butter ice cream with strawberry pieces. And so they ended the exciting day in Diagon Alley leisurely with a delicious ice cream.

In the evening, everyone said goodbye at the Leaky Cauldron. Hermione and her family left the pub towards Muggle London; they had come by underground, something Arthur Weasley found extraordinarily fascinating. The rest used the Floo Network to get home. Harry and Neville hugged each other warmly goodbye. They were the last ones in the Leaky Cauldron besides Tonks.

"I have so much to tell you," Harry said to Neville, "when we're at Hogwarts, I promise you, then…" But Harry couldn't finish speaking, for Neville said to him: "It's alright, I have a lot to report too. I… I've picked up a few things that might, well, interest you." They nodded knowingly at each other. They would have loved to stay longer, but Tonks urged them both to finally use the Floo Network. As Neville entered the fireplace and spoke his destination, the Longbottom family estate, Harry saw Neville's worried glance, before he was carried away by the green flames. Does Neville sense my constant struggle with myself, with what I know and what I'm not allowed to say? Harry wondered.

When Harry arrived at the Burrow, everyone else was already there. Ginny proudly boasted about her new wand, which she had got from Ollivanders today, and thanked Harry effusively again. Mrs Weasley also came to Harry and thanked him.

"But woe betide, Harry, if you do that again, alright?" she said with a stern look that quickly softened. "But thank you for making my children so happy," she then added with a loving smile. Harry also had to smile. He was infinitely glad that his plan had worked.

He went to Ron, hoping that his mood had improved after Lockhart's embarrassing performance. To Harry's great relief, Ron was back to his old self. They talked animatedly about Quidditch, before Ron complained to Harry that his Mum didn't want to buy him a new pet with Harry's money, even though there had been plenty left over. Harry promised Ron that he would buy him a new pet when they were next in Diagon Alley together, if he wanted one. But Ron declined. He didn't have to do that, Harry shouldn't spend his savings on him. But Harry didn't really care. When he had been down in the vault today, he had seen what was in the Black family's trust vault alone. That was twice what was in his Potter family trust vault. Harry could buy anything that would make him happy, but it wasn't possessions that made Harry happy. Harry was happy to be with his friends. Harry was happy to have seen his godbrother again. Harry would be happy when he finally got away from the Dursleys for good. Perhaps, just perhaps, he should take Andromeda's suggestion and open up to a Phrēntrist after all.

Ron and Harry stayed upstairs in their room for a while longer, before going back downstairs for dinner; of course, Ron had to support him again. Now the game with the leg started again for a week; he wasn't allowed to put weight on it, and Harry would stick to that strictly.

Around almost midnight, both Ron and Harry were back in their beds and ready to fall asleep. Ron was, as always, the first of the two to fall asleep. Harry took the opportunity to read his mother's book again. He wanted to know what she had written about her own adoption.

---

There are things in life that can knock you off balance, things that turn everything you thought you knew upside down. I want to tell you about such a moment in my life, because perhaps, as you read these lines, you are experiencing something similar. And I want you to know that you are not alone.

After I graduated from Hogwarts, I made plans for the future. My friend Mary Macdonald and I wanted to move in together. We had even found a small flat in London. Your Dads, James, and Sirius, had also found something, as they were just starting their Auror training at the Ministry. Remus, our clever one, actually wanted to do his Master's in History of Magic, but the war had the country firmly in its grip, and so he decided to do a Master's in Defence Against the Dark Arts instead. Mary began her training as a Healer, and me? I also wanted to do my Master's. Originally, my formerly best friend and I had planned to study Potions, but since Sev and I hadn't spoken since fifth year, I had abandoned that plan. Professor Flitwick had advised me to specialise in Charms, and so I began my Master's in Charms.

But before Mary and I could move into our shared flat, we had something important to do: We went to Gringotts. And there, in the deep vaults of the bank, the unexpected happened. A blood test was supposed to confirm our identity, a routine check, I thought. But the result was a shock that knocked the ground from under my feet: I was adopted.

The world spun. I understood nothing anymore. I can imagine that you might feel the same way now, if no one has told you about your blood adoption yet, my darling. But unlike you, I wasn't blood-adopted, but simply taken in by a Muggle family. I became an Evans.

I immediately confronted my parents about why they had never told me. They were surprised, perhaps even a little sad that I had to find out that way. They said it had never been important, because for them, I was always their biological daughter, their Lily. This news of the adoption, unfortunately, drove an even deeper wedge between Petunia and me. It was as if every commonality we ever had vanished in one fell swoop.

The Gringotts test revealed even more. It showed that I am a half-blood. And my biological father… he was Tom Marvolo Riddle, who was considered missing. My biological mother was a Muggle who had died shortly after my birth. As if that weren't enough, the test also showed that I am the heiress to the Houses of Gaunt and Slytherin.

Mary was the only one I confided in. She listened to me, held my hand, and said I needed to find someone I could talk to about it. But I was unsure. Even though James and I were already a couple at the time, I couldn't confide all of this in him yet.

So I did the only thing that felt right in that moment. I wrote Sev. I wrote to him about my adoption, about being a half-blood in truth. I omitted the information about the Houses of Gaunt and Slytherin. But I also wrote to him that my true origin, even if I was now a half-blood, did not excuse the terrible words he had said to me. If he wanted to see me again, it would only be if he apologised.

It was a step into the unknown, but I had to do it. Mary and I then started to research my mysterious father a little. I wanted to understand who I was, where I came from. And I wanted you to understand that too, my beloved Harry. Sometimes the answers are found in the most unexpected places.

Harry had fallen asleep in the middle of reading. He had made himself comfortable under the duvet. In the end, his eyes closed, and his head sank onto the book. He wondered if his mother had reconciled with Sev. Perhaps he should write to him. Perhaps.

 

Notes:

Thanks everyone for reading!
I know the story's developing slowly, but there's a lot happening in the background that our beloved characters don't see yet. And no, it doesn't have anything to do with Lucius and his behaviour at Flourish & Blotts!

Neville and Harry desperately need to talk, but they just haven't had the chance. You might also have noticed that I had Neville take a bit of a detour in the Floo Network in this universe... so next chapter, I promise Harry and Neville will finally have enough time to talk, and we'll officially be heading to Hogwarts!

As always, I'm looking forward to your comments.

Chapter 7: Chapter Six: Welcome Back

Summary:

September 1st is finally here, but Harry's trip to Hogwarts takes an unexpected detour through the Ministry. At least he's not alone – Neville also isn't permitted to use the Hogwarts Express this year. What neither boy expected was to meet another familiar face who turns out to be a wizard too. And that's just one of the day's many surprises.

Notes:

Welcome back to Chapter 6!

Please be aware that Harry is a traumatised child. His malnutrition is at least somewhat mentioned and addressed in this chapter.sd.

The remaining days of August flew by. Harry continued to spend them at the Weasleys', enveloped in the warm, chaotic life that was so different from anything he had ever known. And then, far too quickly, the morning of the first of September arrived. The day of the return to Hogwarts began, as everyone expected, with a good deal of commotion. Not only because there had been extensive celebrations the evening before – Molly Weasley had cooked a huge farewell dinner, as if she were sending her children off for years rather than just a few months – but also because Fred and George had, as a grand finale, set off a magnificent magical fireworks display in the garden, transforming the night sky into a sea of whistling, popping, and colourful sparks.

No, the morning was also stressful because six children – five of them Weasleys – had to be taken to King's Cross Station in London on time. And for a whole school year, one needed a seemingly endless amount of luggage. Harry, fortunately, had already neatly packed everything in his new magical trunk. He was already standing, ready for travel, downstairs in the Burrow's hall. Percy, as expected, was the first one ready. He strutted through the kitchen in a fresh wizard's robe, his chest puffed out, where his Prefect badge flashed and twinkled, exactly where Harry's robe now bore the Potter crest. From upstairs, Mrs Weasley's loud voice drifted down the stairs, urging her other sons with a mixture of despair and threats to hurry up. They had to catch a train, didn't they?

That it was the Hogwarts Express, of course, she didn't need to explicitly mention. Everyone knew it. The bright red Hogwarts Express, which took students punctually at eleven o'clock from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters to and from Hogwarts, the School of Witchcraft and Wizadry in Great Britain. A long, exciting train journey that would take them from the bustling Muggle metropolis of London to the secluded Scottish Highlands, where the ancient Hogwarts Castle stood enthroned.

It was the place that had become a kind of home for Harry. Had he been asked last school year, he would have said without hesitation that he was now returning home. But after this summer, after the shared escape with Neville, the two months at the Weasleys', with all the shocking revelations about his life, about himself – what was Harry's home? Did he even have one? The Dursleys had never been, and never would be. The Weasleys were incredibly kind to him, but Andromeda had already made it clear that this was only a temporary solution. So, what was Harry's home? He had none. Not yet. But next summer, yes, next summer he would under no circumstances return to the Dursleys, no matter what happened. And Andromeda had promised to help him with that. Harry was determined to leave this grim chapter of his life behind forever. And for that, he thought with a sudden grim determination, he would even meet with this Phrēntrist. He had decided. He had no other choice if he wanted to break free from the Dursleys forever.

When Mrs Weasley had finally managed to gather all her children in the living room, after shooing the last stragglers down the stairs, they were actually ready to leave for King's Cross. But before they could leave the house, a loud bang cut through the morning's hustle and bustle.

All at once, two figures appeared before the Weasleys' garden gate. Aurors, as Harry immediately recognised by their long, dark robes. One of them was Tonks; the other person was a man Harry had never seen before.

"Arthur!" a growling, rough voice called over. It belonged to the unknown Auror. He looked terrifying. His face was crisscrossed with countless scars, as if he had survived more battles than Harry could imagine. But what Harry particularly noticed were his eyes. One was small, dark, and gleamed watchfully. But the other… the other was artificial. A glowing blue, electric-looking eye that rotated incessantly and wildly in its socket, seemingly scanning everything and everyone in its field of vision. It seemed to be magical; Harry was absolutely sure of that.

"Alastor," Arthur Weasley replied, stepping towards the two newcomers. "How can I help you?" Arthur apparently knew him. Tonks merely trudged behind the frightening man. They winked subtly at Harry. Ron, who stood beside Harry, leaned in and whispered in an awed voice, "That's Mad-Eye Moody. He works with Dad at the Ministry. He's a feared Dark Wizard catcher." Harry swallowed hard.

"Here to take Mr Potter," Moody growled, and his magical eye seemed to fix on Harry. Harry's heart sank into his boots. Why? Why did he have to go with them? What had he done? He was supposed to leave for Scotland on the Hogwarts Express!

"Sorry, Harry, orders are orders," Tonks said apologetically. What else could Harry do? He could hardly run away or talk his way out of it. And who knew what they wanted from him. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad in the end.

"It's alright, Harry," said Arthur Weasley, who had noticed Harry's sudden discomfort. "I don't think they're going to arrest you."

"No," Moody confirmed in his gruff voice. "Mr Potter is merely to come to the Ministry. We won't stop him from being at Hogwarts tonight." Harry was somewhat reassured. He said goodbye to everyone.

"See you later, yeah?" he said to the twins. Then he thanked Mrs Weasley once more for having him stay all summer.

"You're welcome, Harry, dear. We'd do it again for you," Ron's mother said, embracing him lovingly.

"Off we go," Alastor Moody growled, nodding towards the garden gate and already setting off, limping slightly due to his wooden leg.

"See you," Harry said to Ron, hugging him tightly.

"Yeah, see you later, Harry," Ron replied. "I'll tell Neville not to worry, alright?" Harry nodded and followed Tonks and Moody out of the house.

He turned back once more to cast a last look at the Burrow. He had spent two months here. Probably his best summer yet. He would miss it a little. He gazed wistfully over the garden, where he had played countless hours of Quidditch with the twins and his best friend Ron. And now he had to leave all that behind. He had everything he owned with him. Everything was safely stowed in his trunk, which he had shrunk to backpack size and strapped to his back.

"Are you ready, Harry?" Tonks asked him, holding out an old, dented teapot. It was presumably a Portkey.

"It'll take us straight to the Auror office," Moody explained. "Don't want to drag you through the whole Ministry. Wouldn't want anyone thinkin' we'd arrested Harry Potter." Harry nodded and gripped the rusty teapot. Moody tapped it briefly with his wand, and at that exact moment, the Burrow, along with the Weasleys, vanished from Harry's sight. He saw the red-headed lot wave goodbye, before a familiar, violent tugging sensation in his navel seized him and lifted him off his feet. He would see some of them again tonight, he hoped at least. For Harry still didn't know what the Ministry wanted from him.

 

The Portkey landed Harry, Tonks, and Moody in a grim, windowless antechamber that smelled of old parchment and polished wood. Before them stood an imposing door of dark oak. A brass plaque, in ornate letters, proclaimed: Ministry of Magic – Auror Headquarters . Above it, the large, intertwined 'M' of the Ministry was emblazoned, pierced by a wand. So Harry was really here. There wasn't much to see, however, just endless, dimly lit corridors, from which countless doors branched off. Moody opened the heavy door to the Auror Headquarters. "Come on," he growled in his rough voice. Harry's heart began to beat a little faster. He was still unsure what they wanted from him, but he had no choice but to follow the old Auror.

As Harry entered the office, he stood rooted to the spot for a moment. So this was what it looked like here. He knew from Neville that Aurors were something like the wizarding world's police, and from his mother's book, he had learned that both of his fathers and Neville's parents had been Aurors.

Moody led him through a labyrinth of partitioned desks, nestled in small alcoves. The walls were covered with countless pictures, well-worn newspaper articles, maps, and notes, all connected by red threads and thumbtacks. It looked as if dozens of complicated cases were being worked on simultaneously. Harry wondered instinctively if his fathers had also had such desks. Where were their things now? One of his heart-fathers, James, had been Frank's partner, Harry knew that from his mother's book. But Sirius… what about Sirius?

The moment Harry thought of Sirius, he saw it. Large and unmistakable on the main wall of the office. Sirius's face. A wanted poster, from which countless threads led to other pictures, notes, and clues. So the search for his biological father was still in full swing.

Harry tried to decipher something, to snatch any hint. Next to Sirius's picture hung a huge map of Europe. Countless pins were stuck in the south of France and in Spain, exactly where the newspapers had reported sightings. But there were also pins in the north of France, and even some in England. And then, with an icy shiver running down his spine, Harry realised it: the pins in England were stuck exactly on their escape route, the path he and Neville had taken at the beginning of the summer to get out of London.

So Sirius had followed them. He had found them, even though he had never officially introduced himself to Harry. And Neville must have seen him too. Harry had almost forgotten, but Neville must have noticed that Sirius had sought them out. Yet Neville and Remus had not mentioned it a word. Was Harry here for that reason? To testify about Sirius? The thought flashed through his mind as he saw a long, red thread leading directly from Sirius's picture to a small photo of himself. Was he here to help with the investigation?

But before Harry could ask Moody why he was here, Moody opened a door to a small, partitioned office. Inside stood a simple desk, covered with dusty files, an office chair, and behind it a cabinet containing various trophies and framed pictures, alongside a few thick tomes. In one corner of the office stood a small, well-worn couch, and on it sat someone Harry would never have expected to find here.

It was Neville. His godbrother sat there, pale and visibly nervous. He was wearing, just like Harry, his wizard's robe with the embroidered Longbottom family crest over his Muggle clothes. His magical trunk, shrunk to backpack size, also stood beside him.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"I-I've no i-idea," Neville stammered. His nervousness was clearly visible; he plucked anxiously at his robe. Harry knew only too well how Neville felt. Only he could usually hide his own nervousness better.

"I-I was picked up and brought here," Neville explained as Harry sat down next to him on the couch. Moody had left the room again and closed the door behind him.

"Okay, me too," Harry said. "And no one told me why either. I thought… well, maybe they want to know something about Sirius." At the mention of Sirius's name, Neville flinched almost imperceptibly.

"I saw a picture of myself out there, connected to his. Maybe they think we… we could help them. That we have some information or something." Neville just nodded silently.

"Do you think we'll still be allowed back to Hogwarts today?" Neville asked, his voice trembling with tension.

"Moody, I think his name was, said we'd be back at Hogwarts tonight," Harry tried to reassure him.

"You mean A-Alastor Moody? The one who brought you here?"

"Yes, him. Do you know him? Ron knows him too."

"Yes… he trained my… my Dad. Was his partner for a bit. I… when I was little, I was here sometimes… They… they still honour my parents… Your father too… There's a plaque, they're on it… Maybe… maybe you can see it later," Neville said, and he visibly struggled to talk about his parents.

A plaque. Harry had to swallow. So his one father, James, was immortalised on it. But what about Sirius? As a wanted criminal, he would hardly be on it. James Potter was a hero who was remembered. Hagrid had told him his parents had been heroes. Almost every first encounter in the wizarding world was reduced to his being "the Boy Who Lived". Rarely did anyone think that he had lost his parents that night. And now there was a plaque here to commemorate that James Potter had died a hero. Harry didn't know what to feel.

At that moment, they heard a deep, sonorous voice outside the office. It belonged to Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Auror who had almost caught them at the beginning of the holidays. He seemed to be arguing with someone. Judging by the voice, it had to be a child. This voice also sounded strangely familiar to Harry.

"Let me go!" the young voice cried, furious and full of defiance. "You can sod off!"

"Steady now, come on," Kingsley's calming but firm voice could be heard through the closed door.

"Hey, those are my things! Hands off, you bastard!" the boy yelled.

"Language!" a female voice from the open-plan office admonished.

Then the door flew open, and in stepped Kingsley Shacklebolt, the tall, dark-skinned wizard. He held a boy firmly by the upper arm.

"You can wait here until we set off," Kingsley said, shoved the boy unceremoniously into the office, and closed the door behind him. Harry could hear him remain standing outside, presumably to keep watch.

The boy was no stranger. Harry and Neville knew him. Their eyes widened, and the boy also seemed surprised to see Harry and Neville sitting on the couch.

"What the…? Why? I mean… what the fuck?" Jo blurted out. It was Jonathan, or Robin Hood, as he had called himself. The boy they had met on a bus shortly before Nottingham during their escape. The boy with whom they had spent a whole day. The boy with whom they had tried to steal from a supermarket in the Muggle world and had been caught. The boy they had lost sight of when they had to flee from an angry man. He was here. His amber eyes stared at Harry and Neville in disbelief. His curly, shoulder-length, dark brown hair was tied back in a messy knot. He wore, just like last time, a worn band T-shirt. He also had a trunk with him, only his was huge and clumsy, unlike Harry's and Neville's shrunken models. On the trunk were the initials J.C.P. J certainly stood for Jonathan, but what did the other letters stand for?

"Don't tell me you two are also… wizard-thingamajigs?" asked Jo, still visibly bewildered. Wizard-thingamajigs? What did he mean by that? Didn't he know he was a wizard? And then it all became clear to Harry. Jo had to be a Muggle-born who, until recently, had had no idea of his true heritage. And they hadn't known either. There had been no signs, unlike Elijah, the other boy they had met.

"If you mean wizards," Harry said with a touch of pride, "then yes, we're wizards."

"Man, look at you. Fuck, you look different in these clothes. I mean, wow. You… you're from this world, aren't you? Fuck… I… fuck," Jo stammered, and seemed to slowly grasp that the two boys he had met were actually wizards.

"I…" Neville said, "I grew up in the wizarding world. Harry grew up in the Muggle world, although…" But Neville didn't finish his sentence, much to Harry's great relief, presumably. He didn't want Jo to also find out who or what he really was to the wizarding world or that he had grown up in a magic-hating household.

"Wow. You really have to stop with this secret language," Jo said, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, I've been hearing these weird words, like Muggle, for weeks now."

It seemed as if he really had no idea what he had got himself into here. So Harry and Neville began to enlighten him. They explained the most important terms to him, told him that they were also going to Hogwarts, which Jo, it seemed, would also be doing from today.

Jo had so many questions. He had only known since the end of June that he was a wizard. When the letter from Hogwarts had arrived, Jo had immediately run away from the home because he thought they wanted to put him in a mental institution. Shortly afterwards, the three of them had met on the bus to Nottingham.

They continued to talk about their crazy summer. Jo recounted how he had eventually been found by a strict woman who had tried to explain everything to him, and had taken him to a strange alley where he was supposed to get his school supplies. Harry and Neville explained to him that this must have been Diagon Alley and that the strict woman was almost certainly Professor McGonagall.

Jo told them with a mischievous grin how he had managed to escape from her in the alley. But he also didn't want to leave Diagon Alley. He liked the magical alley. He could get up to all sorts of mischief there, he told Harry and Neville. The two had to laugh, for they already suspected what mischief Jo meant. So Jo had gone into hiding in Diagon Alley. But eventually, he had been caught stealing and apprehended by Kingsley.

"That was you?" Harry asked. "You were the one at Flourish & Blotts?"

"No idea what the shop was called, but yes, I tried to make off with something in a bookshop," Jo admitted. Harry had to laugh. If it hadn't been for Jo, Mr Weasley and Draco's father would probably have come to blows.

Jo went on to say how he had then been taken by Kingsley to a home for wizarding children.

"There are orphanages in the wizarding world?" a surprised Harry wondered.

"Yes," Neville said quietly. "The war, unfortunately, brought about some sad fates. Gran organises a charity ball for the home once a year."

"What war?" Jo asked, confused, which was understandable, as he had absolutely no idea about the wizarding world yet, even less than Harry. "I mean, there weren't more than twelve children there." Neville enlightened Jo about the war against Voldemort as best he could, but thankfully omitted Harry's role in it, as well as the tragic fate of his own parents.

Before Neville could continue, the door opened and Kingsley entered the room, this time accompanied by a new person. In contrast to Kingsley, the man was shorter. He had a dark blonde mane of hair streaked with grey, and a face marked by many hard experiences which, Harry thought, resembled a battle-hardened old lion. He immediately walked towards Harry and Neville.

"Ah, Messrs Heir Longbottom and Heir Potter," the man said, bowing slightly. Then he turned directly to Harry.

"Heir Potter, Rufus Scrimgeour. Forgive the inconvenience," he said, casting a contemptuous glance at Jo. "I hope you find my office appealing enough to pass the time."

"Pass the time?" Harry asked.

"Well, we will be escorting you to Hogwarts shortly. After all that has happened this summer, we didn't want to let you take the Hogwarts Express," Mr Scrimgeour explained. "Hadn't you been told?" Harry and Neville shook their heads. Harry was relieved that he apparently didn't have to testify about Sirius after all. Mr Scrimgeour looked at Kingsley, who merely shrugged innocently.

"Mad-Eye picked them up," Kingsley said.

"That old man… he'll drive me mad yet…," Mr Scrimgeour seemed to grumble, then turned back to Harry and Neville, completely ignoring Jo.

"A Portkey to Hogsmeade leaves in an hour," he said, turning to Kingsley. "And Mr Shacklebolt will accompany you." Kingsley Shacklebolt was about to retort, but was interrupted by Mr Scrimgeour, who was apparently his boss – which Neville later confirmed. "So, I hope you enjoy your brief stay here. If anything comes up, let Mr Shacklebolt know," he said, and left the room. Kingsley Shacklebolt, looking anything but pleased, ran after his boss, presumably to object to having to chaperone three boys.

"So, this 'Heir' thing," Jo said when they were alone again, and his eyes narrowed as if he was just hatching a new, clever plan, "are you two like royalty?" Were they? Harry didn't quite understand the system himself yet. "I mean, look at you, you definitely look better than most of what I've seen in the wizarding world so far. And believe me, I've been to places in that alley that were anything but pretty." Neville swallowed, as if he knew exactly what Jo meant.

Luckily, Neville briefly explained to Jo what the Houses were about. Boiled down to the essentials, Neville explained, there were wizarding families who simply had such a long history and so much influence that they held a title and thereby a fixed seat in the Wizengamot. And that Harry and he belonged to such families. Jo only commented on all of this with a disbelieving "Where the fuck have I ended up here?". In general, Harry had noticed that Jo seemed to swear much more than he remembered. Where had he picked up this language? Or had he spoken like that last time too, and he just hadn't noticed?

"Hey, fancy some music?" Jo asked the two, his eyes gleaming rebelliously. "I mean, if we're stuck here much longer and I don't want to hear another lecture about lords and ladies, we can listen to something on my cassette player. I've got it with me." With a flourish, he pulled a small, black Muggle device from his bag. Harry immediately wondered if the thing would even work here. He knew from Hermione that in places of very high magical density, like Hogwarts or the Ministry, most Muggle electronic devices would go haywire or simply die.

"It's just playing up a bit right now, but it'll be fine," Jo said carelessly, pressing one of the buttons. Harry and Neville exchanged a quick, knowing glance. They had to tell him. Time and again, Muggle-borns had to discover with horror that their beloved devices gave up the ghost in the presence of magic.

"Jo," Harry began cautiously, "when we go to Hogwarts, your... erm, cassette player... well, it'll probably break. Stop working." But Jo just looked at him in disbelief. "I... erm, I've got something with me that we can listen to music on at Hogwarts," Harry quickly added. "If you like, we can listen later." Jo didn't seem interested in that at all. He just shrugged, pressed one of the headphones into Harry's hand, and they began to listen to Jo's cassettes.

They were mainly songs by his favourite band, Iron Maiden, as he explained to them. Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to get hold of any new cassettes.

So, while they listened to the music and waited to finally be allowed to leave for Hogwarts, they told each other a bit more about their summer. Harry wanted to know what Jo's initials J.C.P. stood for. Perhaps, a silly thought, he was a Potter after all. But to Harry's disillusionment, though he was actually relieved, the P stood for Pryle. Jo explained that he knew nothing about his family, only that they had passed away. But apparently, he was a half-blood, just like Harry. His family, he had been told, had died in a car accident. His father had been a Muggle. Jo himself had survived the accident and, as no other relatives could be found, had ended up in a Muggle hospital and later in a home. "The rest you already know," Jo then said with a shrug.

They listened to music for a while longer, which kept starting to stutter, but Jo stubbornly refused to recognise the signs. Eventually, Kingsley came back in and took the three of them. Harry and Neville shouldered their shrunken trunks, and Kingsley, after a brief but loud protest from Jo, also shrank his huge trunk so they could travel more easily with the Portkey. For Jo, as his distorted face showed, the jolt of the Portkey was an extremely unpleasant experience. Harry also had to think back to his first time; it was definitely not what one would call pleasant.

They arrived in Hogsmeade, the small, sleepy wizarding village near the castle, and walked the familiar path up to the mighty gates of Hogwarts. Harry could barely stop himself from staring at Jo, who was now seeing the imposing castle with its countless towers and battlements, majestically enthroned above the Black Lake, for the very first time. Of course, it was different to see the castle in daylight, without the mysterious glow of torches and lanterns. But the first time, Harry thought, always had that special, breathtaking 'wow' effect. And now that Harry himself was back here, it felt like returning to a place that felt immensely like home. Was Hogwarts his home then?

At the top of the great oak portal, the two mighty double doors already stood invitingly open, and Professor McGonagall seemed to have been expecting them. Harry's and Neville's Head of Gryffindor looked anything but amused. Her strict gaze swept over the three newcomers; her hair was, as always, tied in an immaculate, tight bun.

"You're a little early," she said in her dry, sharp voice, but her words were not for the three boys, but directly for Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had accompanied them. "Well, be that as it may. Mr Potter, Mr Longbottom, you may go to your common room if you wish. And it would be appropriate if you put on your school uniforms there. Mr Pryle here, unfortunately, still has to wait until he has been sorted at the welcome feast," Professor McGonagall said and turned to leave. As she turned away, she added: "Mr Pryle, do not dare to play any of your games here. You will certainly regret it someday. But for you too: school uniform."

"If you want, we can wait," Neville said to Jo, and Harry nodded in agreement.

"Nah, it's alright, I'll manage," Jo said, winking conspiratorially at the two. "I'll find something to pass the time." Harry and Neville both knew this probably wouldn't end well. But they left it at that.

They headed towards Gryffindor Tower. Fortunately, Professor McGonagall had already given them the new password. It was, at least until the evening, "Godric." And so, after climbing the endless spiral staircase to the seventh floor, Harry and Neville could enter the common room through the portrait of the Fat Lady. Behind it awaited the familiar, cosy room they had left almost three months ago. With its inviting, soft armchairs, the crackling fireplace, and countless tables where one could work and study, it was the perfect retreat for all members of the House of the Lion. Harry and Neville quickly made their way upstairs to their shared dormitory, where they found their beds again. Unlike if they had come on the Hogwarts Express, this time they had to lug their own luggage to their beds. They immediately let their trunks grow back to their original size.

The two threw themselves, exhausted but happy, onto their respective beds. They were alone, and it would be some time until the others from their year arrived. This meant it was the ideal time for Harry to finally talk to Neville about everything that was on his mind. He thoughtfully twisted his invisible Potter ring. How should he even begin?

But before Harry could say anything, Neville began. His voice sounded quiet and a little anxious. "Harry, I... I told you that on the day we met in Diagon Alley, I came out of the wrong fireplace, didn't I?"

"Yes?" Harry said, not quite knowing what his godbrother was getting at. Did it have something to do with his Uncle Algie?

"Well, I came out in Knockturn Alley..." Neville said, and his eyes darkened at the memory.

Harry still didn't quite understand what Neville meant. "And? What does that mean?"

"Harry, Knockturn Alley... it's... it's a place where Dark wizards and witches go shopping," Neville explained in a horrified voice.

"Oh... Ohhh," Harry murmured. Now he understood. "Are you alright, Neville? Did anything happen to you?" He wanted to know if his godbrother had had an unpleasant encounter there.

"Nah, it's alright. I came out at Borgin and Burkes. The shop buys and sells all sorts of things, but also forbidden, Dark magic items. And that's why... that's why I need to talk to you."

"And?" Harry asked somewhat impatiently.

"Well, I c-could observe Draco and his father entering the shop," Neville began to explain. "Draco was complaining that you were already on the Gryffindor Quidditch team in first year, and well, his father promised him that if Draco stopped complaining about you and made it onto the team himself, he'd get a new racing broom."

"And now? I mean, Draco has to make it onto the team first, and even if he does, it's just a sport. We'll beat them," Harry said confidently. He didn't really care that Draco might soon be playing for the Slytherin team. The two weren't friends and probably never would be. Draco was far too conceited in Harry's eyes. In fact, he was even glad if Draco joined the Quidditch team, then he'd have another chance to show him that his arrogant attitude wouldn't get him anywhere, Harry thought.

"No, I don't actually want to talk about Draco and Quidditch with you," Neville said, and his voice slowly took on a nervous undertone. "Well, anyway, he wanted to sell something to the shop that he desperately wanted to get rid of, but the shopkeeper wouldn't take it."

"Okay, and now? Um, I mean, you didn't happen to see what kind of object it was, did you?" Harry asked Neville. As far as Harry knew, there were all sorts of Dark magical objects in the wizarding world, most of which he didn't even know or had never heard of. That Lucius Malfoy now wanted to get rid of them could be pure coincidence.

"No, I didn't. But that's not what I actually wanted to tell you," Neville said, and his voice was now very quiet, even though they were alone in the dormitory. "Draco's father told Draco that... well, that he should get on good terms with you, because you could... well, you could become the next Dark Lord."

Harry stared at Neville in confusion. He? A new Dark Lord? "That's insane!" Harry said dismissively. "Why would I...?"

"I know, but... but Harry, you have to know, Lucius Malfoy was accused of having been a follower of You-Know-Who. He only got off because he was supposedly under the Imperius Curse."

"Okay, and now?" Harry asked, still not understanding what his godbrother was getting at.

"Well, if You-Know-Who's followers see you as his successor, then that's... well, not good," Neville said seriously.

"Don't worry, that'll never happen," Harry said, but secretly he felt something within him, something he had felt since the revelation that he was the Heir of Slytherin. Something that unsettled him, something that made him slightly doubt his own statement. It was absurd, no question. Harry would never, in his eyes, become a Dark Lord. But the thought that others might see him as such seemed to worry him a little.

"I know," Neville said, relieved. "I just wanted you to know what the Malfoys think of you."

"It's alright, thanks," Harry said, taking a deep breath. "I've got something else to tell you too." Neville nodded. Harry got off his bed, went to his trunk, took out his mother's book, and sat down next to Neville on his bed.

"This is... well, my mother's book, the one I told you about... and erm..." Harry had to think about what to tell Neville. He didn't want to tell him about Sirius yet, not until Neville brought it up directly. Harry suspected that Neville hadn't told him something he knew about Sirius, and he wanted to wait to see if Neville would finally dare to bring it up. Otherwise, he would do it soon. But he could talk about the adoption.

"Well, my Mum writes in it that she's not Muggle-born." At what Harry said, Neville tilted his head slightly and his eyes narrowed. He seemed a little confused.

"My Mum was adopted," Harry continued. "She's actually a half-blood. Her father was – or is, he's missing, you know – Tom Marvolo Riddle." Neville put a hand on his shoulder, probably out of understanding that Harry was revealing a closely guarded family secret. "Unfortunately, Mum didn't find out much about him, except that he was at Hogwarts and disappeared at the end of the Fifties, so before she was born. She assumed, erm, that he had to hide and met her Muggle mother then, but she didn't really find out anything precise."

"Wow," said Neville, who suddenly seemed to be connecting a few things in his head. "If your mother was adopted, then the Blood Wards Dumbledore talks about can't possibly work."

"Neville, by Merlin, you're right!" Harry said, astonished, now also understanding what Neville meant. Dumbledore wanted him to return to the Dursleys because of the Blood Wards, because he would be safe there thanks to the protection his mother had provided in her sacrifice. But if there was no blood relation, then no Blood Wards could work either.

"And this Riddle, he was a Hogwarts student?" Neville asked interestedly.

"Yes, at least that's what it says in the book," Harry replied.

"Well then, there are certainly clues about him here in the castle. I mean, we could go looking for them," Neville suggested.

"Yes, that's a great idea," Harry said, and they decided to find out a little more about Harry's supposed grandfather and his history over the next few months. The topic of Sirius, however, remained unspoken for now. Harry wasn't ready to tell Neville that he was a Black. That his name was actually Haedus. No, he couldn't do that yet.

"Fancy a bit of music?" Harry asked Neville, who thereupon nodded happily. So Harry took out the smaller, briefcase-sized gramophone from his trunk and opened it. The horn instantly whooshed upwards.

"Shall we listen to this one? I don't know it yet," Harry said, showing Neville the record "Aftermath" by the Rolling Stones. Neville nodded, and Harry put it on. Immediately a melody began, followed by drums, before vocals, guitar, and a somewhat mystical-sounding melody could be heard in the background.

As the first song on the record played, Harry flopped onto Nevilles bed next to Neville. Both looked at each other and had to laugh. They were back at Hogwarts, but they had their newfound love for music with them. This is going to be a good year, Harry thought, before turning his attention to the music and listening to it with Neville.

 

“I look inside myself

And see my heart is black

I see my red door

I must have it painted black

Maybe then, I'll fade away

And not have to face the facts

It's not easy facing up

When your whole world is black”

 

They listened to Harry's music for a while longer, until the dormitory door swung open with a soft creak. They noticed how late it already was as the bright light shining through the tall tower windows in the staircase up to the dormitory streamed through the door. So they put on their school uniforms. Over a white shirt with the red-and-gold Gryffindor tie, they wore their simple, black wizarding robes, proudly emblazoned with the lion crest. With these, they wore simple black trousers and black shoes. It was still a little too warm for the V-neck jumper, even though it was already September and the Scottish air was slowly getting cooler. Perhaps they would need it in the cool morning hours or when autumn finally arrived.

Harry cast a quick glance into his huge, bottomless trunk. He had bought so many new clothes over the summer. Finally, he could wear something other than just his school uniform on weekends. In his first year, he had been asked a few times why he still wore his school uniform on weekends at the start. He had simply refused to wear Dudley's old, worn-out clothes, which were far too big for him. Luckily, he had then found some that weren't quite so huge, but now, now he had a whole selection of his own, new things, and he couldn't wait to wear them.

Neville was also ready and looked at Harry with a questioning gaze. "Shall we?" he asked. Harry nodded. They went down the spiral staircase, wanting to check on Jo again. Perhaps he could be found somewhere in the corridors of Hogwarts. As they descended the stairs from the seventh floor again, they talked quietly about music.

"I have to write to Remus and ask if he can send me some more records," Harry said to Neville, wondering quietly if Hedwig had arrived yet. He had sent her off from the Burrow last night. He would have to check the Owlery in the West Tower later to see if she was there already. "Now that Jo's here, he'll definitely want to listen too. I don't think his cassette player will last long. Maybe Remus can send us an Iron Maiden record," Harry mused aloud, thinking of the pathetic stuttering of Jo's cassette player at the Ministry.

"Good idea, Harry," Neville said. "And ask Remus for a Queen record too," he added with a wide grin. Harry had to smile as well. His godbrother was such a big fan of that band. Surely Remus wouldn't mind and could track one down somewhere, Harry thought.

Suddenly, an angry yell echoed towards them. "Hey, let go of me! I haven't done anything!"

It was Jo's voice. Harry and Neville saw Jo being grabbed by the collar by caretaker Filch and dragged towards Professor McGonagall's office. Jo seemed to be struggling with all his might, but against the grim caretaker, he stood no chance.

"Caught red-handed!" Filch croaked triumphantly. "Even before the welcome feast! Never has a student been expelled from school faster!"

Harry and Neville simultaneously shook their heads. They knew that Filch's threats usually sounded worse than they were. But knowing Jo, they were a little worried.

"What do you think he did?" Neville asked Harry.

"No idea, but knowing Jo, nothing good," Harry said. They decided to ignore Jo for now and instead went outside to enjoy the late Scottish summer a little longer before it finally gave way to autumn. They sat down on the bank of the Black Lake, so they had a good view of the path leading up to the castle.

What Harry wondered was the fact that after some time, individual students kept walking up the path to the castle with their luggage, even though the Hogwarts Express would only arrive in a few hours.

"Say, Neville, why aren't they coming with the Hogwarts Express?" Harry asked, who had really believed that all students would always set off from London on the Hogwarts Express. Neville seemed to find Harry's question quite amusing, for he chuckled softly.

"Oh, Harry," Neville said, smiling, "not all students live in the south of the country and take the Hogwarts Express." Oh, I see, Harry thought, that's actually logical. Why should students from other parts of the British Isles travel all the way to London just to take the Hogwarts Express? "For example, there are also students who live in Hogsmeade, and they only take the Hogwarts Express in their first year because of the ritual," Neville continued to explain.

"Or from Ireland," a voice Harry and Neville knew only too well suddenly said. It was Seamus Finnigan, with whom they shared a dormitory, among others. He suddenly stood behind them, his Gryffindor school uniform perfectly neat. "I arrive in Hogsmeade by Floo Network and then walk up to the school," Seamus said, and seemed unable to quite believe that Harry didn't know that. "Oh, mate, Harry, really?"

The three greeted each other warmly and were happy to see each other again. Seamus wanted to take his trunk upstairs, and they arranged to meet for the feast. Harry and Neville remained sitting by the lake for a while longer.

Every now and then, an individual student walked up the path to the castle. But then a boy arrived who looked somehow familiar to Harry, so he had to look more closely.

The boy had brown hair, neatly combed to the side. He was lanky, almost as thin as Harry before he had received his nutrient potions. He seemed a little shy, almost exactly like Neville at the beginning of last school year. But Neville, Harry knew, had shed a little of his shyness over the summer. The boy wore a Slytherin uniform. Harry didn't know his name, but he involuntarily had to smile at him; something about him seemed so familiar, but from where? The boy seemed to shyly smile back, but immediately tried to hide his gaze. Harry would have liked to speak to him, but he didn't dare, just as the boy hadn't dared, for he hurried, after their gazes had met for a brief, fleeting moment, immediately up to the castle. Then Harry remembered again where he knew the boy from. From his dream in the tent. He had been there when Malfoy had mocked him in the dream, he had been there when he was in the library. But that hadn't been the first encounter he'd had with him. Where did Harry know him from? Perhaps Neville knew him, Harry thought.

"Um... who was that?" Harry cautiously asked Neville. "I mean, the face looked so familiar."

"Oh, Harry," Neville said and shook his head. "Perhaps because he's in our year?"

"Oh," Harry said, a little embarrassed that he didn't know everyone he had lessons with.

"That was Theodore Nott, son of Tiberius Nott, Lord of the House of Nott. Their family seat is on the Shetland Islands, if you're wondering." Neville continued to shake his head. "Really, Harry, who do you know who goes to Hogwarts besides us, Hermione, the Weasleys, and Malfoy?"

"Hey, I know Daphne, Ernest, Susan, Dean, Seamus, Crabbe, Goyle, Katie, Angelina, Oliver, hmm… oh yes, Lavender, the Patil twins, and… here, what's his name, Jus… Jul… Julian," Harry tried to defend himself.

"You mean Justin Finch-Fletchley, and he's good friends with Ernie. And by the way, Crabbe and Goyle are their surnames. Really, Harry, you need to get out more this school year and not just spend all your time with Ron and Hermione," Neville lectured him.

"Oh really? Didn't I spend time with you last year too?" Harry said, thinking he had made a point.

"I don't count, I'm family," Neville grinned and nudged him with his shoulder. Now Harry also had to smile. Yes, Neville was family, that was true.

Before Neville could tease Harry a little more about hardly knowing the students at Hogwarts, Madam Pomfrey came by.

"Ah, there you are, Mr Potter," said the school nurse, who, Harry found, could be both kind and strict. She wore her typical white uniform. "Would you be so kind as to come with me? I have a few things to discuss with you," she continued. Harry looked at Neville.

"It's alright, I'll look for Seamus or see where Jo's got to, Harry," Neville said.

"Thanks," was Harry's reply, and he followed the nurse, who smiled kindly at Neville.

On the way to the hospital wing, she said to him: "Glad to see you're better. Healer Andromeda Tonks told me quite a bit. Terrible, I must say, terrible! I'm dreadfully sorry." Harry was uncomfortable; he really didn't want so many people to know about it. So what had Andromeda told Madam Pomfrey?

"Um… it's fine."

"Nothing's fine! I should have seen it. How thin you arrived here last year, your eating habits," Madam Pomfrey said, apparently blaming herself. Harry hoped it was just the malnutrition Andromeda had told her about. She had already announced that Madam Pomfrey would continue with the potions and check if he still needed them. So far, he had gained a little weight, to Andromeda's slight satisfaction, but Harry, she had said in August, was still underweight.

They arrived in the hospital wing. It was the same room he had known last school year, with the neatly lined-up hospital beds.

"Right, Mr Potter, you should take the nutrient supplement potion with every meal. Oh, that reminds me, have you eaten anything today yet?" the nurse asked him.

"Um, breakfast this morning," Harry said a little sheepishly.

"Not ideal, but not disastrous either. But from tomorrow, three meals, alright?" she said somewhat demandingly. Harry nodded. "The house-elves have been instructed to make your potion appear at every meal," Madam Pomfrey said. Harry was astonished that Hogwarts had house-elves. He already knew Dobby and Kreacher, as well as those from Mr Tatting's shop. They were probably in charge of the food here, Harry gathered from Madam Pomfrey's words. Perhaps he should ask Neville, who could certainly explain what house-elves do. Ron probably wouldn't really know, as the Weasleys didn't have any, Harry was sure of that. He hadn't seen any all summer, only the two intruders.

Before Madam Pomfrey could elaborate on Harry's potions, the hospital wing door opened, and Professor McGonagall entered, looking somewhat annoyed.

"Forgive my delay, Poppy, but I had received an urgent owl from the Hogwarts Express. There was an incident. Be a dear and prepare for two students who need minor injuries tended to," McGonagall said, and Harry wondered what had happened.

"Oh dear, anything serious?" a worried Pomfrey asked. "No, just…" McGonagall saw that Harry was listening to them, swished her wand and said Muffliato . Harry could no longer hear what the two were saying, but saw that McGonagall seemed annoyed. It wasn't long before McGonagall swished her wand again, and Harry could hear the two again.

"Right, I've just informed Mr Potter that the elves are instructed to provide him with the prescribed potion at mealtimes," Madam Pomfrey said to Harry's Head of House.

"Good, thank you, Poppy. I presume you'll also oversee his readings while he's here?" she then asked.

"Yes, I will," Madam Pomfrey said.

"Good, please let me know when," the Professor said and then turned to Harry. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be present, Mr Potter. We want to ensure you're getting better." Harry felt uncomfortable involving his Head of House in his treatment too. The fewer who knew, the better, Harry thought.

"It's alright, you don't have to, Professor, you certainly have more important things to do."

"Nonsense! I am in loco parentis as long as you are here and have no guardians," she said firmly.

"Um, what about Remus Lupin?" Harry said, without thinking. Only now did it occur to him that no one knew this yet, except Lupin himself. He hadn't even told Neville yet.

"What about him, Mr Potter?" McGonagall asked interestedly.

"Well, um… he's… well, he's my godfather," Harry said a little sheepishly, because he didn't really want the information to come to light, at least not so early. "At least that's what the tests at Gringotts said." McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey looked at each other as if Harry had just shaken their world.

"Oh."

"Yes, oh, indeed."

"Did you know anything about this, Minerva?" Madam Pomfrey asked, and Harry's Head of House shook her head.

"Do you think?" Madam Pomfrey began.

"Hardly. If that becomes known, we won't be doing him any favours," McGonagall said then.

"But he's…" Madam Pomfrey wanted to say, but was interrupted by McGonagall.

"That's enough, we're not here to discuss Remus Lupin," and she ended the cryptic conversation between the two, which Harry didn't understand.

"Is there anything else we should know, Mr Potter?" Professor McGonagall asked. Harry shook his head. He wasn't even sure if he had done the right thing by revealing that Remus was his godfather.

"Good," she said. "I must leave urgently, when the Hogwarts Express arrives shortly, I must intercept the two before I send them to you, Poppy. You'll excuse me." She turned to Harry. "Mr Potter, we'll see each other at the feast." And then she left the hospital wing.

Madam Pomfrey also let Harry go shortly afterwards, admonishing him not to show up here again too soon, except for checking his readings. Harry left the hospital wing with an uneasy feeling. Not only did his Head of House know, no, she also wanted to be involved in his treatment, something about in loco parentis , whatever that might mean. And then he had also blurted out that Remus was his godfather. Harry desperately wanted to think about something else. Luckily, the welcome feast was about to begin.

For the feast, Harry had sat down at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, between Neville and Hermione, opposite Dean and Seamus. All wore their school uniforms and the pointed hats prescribed for the opening feast. But there was no sign of Ron. The twins and Percy were present, however. Harry leaned towards Hermione.

"Say, where's Ron?" he asked quietly. Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Professor McGonagall took him and Malfoy, straight off the train. They were fighting."

"Fighting?" Harry asked, horrified.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, visibly annoyed. "So badly that even Percy and three other Prefects could barely pull them apart. Ron's got a black eye now, and Malfoy's supposedly lost a tooth." That explained why Professor McGonagall had seemed so irritable earlier.

"What did Malfoy say to make Ron lose it like that?"

"Oh, the usual nastiness about his family," Hermione replied. "And then he apparently hinted that you, now that you're such a… well, such an Heir , would ditch him. That's when Ron went for him." She gave Harry a scrutinising look.

"You seem to know more, Harry. What's wrong with Ron?" Harry hesitated and nervously twisted his invisible Potter ring. Should he tell her? Sooner or later, she would find out anyway.

"Well, ever since I got this…" Harry began, letting the rose-gold ring on his right hand flash briefly, as subtly as possible, "…Ron's constantly had this crazy fear that I wouldn't want him as my friend anymore. But I've already told him that's rubbish." Hermione narrowed her eyes and scrutinised the ring, but apparently didn't know what it was, which was understandable given her Muggle background.

"Is that an Heir Ring, Harry?" Dean suddenly asked, who had overheard the conversation. The dark-skinned boy and Seamus's best friend seemed to know about such things.

"Yes, it is," Harry confirmed.

"Cool, then we've got two Heirs in our dormitory now," Dean said, impressed. Hermione now looked at Harry with wide, questioning eyes. Harry knew exactly what she wanted to know.

"Neville, would you be so kind as to enlighten her? You did such a good job with Jo this morning."

"Jo?" Hermione asked, confused.

"Later, you'll see," Harry said. He preferred Neville to explain about the Houses before he also had to explain Jo. Neville therefore launched into a similarly well-summarised lecture as he had that morning with Jo. But Hermione wouldn't be Hermione if that was enough for her.

"Wow, Harry, that's fantastic!" she exclaimed enthusiastically when Neville had finished. "I mean, you have political influence with that, you can really change something!" She was, unlike Ron, not at all jealous, but seemed to see the opportunities this presented for him.

"I'll get us books from the library straight away tomorrow so we can figure out how best to approach this. This is such a huge opportunity, Harry, you mustn't let it go to waste!" Her drive was almost frightening. Harry sighed inwardly. Sometimes Hermione's eagerness was really exhausting, but in the end, she was one of his best friends, and somehow he liked that quality about her.

Before the conversation about Harry's possible political influence could continue, the door to the Great Hall opened, and a contrite Ron entered, closely followed by a no less unhappy-looking Malfoy. While Malfoy strutted with his head held high to the Slytherin table at the other end of the hall, Ron slunk with downcast gaze to the Gryffindor table. Between the two tables of the arch-rivals sat the students of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. At the very front, at the staff table, all the Professors were already gathered, except for Professor McGonagall, who was presumably collecting the first-years for the introduction ceremony. To Harry's displeasure, he also saw Gilderoy Lockhart, who was apparently conversing animatedly with Professor Sprout.

When Ron arrived at the table, he sat down next to Hermione, who now sat between him and Ron.

Ron didn't look happy, but at least the injury Hermione had described no longer seemed visible. Madam Pomfrey had probably done a good job; only a very faint, bluish discolouration shimmered around Ron's eye.

"Everything okay, Ron?" Harry asked his best friend.

"No, I got detention. All weekend!" Ron whined in a voice dripping with self-pity. "But the worst part is, when Malfoy and I were… well, wrestling on the floor, my wand got cracked." He held up his wand. A fine crack ran through the thin, upper end. It was his brother Charlie's old wand, which he had inherited. Harry was about to pat Ron comfortingly on the shoulder, when the doors to the Entrance Hall opened again and the new first-years entered the Great Hall.

The first thing Harry noticed was how the small witches and wizards stared with wide eyes at the enchanted ceiling. It reminded Harry of his own first time entering the Hall and staring at the high, star-studded ceiling that mirrored the weather outside.

Professor McGonagall led the nervous crowd to the front. Last year, Harry had been in their place; he could practically feel their excitement. He let his gaze sweep over the group, looking for Ginny, Jo, or Elijah. He quickly found Ginny, she was whispering to Luna. And Jo stood at the very back, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, as if he wanted nothing to do with the whole thing. They all wore their simple, black robes without house badges, but that would soon change.

McGonagall had already prepared the Sorting Hat on a stool. Then Harry also saw Elijah, who was talking to a girl. And to his great surprise, he knew the girl. His eyes widened. He was about to point her out to Neville, but Neville had probably noticed her too.

"Harry, there's Sarah," Neville said, astonished. And Harry nodded. Elijah was talking to Sarah. The boy they had met at the fair was talking to the girl they had met at the museum.

"But I don't see Jill," Harry said, and Neville didn't seem to see Jill either. Did that mean only Sarah was a witch?

The sorting began. The Hat sang a song that, to Harry's astonishment, was not the same as last year's. Then Professor McGonagall called out the students' names and had them come forward individually, so that, when they put on the Hat, they would be sorted into one of the four Hogwarts Houses.

Actually, Harry didn't care who was sorted where, but Neville's address from earlier that day, that he should spend a bit more time with his fellow students, still echoed in his mind. The sorting by the Hat generally proceeded calmly and without major anomalies. Only a few stood out to Harry.

The first was when Colin Creevey was called. He came to Gryffindor. Harry and the table applauded and welcomed their new member of the House. But instead of simply sitting down, Creevey excitedly ran to Harry, shook his hand vigorously, and beamed: "Incredible! I'm in a house with Harry Potter!" Harry found this a little embarrassing. He suspected that Creevey had probably read his book series and now had a completely wrong idea of him.

Eventually, it was Elijah's turn. His sorting took a little longer. Meanwhile, Elijah seemed surprised, as if the Hat was saying something unexpected to him. Harry knew that the Hat spoke to one, but that only one heard it. So what was the Hat discussing with Elijah? Finally, the Hat called out "Ravenclaw!" Harry and Neville applauded as loudly as they could, louder than Elijah's future House, the rest of Gryffindor clapped rather reservedly.

Student after student was sorted, until they got to P. Then it was Jo's turn. Professor McGonagall called out from her list: "Pryle, Jonathan." Jo shuffled somewhat reluctantly from the very back, where he had been standing apart from the others, to the front and put on the Hat. He also had the Hat on for a little longer and he too seemed surprised by the Hat at some point. "Slytherin!" the Hat finally called out. While the Slytherin table clapped and welcomed their newest fellow student, the Gryffindor table was silent, apart from Harry and Neville.

"Say, do you know him?" Fred asked.

"Yes, you two seem to know him, don't you?" George asked. Harry and Neville nodded.

 

"You'll like him," Neville said.

"Very much so," Harry said.

 

"Smith, Sarah," McGonagall called out. So that was her surname. Sarah looked around as she moved forward, then she recognised Neville and Harry and waved to them both. Harry smiled, while Neville waved back to her.

"Say, do you two know her too?" was Ron's question now.

 

"Yes, and Elijah Meir too," Neville said.

"We met them," Harry said,

"when we ran away," Neville said again.

"You forgot Jo," Harry now said again.

 

"Jo?" Hermione asked again about the boy. "And please stop the twin-speak, I was glad you'd stopped doing that." Harry and Neville had to grin.

 

"Do you mind?" Fred asked.

"If our brothers in spirit," George said,

"speak like us?" Fred continued

"Or do you want us to stop too?" George then asked.

 

"You two are enough, we don't need them two as well," was Hermione's slightly abrupt answer.

"To your question, Hermione," Harry began, "Jo is Jonathan Pryle."

"The Slytherin?" Ron asked, slightly horrified.

"Obviously," Harry said. He knew what prejudices Ron had against Slytherin, and these had long rubbed off on Harry until Neville had taught him better. In the middle of their conversation, the Hat then called out: "Hufflepuff!" and Sarah went to the Badgers' table. General applause came from all tables.

When it was Ginny's turn, all the Weasleys were excited, and Harry and Hermione also paid full attention to the red-headed girl. Unsurprisingly, Ginny came to Gryffindor, where she was warmly welcomed by her family members, Hermione, Harry, and Neville. She sat down with her year.

Then it was time. Dumbledore gave a short speech before the food appeared. And Harry also saw how a small bottle of his nutrient potion appeared with the food, so well placed that it wasn't noticeable. Internally, he thanked the elves for their consideration. And so they enjoyed the welcome feast, which again ended with Dumbledore's usual cryptic words and sent them to their common rooms. Harry was finally back at Hogwarts. And a new school year was about to begin. Hopefully a quieter one than the last.

Notes:

Thanks everyone for reading it so far!

Finally, we're at Hogwarts! So, what are your thoughts? We already knew Elijah would be joining us, and some of you might have suspected Jo, given his hints in Little Runaways. But Sarah too? That's three original characters Harry and Neville met during their escape who are now joining Hogwarts!

And Ron having a rough fight with Draco?🫣 It seems he's still not quite over Harry inheriting those titles. Also, I needed a good reason for Ron's wand to break in second year, and since Dobby isn't interfering in this universe like in canon, this felt like a solid alternative!

Next chapter, we'll be switching POVs and experiencing the first week at Hogwarts through Neville's eyes.

As always, I'm looking forward to your lovely comments! 😀

Chapter 8: Chapter Seven: Why Always Me

Summary:

The new school year opens with a familiar sting for Neville, as dreaded Potions lessons and a disastrous Defence Against the Dark Arts class quickly remind him of his struggles. Yet, even as humiliation looms, Neville finds solace in burgeoning friendships and unexpected moments of clarity that promise to brighten his path.

Notes:

Welcome back for Chapter 7!

We're shifting perspectives this chapter to follow Neville Longbottom.

Please be aware that despite their differing histories, Neville, much like Harry, is also a deeply traumatized child.

It was the first day of classes in the new school year, and all Neville hoped for was that the day would be halfway bearable. Early in the morning, as the first grey light seeped through the high tower windows, Harry was already awake first. While Ron and Seamus were still peacefully snoring and Dean had disappeared into the bathroom, Harry was already fully dressed with his usual messy hair beside Neville's bed. "See you at breakfast?" he had asked. Neville just nodded sleepily.

Thanks to Dean, who let him go first in the bathroom, Neville managed to get ready quickly and put on his school uniform. But a little later, as Neville made his way down to breakfast and entered the Great Hall, there was no sign of Harry.

He sat down with Hermione, who was already at the Gryffindor table, head bent low over a book. She greeted him with a brief nod, without looking up. But where was Harry? He had said he would go straight to breakfast. Just as Neville was about to ask Hermione if she had seen Harry, he came through the great oak portal into the Hall. He looked a bit haggard, Neville thought. He had been so much livelier in the dormitory earlier.

Harry slumped onto the bench next to Neville. "Everything alright?" Neville asked quietly, unconsciously worrying about his godbrother.

"Fine," Harry whispered, casting a furtive glance at Hermione. "Just… erm… read a bit more of my mother's book."

"What book?" Hermione asked immediately, without even lifting her head from her reading. So she had heard it after all. "And don't you two start with that twin-speak again."

Neville had to grin, and Harry couldn't suppress a small smile either.

"I… erm… found a book of my mother's," Harry explained somewhat haltingly. "She wrote a bit about her life for me… and so on." Neville noticed that Harry didn't tell Hermione anything about his mother's adoption. Was he keeping the same secrets from her as from him? Was Harry hiding something from him too? At least, Neville thought, it's mutual then. Because he, too, hadn't dared to approach his godbrother about Sirius yet. In Neville's ears, the phrase Sirius had said still echoed: Familia super omnia – Family above all. And that Harry was family. For Neville, Harry was family too, somehow, but why couldn't he bring himself to talk to him about it then?

The first part of breakfast passed quietly. Gradually, the Gryffindor table filled with sleepy faces, and the fuller the table became, the louder and livelier the conversations grew. Most were excitedly recounting their holidays. When Ron finally appeared with Seamus and Dean, the subject changed abruptly. Ron, seemingly untroubled by the previous day's events, loudly boasted about how he had supposedly knocked out Malfoy's tooth.

"…and then, when Malfoy thought he had me, I walloped him! Bang! Lost a tooth, I tell ya." He seemed incredibly proud of himself. But Hermione, sitting beside him, was visibly annoyed. She merely rolled her eyes.

"If you think that was your greatest feat… Really, Ron, so childish. No, I take it back: primitive," was her dry comment. Yes, it was primitive, Neville thought, but couldn't help but chuckle a little at Ron's exaggerated story.

But Ron's good mood didn't last forever. When the owl post arrived, a whole flock of owls fluttered through the Great Hall. One of them, an old, scruffy barn owl, landed with a dull thump right in front of Ron and dropped a scarlet red envelope. Everyone who had grown up in the wizarding world knew what that meant. Ron had received a Howler. Howlers were letters that were meant to make it abundantly clear, in the most unmistakable and loudest way possible, that someone was incredibly furious and annoyed with the recipient. Neville disliked them intensely.

"I think you'd better open that, Ron," Neville said sympathetically. "I ignored one from my Gran during the holidays. Trust me, it wasn't pretty." Harry looked at him with wide, questioning eyes, and Neville knew that Harry now desperately wanted to hear that story. He hadn't told him because it didn't really matter anymore, now that he had somewhat reconciled with his grandmother. Neville cast a brief glance at Harry and hoped he could signal to him that he would tell him later. But the focus, indeed probably the entire focus of the Great Hall, was now fixed on one single thing: the scarlet letter in front of Ron. And then, with a soft hiss, the letter opened itself, and a voice so loud that the cutlery on the tables began to clatter filled the Hall. It was Molly Weasley's voice.

"RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY! HOW DARE YOU ATTACK A FELLOW STUDENT LIKE THAT? WHAT ON EARTH POSSESSED YOU, WE MOST CERTAINLY DIDN'T RAISE YOU THAT WAY! WHEN THE NEWS OF YOUR RUFFIANLY, ILL-MANNERED BEHAVIOUR CAME, DRACO'S FATHER REQUESTED A MEETING WITH YOUR FATHER! YOU CAN COUNT YOURSELF LUCKY THAT DRACO MALFOY'S PARENTS ARE NOT PLANNING TO TAKE OFFICIAL ACTION!"

Everyone at the Gryffindor table was extremely intimidated by Molly Weasley's thundering voice. Especially her own children. Most of all Ron, who tried to make himself as small as possible and was visibly mortified. His face had now taken on the same colour as his fiery red hair.

"OH, AND GINNY, SWEETHEART, CONGRATULATIONS ON BEING IN GRYFFINDOR!" the Howler then added in a somewhat kinder, but still ear-splitting tone. Before, as was customary for Howlers, it burst into flames and disintegrated into ash.

One might have expected that the entire student body's mockery would now be directed at Ron. But apart from the Gryffindor table, only the Hufflepuff table had truly noticed Ron's Howler. Neither the Ravenclaws nor the Slytherins seemed to be paying attention to the House of the Lion. They appeared to be busy with something else themselves.

"I trust your mother's message will serve as a lesson to you, Mr Weasley," said Aunt Minnie – though here, of course, she was Professor McGonagall. She had made it unequivocally clear to Neville before he started his first year that if he ever called her Aunt Minnie again, as he had when he was little, he would clean the classrooms of Hogwarts every day until his O.W.L.s. Aunt Minerva, as he was fortunately still allowed to call her outside school, had their timetables for the new school year with her. And it didn't look good. Wednesday would clearly be the worst day of the week, Neville thought, and a shiver ran down his spine. Double Potions, followed by double History. And the school year just happened to be starting on a Wednesday. That meant Neville would have to endure two lessons with Professor Snape straight away. Wednesdays will definitely be my most hated days this year, Neville thought, and his stomach clenched.

Minerva had finished distributing the timetables, and Ron seemed to be getting back to his old self because of something he had seen on it.

"Hey, we've only got Potions with the Slytherins this year. Blimey!" Ron said enthusiastically.

"You forgot Astronomy," Harry interjected drily, bringing Ron back down to earth.

"Oh… well, never mind, the fewer of those slimy snakes, the better," there they were again, Ron's deeply ingrained prejudices against the Slytherin students. These had rubbed off so much on Harry last year that he, like Ron, had harboured a grudge against everyone from that House. But luckily, Neville thought, he could teach him better. Harry had been able to have a conversation with Daphne, who hadn't made it easy for him at first either, and something told Neville that Harry didn't have a real aversion to Theodore Nott. He at least didn't seem to cast the same annihilating gaze at him as Malfoy.

After breakfast, they made their way to their first class, down to the damp, cold dungeons to the Potions classroom. In front of the room, Neville noticed that the Slytherins, especially Draco Malfoy, were unusually quiet. They didn't say a single word about Ron's Howler, which would have been the perfect opportunity to pour their usual scorn on him. But they refrained. Had Lord Malfoy also told them to be friendly with Harry's friends because they believed he would become the next Dark Lord?

Snape swept past them in his typical black robes and let the class enter with his usual stony expression. Neville already anticipated the resentment that would fall upon him again and sighed softly.

The lesson began with Snape collecting the holiday essays with pinching fingers, and then he started a theory lesson. As so often, he criticised every little thing he didn't like about the Gryffindors, while the Slytherins could whisper behind their hands without fear of losing points or detention. It was maddening.

Luckily, today's lesson was just a revision of the Wiggenweld Potion, which they were supposed to brew on Friday. In Snape's usual round of questions, where he specifically called on students he didn't trust and asked them absurd questions, Neville was, unfortunately, again among his preferred victims.

"Mr Longbottom, how many times must you add salamander blood until the potion turns red?" Professor Snape asked him in his contemptuous, cutting voice. Neville swallowed. He knew the answer, it was four times. He had even written it in his essay, Neville thought desperately, but why couldn't he answer him then? The words stuck in his throat.

"No answer? A pity. But what can one expect from someone who has ruined more cauldrons than a troll has brain cells," Snape said with a sneering smile, and Neville heard a faint giggle from the rows of Slytherin students sitting on the other side of the room. Neville sank as low as he could in his chair and felt the flush of shame rise to his face. Even Harry's encouraging hand, which he felt on his back from behind, did no good.

The other Gryffindor students also had no luck, and those who knew, like Hermione, Snape studiously ignored. It was a travesty. And so every Wednesday this year was to be. You couldn't start a school year worse , Neville thought dejectedly. They then had to gather their ingredients for Friday so they could brew the potion, and here too, Neville seemed unable to please the Professor. He openly criticised his technique for extracting the Flubberworm intestines, even though it was such a trivial matter.

Neville was infinitely relieved when the lesson was finally over. Luckily, Harry was there, immediately offering him the necessary moral support on the way to lunch. He, Ron, and Hermione loudly complained about Snape, but Neville remained silent. In theory, he liked Potions. It was the ideal complement to Herbology. But in practice… why , he kept asking himself, why must we have Snape as a teacher of all people?

Lunch was barely digested before the Gryffindors trudged to their next double lesson, and it was the one that even Hermione acknowledged with a quiet sigh: History of Magic. Professor Binns, the only ghost teaching at the school, floated through the desk and began with his usual monotonous voice, capable of lulling even the most motivated Ravenclaws into a deep slumber.

Today's lecture was about a topic Neville still knew from his tutoring days: the formation of the noble and ancient Houses. Neville hoped Harry would at least listen a little. But when he subtly peeked over at his godbrother, he found that he was staring out the window, lost in thought.

He wasn't listening to Binns's dreary lecture about how, at the time of the first Viking invasions, the wizarding families of the British Isles revived an old tradition that had almost been forgotten among the Roman-Greek wizards who had come to the island with the Romans. It was the Thing , a type of council of family heads who met and deliberated. From these families emerged the first Houses. And from that eventually arose the Wizarding Council, which in turn developed into today's Wizengamot. It was a constant change. Just like the Houses themselves, because over time new ones kept being added. Such as, in the fourteenth century, the House of Longbottom, which emerged from another, even older House whose male line had died out. Which House that was, was a closely guarded secret; only the Heirs and Lords of the family knew it, because too many other families claimed to be descendants of that one House. Neville knew he had to guard this secret. When he received his silver, red-gemmed Longbottom Heir Ring shortly before his first journey to Hogwarts, he had found a message in his trust vault that initiated him into this secret. Not even his Gran knew about it. Mostly he tried to suppress it. He didn't feel worthy to also be a representative of that House.

Did Harry also have such a secret? After all, the Potter family was a hundred years older than the Longbottoms, and precisely during that time, the first Houses had dissolved and merged into others, Neville wondered, as Binns's monologue slowly lulled him. Did they have so many secrets from each other? I should urgently ensure that at least I have fewer secrets from my godbrother, Neville thought resolutely. Perhaps he would finally manage to talk to him about Sirius. But he simply lacked the courage.

Neville was abruptly pulled from his thoughts as a folded note landed softly on the table in front of him with a gentle rustle. It was from Harry. Binns, who was completely absorbed in his lecture, hadn't even noticed Harry levitating the note over Ron's head to him.

Why did your grandmother send you a Howler?

Neville had already expected Harry to want to know that. He sighed softly. So he scribbled a reply on a piece of parchment.

Was angry I ignored her letters when I was at the Bones'. All sorted now, Gran apologised.

Neville tried to levitate the message as subtly as Harry had, over Ron's head. He couldn't manage non-verbal spells yet, but that wasn't expected of second-years anyway. So he whispered the incantation Wingardium Leviosa and let the paper float. It wasn't easy, and halfway there it plummeted with a soft flutter directly onto Ron's table. Ron rolled his eyes theatrically and handed the note to Harry.

"You could just give me the note, then I'll pass it on. You don't need to keep waving the silly paper over my head," Ron said, but unfortunately a little too loudly.

Professor Binns paused mid-sentence. An eerie silence fell over the classroom. Slowly, almost transparently, the ghost turned his head in their direction.

"Mr Weasley," Binns said in a voice as dry as old dust, "if you have something to contribute to the class, then tell us what was decided at the Thing of 983 in Twr Avallach, today's Glastonbury?"

Harry and Neville could barely suppress a grin. "Um…" Ron mumbled and fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. He clearly had no idea. Yet the answer was obvious – at least for Neville, who had the advantage of having heard all this in his tutoring lessons. But it seemed, apart from a few eager Ravenclaws, no one in the room knew the answer. Not even Hermione, which was probably due to the complicated, Celtic name for the place.

"Yes, Mr Goldstein?" Binns asked. To Neville's disappointment, he had called on Anthony Goldstein. This would have been the perfect opportunity for Neville to shine for once.

"The founding of a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry on the British Isles, Sir," Goldstein said, practically echoing Neville's answer. "Correct. The founding of a school was decided, which we later know as Hogwarts… Five points to Ravenclaw," Binns said and continued his lecture as if nothing had happened.

Binns's lesson continued over various important Things in Albion's history. It was tiring. And gradually, Neville could observe how his classmates' eyelids grew heavier and heavier. Even the usually attentive Ravenclaws could barely stay awake. Who, by Merlin's beard, actually came up with the ridiculous idea of scheduling a double History lesson after a double Potions lesson? It was soul-destroying. But luckily, this ordeal was eventually over, and they had a free period before dinner.

Neville asked Harry if he wanted to go outside onto the Hogwarts grounds and then stop by the greenhouses. But Harry declined, silently holding up his book. "Do you want me to come?" Neville asked, but Harry shook his head. He let his godbrother walk away alone, but Neville wasn't sure if that was such a good idea. Harry had seemed so emotional and worn out this morning. So Neville finally made his way outside without Harry.

As Neville was at the exit by the Bell Tower, he was stopped by two familiar faces he hadn't spoken to since seeing them again at Hogwarts. Neville had known he would meet Elijah again; after all, he had also revealed himself to Harry and him as a wizard, a Muggle-born, but Neville didn't care about that. But Neville really hadn't expected to ever get the chance to meet Sarah again.

"Hey, Neville," Sarah said with a radiant smile.

"H... Hi," Neville stammered a little shyly and could have kicked himself for greeting her so unconfidently. "You're a witch?" he then asked, and in the same moment wondered why he always had to state the obvious.

"Yes, otherwise I wouldn't be here, would I?" Sarah retorted, amused. "You almost let it slip at the museum back then. How would Jill have known what Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans are?" Sarah said and nudged Neville playfully. "

Yes," Neville said a little ashamed and then asked: "Does that mean Jill isn't a witch?"

"Nah, I only know her from primary school. Mum wanted me and my brother to go to primary school. Dad thought it was unnecessary, said that as a witch I didn't need to attend primary school, but my Muggle mother insisted." So Sarah was a half-blood and, just like Harry, had attended primary school before coming to Hogwarts, Neville realised.

"My brother will be coming to Hogwarts next year, by the way," Sarah then added.

"You have a brother? What's his name? Will he be a Hufflepuff too? Man, I wish I had a brother. Or a sister. This is all so cool. Oh, er, hey Neville," Elijah said with the same breathless speed as Neville remembered him from the fair.

"Hey, Elijah. And how did you two actually meet?" Neville asked the two.

Sarah was about to speak, when Elijah started: "Mum and Dad took me to the platform, luckily we found it quickly thanks to your explanation, through the wall, man, that was exciting, magic is so cool, well, anyway, then I saw the Hogwarts Express, an amazing train, I've never ridden a train with a steam engine before, and well, I looked for both of you, but couldn't find you, went through every compartment, wondering where you were, but then I saw Sarah sitting and asked if I could sit down, and she said yes, she also told me a lot more, really crazy that there have been wizarding families for so long, who have lived among us for so long, I mean, that we have lived among Muggles for so long, well, never mind, anyway, Sarah seemed quite nice. And then there was the feast yesterday, and the ceiling is just as described in the book, speaking of the book, do you want to go to the library, we have to write an essay for Transfiguration? Did you know Professor McGonagall is a cat, I mean, what was it called again?"

Finally, Elijah finished his long explanation. Sarah and Neville used the short pause of the overzealous Ravenclaw and simultaneously said: "Animagus." Yes, he knew his aunt was an Animagus. A tabby cat, to be precise. As a child, Neville had always wished to be good enough at Transfiguration to become an Animagus himself one day, but after realising last year that he had no talent in any subjects where he had to directly perform magic, he had given up that wish.

"How do you two know each other, and has he always talked so much?" Sarah asked the two.

"We met at a fair, along with Harry, and yes," Neville said, hoping to answer before Elijah.

"Hey!" Elijah said a little offended.

"Sorry, it's true," Sarah said with a tone that showed she was genuinely sorry to state the truth.

"It's alright. I know I sometimes have to hold back," said a slightly hurt Elijah.

"So, do you want to come to the library now?" Sarah asked, but Neville declined. He wanted to go to the greenhouses. So they said goodbye and went their separate ways.

Unfortunately, Neville had to realise that Professor Sprout wasn't there and the greenhouses were locked. So he strolled a little more through the great castle. Eventually, Neville ended up on the Viaduct Bridge between the Library Annex and the Viaduct Courtyard. From there, he had a great view of the Black Lake, he thought, and across towards Hogsmeade Valley and Hogsmeade itself. Neville was a little lost in thought on the bridge. He didn't even notice Daphne, Blaise Zabini, and Theo walking past him.

"Hey, Neville, are you and Potter alright?" Daphne asked him. She sounded a bit spiteful when she said Harry's surname, but otherwise she was the usual Daphne.

"Huh, why?" Neville asked, surprised.

"Just wondering," she said and walked on. Theo stood still for a moment, as if he wanted to say something to Neville, but he just gave him a quick, apologetic look and then followed Blaise and Daphne. Neville wondered what that was about, but he would find out later in the evening what Daphne had meant.

At first, Neville hoped he could talk to Harry about it at dinner, but he hadn't appeared. He didn't come to eat. Where was Harry? Neville was a little worried. Ron and Hermione hadn't seen him since History of Magic either. And the twins didn't know where he was.

"Maybe he's in the common room," Ron said with a shrug.

After dinner, Ron, Hermione, the twins, and Ginny were among the first Gryffindors to return to the common room, hoping to find Harry there. As soon as the Fat Lady granted access through the portrait hole, an infectious guitar riff was already audible from within the common room. Harry was indeed in the Gryffindor common room and had set up his gramophone. He was playing a song the two had heard the day before. And to their relief, Harry was immediately visible too. He was standing on one of the common room sofas, singing along loudly.

 

"All day long I think of things

But nothing seems to satisfy

Think I'll lose my mind

If I don't find something to pacify"

 

Neville recognised the song. It was "Paranoid" by Black Sabbath. Yesterday, Harry had already been enthusiastic about the song; now he seemed to be listening to it at full volume.

"HARRY, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?" Neville tried to ask his godbrother over the loud music.

"NOW I AM!" Harry yelled, jumping off the sofa. He danced his way through the increasingly numerous Gryffindors and sang along to the song. Until the last verse.

 

"And so as you hear these words

Telling you now of my state

I tell you to enjoy life

I wish I could but it's too late"

 

Something seemed to be bothering Harry, but he was trying to distract himself with the music, Neville was sure of that. Neville tried to bring his godbrother to reason, but he just shook his head. Instead, he encouraged more and more members of the lion pride to follow his example and dance to the music.

What had started with just Harry slowly turned into a party. An opening party for the new school year, if you will. Suddenly, others began to follow Harry, and a wild dance mêlée erupted in the middle of the common room.

And less than fifteen minutes later, the twins had also suddenly brought a pile of snacks from the kitchens. Ron wanted to know how, but Fred and George's answer was typical of them.

"We wouldn't tell," Fred began.

"Our greatest secrets," George continued.

"Even if our dear," Fred now said again.

"Brother Ickle Ronnikins asks," George finished. Neville had to laugh. Hermione merely rolled her eyes and disappeared upstairs. He should have followed her, because then what happened an hour and a half into the party wouldn't have happened to him. A couple of seventh-years had somehow got hold of Firewhisky and were trying to ply the younger years.

They also pressed a glass into Neville's hand, who didn't know it was Firewhisky. After one sip, he immediately spat it back out. Percy seemed to have noticed this and did the only right thing in Neville's eyes at that moment: he broke up the party with the help of the other Gryffindor Prefects.

Harry protested at first, but when Percy showed him that two seventh-years had plied poor Colin Creevey, who was now slurringly trying to take pictures of the party with his camera, but was talking to a portrait instead of a fellow student, even Harry understood that a line had to be drawn.

"Hey, today might be over, folks, but we'll do this again sometime, alright?" Harry shouted as the music stopped.

"To Harry!" "Yeah, definitely!" "Best start to the school year ever!" were the words from various Hogwarts students. On the way up to their dormitory, Neville asked Harry, who had gone up with him and had his gramophone packed in his trunk again, if everything was okay.

"You know, Neville, I had a really rubbish day… but now everything's better," Harry said, but Neville knew his godbrother too well and knew exactly that whatever was bothering him today was still there and he had just needed a distraction. But Harry didn't want to talk about it.

"Oi, Harry, we absolutely have to do that again," Seamus said when they were in their dormitory.

"Yeah, Harry, definitely, brilliant! Where did you get that gramophone? It's absolutely amazing!" said Dean.

"From my godfather," Harry said quickly, who was in the process of putting it back in his trunk. Wait, godfather? Neville thought. Had I heard correctly? He knew the gift was from Remus. Did that mean Remus was his godfather? Neville knew there must be someone else, but he didn't know who, and Harry seemed as if he didn't know. So Remus was his godfather now? That was new information, but he couldn't ask Harry about it, because he had already retreated to his bed and drawn the curtains. So Neville did the same and lay down in bed.

 

 

The next morning, Harry was once again the first to wake up. Harry, he had by now accepted with a weary sigh, was apparently an incorrigible early riser.

"See you downstairs?" Harry asked, already dressed, while Neville rubbed his eyes sleepily. He actually seemed in a better mood. Whatever the spontaneous party had been last night, it seemed to have had a positive effect on his godbrother, Neville thought.

Neville got ready as quickly as he could and hurried down to the Great Hall. Hermione was already there, of course, and to his relief, so was Harry.

They ate breakfast together, and Neville watched Harry furtively try to drink his nutrient potion without anyone noticing. Does Harry really have a problem with others knowing he has to take this potion? Neville wondered. It's about his health, about him finally getting better. Breakfast was otherwise surprisingly uneventful; there was no special post that caused any stir. Only a few first-years looked as if they hadn't quite recovered from the previous evening and had probably had a bit too much of what the seventh-years had distributed among them.

Neville glanced at his timetable, and a broad smile spread across his face. Double Herbology. If Wednesday is the worst day of the week, he thought, then Thursday is definitely the best.

The Gryffindor second-years headed en masse to the greenhouses. The Hufflepuffs were already coming towards them. Colourful earmuffs were visible everywhere, and Neville already had a faint idea of what today's lesson would be about.

While Harry, as usual, teamed up with Ron, Susan asked him if they wanted to be partners today. Neville nodded gratefully to his childhood friend. As so often, she had braided her long, brown hair into a neat plait. He didn't mind that Harry and Ron usually worked together. Ron could quickly become jealous, and if Harry spent more time with him, Ron would quickly feel left out. As it was, it was probably best for everyone. Harry always tries to please everyone, Neville thought, but at some point, it might become too much for him.

They waited in Greenhouse Number Three, where the more challenging plants were kept, until all the students were assembled. But there was no sign of Professor Sprout yet. Where is she? Neville wondered, a little impatiently.

Then he saw her. His Herbology teacher was being held up by none other than Gilderoy Lockhart, who was talking to her with his most dazzling smile and in a robe of a hideous pale purple. Neville was quite astonished to hear his new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher giving the experienced Professor Sprout tips on how to handle plants – and then offering advice so hair-raising that Neville wanted to clap his hands over his head in despair. He spoke of combing the leaves of venomous Tentaculas to improve their shine. The man has no idea! Neville thought, annoyed. But Professor Sprout, whose expression fluctuated between politeness and pure despair, finally managed to shake off the chattering Lockhart and now hurried, with slightly flushed cheeks, towards her class, who were patiently waiting for her.

"Good morning, everyone! And apologies for the slight delay," Professor Sprout said with a cheerful smile as she entered the warm, damp greenhouse. She wasn't just kind to her Hufflepuff badgers; no, Professor Sprout was a small, plump witch with grey, frizzy hair and always a bit of earth under her fingernails, who would gladly mother all her students. Her encouraging manner was like balm for Neville's soul, especially since he constantly struggled with setbacks in so many other subjects. Herbology was almost like a holiday for him.

"Right, my dears," Professor Sprout began, rubbing her hands, "as you can see, today we'll be repotting Mandrakes. Who can tell me some properties of Mandrakes?" Neville's hand shot up instinctively, but she called on Hermione.

"Mandrakes, also known as Mandragora, are a popular ingredient for potions. They can be used to make potions that restore cursed or transfigured people to their normal state," Hermione said, as if quoting directly from a textbook.

"Very good, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor," Professor Sprout praised her. "So, Mandrakes are an important ingredient for potions. But you also have to be careful. Why? What makes Mandrakes so dangerous?" she asked the group.

Again, Hermione's and his hand shot up. And again, she called on Hermione. Did Professor Sprout even see me? Neville wondered, a little disappointed.

"The scream of Mandrakes is considered dangerous because it can be fatal to anyone who hears it without protection," Hermione said without hesitation. 

"Exactly! But ours here are still small plants, still in their baby stage. That means their scream would at most make us unconscious for a few hours. Nevertheless, I've put earmuffs out for everyone here. It's very important that we put them on. And then we'll repot the Mandrakes today. We have to do this regularly, because our plants are growing and growing and getting bigger and bigger. One more little tip: make sure the soil is nice and warm, like a blanket covering the roots of our Mandrake. So, earmuffs on!" Professor Sprout explained, and Neville picked up the pair of yellow earmuffs lying on the table in front of him and put them on.

Neville was lucky that, before anyone had pulled a Mandrake out of its pot, Ernie, who had teamed up with Justin next to him, pointed out that his earmuffs weren't sitting properly. So Neville was able to pull the earmuffs properly over his ears in time, and what he heard then was nothing. Absolute, blissful silence.

He and Susan were a good team. They repotted plant after plant. While Neville correctly gripped the Mandrake, whose root body looked like a struggling, screaming baby, between the root body and the leaves and pulled it out of the old soil, Susan fetched a new pot. Immediately, the Mandrake went into the new pot, and both covered it with warm soil. This went on for the entire lesson. Afterwards, they still had to take the Mandrakes to their place and tend to the old pots. They were busy with this for the entire double lesson until lunch.

After lunch, Transfiguration was on the timetable, and a sigh of relief escaped Neville as he saw that it was a purely theoretical lesson.

The transfiguration of objects or, even worse, animals was an absolute minefield for him, in which he was notoriously clumsy. Neville really liked his Head of House, Professor McGonagall – that was probably also because he had known her almost his entire life.

She was not only his father's godmother but also a good friend of his grandmother. If it hadn't been for her, Neville thought with a slight shudder, he probably wouldn't be living at Longbottom Manor again now.

During the holidays, after he and Harry had run away from home, Minerva had immediately sensed that something was seriously wrong at his house. She had spoken to his grandmother about it and unequivocally made it clear to her that something urgently needed to change.

After Harry's sudden illness had abruptly ended their escape, Neville had temporarily stayed with Susan Bones and her Aunt Amelia. Aunt Minerva had visited him there regularly. She had probably sensed that Neville would rather confide in her, whom he had known for so long, than in the strict Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And she had been right. In a long, tearful conversation, Neville had confessed everything to her: his constant, nagging fear of being a Squib, and Uncle Algie's absurd attempts to forcefully coax out his magic. He told her about the incident at the pier, where Algie had pushed him into the cold water, and about the countless times he had dangled him out of the window. Amelia Bones had been shocked, Neville had seen that from her horrified expression. Minerva, however, had maintained her composure, but Neville felt that she was inwardly seething with rage.

Amelia had then organised several meetings where Neville and his grandmother could finally talk things out, always in the presence of herself and Minerva.

His Gran had admitted that she was still grieving for her son Frank and her daughter-in-law Alice. Even though they hadn't died, it broke her heart to see them like that in St Mungo's. And then there had been Algie's constant pressure, who had for years convinced her that with Neville, should he be a Squib, the honourable line of the Longbottoms would finally die out. The unbearable pressure to preserve his father's legacy had driven her demands on her own grandson to such an immeasurable degree that she had blindly followed Algie's insane ideas.

It had been Minerva who had managed to open his Gran's eyes and mercilessly confront her with her misconduct. For weeks, Augusta had apologised to her grandson, saying she had always only wanted the best, without for a second thinking about what was truly best for Neville. Susan's aunt had then unequivocally made it clear that Neville could only return to her if Algie was strictly forbidden from having contact with him. As Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement, she had promptly issued a decree prohibiting Algie from any contact with Neville. Neville had been endlessly grateful to her. And even before he returned to his family's estate, his Great-Uncle Algie was, amidst loud protests, thrown out of the house, so that Neville could finally come home.

Today's theoretical Transfiguration lesson basically consisted only of writing down everything that had to be considered when transfiguring a beetle into a button. They were supposed to describe the properties of a button very precisely in order to better visualise the transfiguration. Afterwards, they were to repeatedly draw the wand movement for the spell on a piece of parchment, before they were allowed to practise it with the wand, still without the incantation. The movement, Neville thought, was a kind of mirrored and ninety-degree left-rotated six that spiralled inwards.

In the end, Neville was utterly relieved that it had only been theory today. He could do theory. It was always the practical part that gave him such difficulties. It felt as if his wand didn't fully obey him. Yet it was his father's wand, which had served him so well. And Gran had been so immensely proud when Neville came to Hogwarts, saying that this was exactly the right wand for him to take on his father's legacy. But it was precisely this burden that constantly gnawed at him, the expectation of living up to his father's legacy.

At the end of the lesson, Minerva asked Neville to stay behind for a moment.

"Neville," Minerva began, and he immediately knew it was about something private when she addressed him by his first name. In class, he was always just Mr Longbottom and she Professor McGonagall, but in private they used first names. "I just wanted to check if everything is alright at home again?"

Neville took a deep breath. Was it? Between him and Gran, yes, even though here and there he still felt the quiet fear that she might fall back into her old patterns. But Algie… Algie was causing problems. He wouldn't take being thrown out of the house lying down.

"U…Uncle Algie. He, he wants to fight for the P… Proxy," Neville said, a little intimidated.

"That old, good-for-nothing, cursed fool of a wizard! No, not a wizard, a wretch!" Minerva hissed furiously and visibly agitated herself about Algie, before she realised what had just slipped from her lips. "Oh… forgive my language, Neville, but it does make me a little angry."

"It's alright," was Neville's brief reply. He wasn't angry with Algie, rather worried about what he intended to achieve with this.

"If anything comes up, you know where to find me. You can come to me anytime, because remember, I'm not just your Head of House, but also a good friend of your family," she said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Neville merely nodded. He knew he could rely on his Aunt Minerva. She then gave him a note for Lockhart to excuse his lateness, before they bid each other farewell and Neville hurried through the corridors on his way to Defence Against the Dark Arts.

When Neville arrived late for Defence Against the Dark Arts, his classmates were already sitting, all bent over their parchments. It appeared to be a test.

Neville handed Professor Lockhart his note with Minerva's excuse. Professor Lockhart seemed satisfied with this. He smiled his famous, tooth-flashing grin, though Neville didn't know what was so great about it, and said: "Here, Mr Longbottom, a little test for the start of the year."

Neville took the test and looked around the classroom for a seat. Luckily, Susan kept one free for him, and Neville sat down beside her.

"Where have you been?" Susan whispered to him curiously.

"McGonagall just wanted to know if everything was alright at home," Neville whispered back, leaning slightly towards her.

"You know my aunt offered to open a case against Algie?" Susan remarked so quietly that only the two of them heard it.

"Yes," Neville replied, but tried to add reassuringly: "He means well, in his own twisted way, you know. He wanted to make sure I wasn't a Squib and all that."

But Susan didn't seem satisfied. But Neville was tired of it; he didn't want to think about Algie, he wanted to forget him if possible.

So Neville focused on Lockhart's test, which, he realised, wasn't actually about Defence Against the Dark Arts at all, but only about Lockhart himself. How am I supposed to know these answers? he thought desperately. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour? What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition? In your opinion, what is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement? Neville sighed. He couldn't possibly know that.

So, instead of dedicating himself to the test, he looked around the classroom. Pictures of Lockhart hung everywhere; the man had decorated the entire classroom with himself. In one picture, he even winked at him. What is wrong with him? Neville wondered. But his classmates actually seemed to be answering the test.

He briefly peeked at Susan and saw that she was writing something. So he followed suit and simply made things up. Favourite colour? Lockhart was wearing a blue wizard's robe, so Neville wrote "blue". What was his secret ambition? Neville didn't know, so he cobbled something together. He wrote that it was to do something good for the wizarding world. It was formulated so generally that it might even be true, Neville thought.

As he wrote the test, he saw Harry and Ron also complaining about it. For his greatest achievement, Neville wrote that it was becoming a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. He knew no other achievement of his.

And so it went on and on. In the end, there were fifty-four questions about his teacher and his books, what was in them. But what that had to do with defence, he didn't know, even though it said at the top of the first page: Defence Against the Dark Arts – Basic Knowledge Test for Second Year . The last question, by the way, was about his birthday and what he wished for. Neville wrote "January" because it was the first month, he omitted the exact date. And then for his wish. Here too, Neville came up with something again.

After the test, which he collected again, Lockhart seemed partly amused by the answers. Only a few had written correct answers.

In the second half of the lesson, Lockhart produced a covered cage. He had hidden something under a cloth.

"Ladies and gentlemen, here under the cloth I have brought something for all of you," Lockhart said almost proudly and lifted the cloth from the cage. Inside were small, blue creatures that looked cute at first glance, Neville thought.

"Pixies?" Ernie asked, astonished, as Lockhart lifted the cloth.

"Yes, freshly caught Cornish Pixies, eh?" was the Professor's reply.

"Well, they're… they're not really dangerous, are they?" asked Seamus Finnigan, who, as always, sat next to Dean, somewhat unsettled.

"I'm not so sure," Lockhart said and had to grin a little. "Devilish little brutes they can be."

He asked the class how they thought they could handle them, and, without waiting for an answer, he ripped open the cage door. And at that exact moment, absolute chaos erupted. The small, electric-blue creatures shot out of the cage like a swarm of angry hornets.

They whizzed screeching through the room, tearing book pages into confetti, smearing ink on the walls, and whirling everything not bolted down into disarray. Students shrieked, ducked under tables, and tried to protect themselves from the small, flying devils with their textbooks.

"But, but, who's going to panic now?" Lockhart said with a gesture that was probably meant to appear confident, but absolutely did not. He raised his wand. "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!" But nothing happened, except that the pixies seemed to shriek more shrilly. Neville didn't know this spell. It didn't really sound like one either, he thought.

No sooner had Lockhart uttered this nonsensical incantation than two of the pixies snatched his wand, yanked it from his hand, and with thievish giggles, threw it out the window. Lockhart, now completely disarmed, looked anything but self-assured. But suddenly Neville felt a sharp, pulling pain on both ears.

"Hey!" he cried out, a mixture of fright and panic. Two pixies had clutched onto his ears and were pulling him upwards with surprising strength. The floor disappeared beneath his feet, and his classmates' faces became blurry smudges.

"Help!" he cried desperately. His heart hammered against his ribs. He hung helplessly in the air, flapping like a fish on a hook and feeling utterly humiliated.

Below him, hell broke loose. Part of the class stormed screaming out of the room, while the others tried to quell the chaos with wild swats of their books. And then the pixies simply hung him on the huge, iron chandelier dangling from the ceiling. Neville now dangled up there, alone, helpless, and all he could do was watch.

"You've got this, right?" Lockhart said, who had also managed to flee the classroom, leaving only Ron, Hermione, and Harry behind. Hermione shook her head in disgust, while Ron and Harry continued to fight off the pixies with their books.

"Immobulus!" Hermione finally cried in a firm, clear voice. Instantly, the pixies froze in mid-air, as if they had turned into small, blue ice sculptures.

While Ron and Hermione collected the floating pixies and transferred them back into their cage, Harry resolutely pushed one of the heavy tables directly under the chandelier, climbed onto it, and carefully helped Neville down.

"Why always me?" Neville whispered, when he finally had firm ground under his feet again. His voice was barely more than a hoarse croak, and he trembled all over.

"It's alright," Harry said softly and pulled his friend into a firm, comforting hug. For a moment, Neville felt nothing but the soothing warmth and the unwavering strength of this friendship. He leaned his head against Harry's shoulder, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Harry was there. That was all that mattered.

"Everything alright? Did they hurt you?" Harry asked worriedly and then released him a moment later. Neville just shook his head, unable to speak. The four then also left the classroom, which by now had descended into complete chaos. None of them doubted for a second that Lockhart was probably the worst teacher they would ever have.

"The only thing I learned today is not to let pixies out," Ron mumbled, shaking his head as they walked away.

 

The free period before dinner was a blessing, a peaceful haven after the turbulent lesson before. Harry, Ron, and Neville made their way to the library to grapple with their Potions essay together. Hermione, of course, was already finished, perched smugly at a distant table, her nose buried in a book twice the size of her head.

"When did you get that done?" Ron asked her, astonished, as if she'd performed a feat of magic beyond his comprehension. Hermione merely glanced up, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Instead of celebrating yesterday, I used the time to do the things we have to do!" she declared, a hint of accusation in her tone that seemed aimed squarely at their lack of studiousness. But what Hermione didn't know was that Harry had probably desperately needed that distraction yesterday. Neville wasn't sure why, only that Harry had been visibly, miraculously better afterwards.

So the three of them, with a shared sigh of resignation, found a quiet corner amidst the towering bookshelves. They got out their writing implements, their Potions books, and began to scratch away at their essays, the silence broken only by the frantic scribbling of quills and the occasional frustrated groan from Ron.

After a short while, Neville's gaze drifted towards the grand entrance of the library. There stood Sarah and Elijah, deep in conversation with someone Neville recognised as Jo, the lanky first-year from Slytherin. Neville couldn't quite catch what they were saying, but Jo seemed to be strictly refusing something, shaking his head with an emphatic sweep of his shoulder long, dark hair.

Neville nudged Harry, drawing his attention to the trio. "Look who's there," Neville murmured, and Harry also watched as Jo finally threw up his hands in exasperation and walked away from the other two. Sarah and Elijah then made their way deeper into the library. They must have seen Harry and Neville watching them, for Elijah beamed, a wide, enthusiastic smile, and both he and Sarah waved friendly greetings. Harry and Neville, a little awkwardly, waved back.

"Hey, is there still room here?" Sarah asked, her voice bright, as they approached. Harry and Neville nodded, and Sarah slid onto the bench next to Harry, while Elijah squeezed in beside Neville. Ron, uncharacteristically engrossed in his potions book, didn't seem to notice them at first.

"You must be one of Ginny's brothers, right?" Sarah asked, turning her attention to Ron.

"Hmm?" Ron muttered, without looking up, a faint trail of drool escaping the corner of his mouth. "Uh, yes, I am. Ron, Ron Weasley."

"Cool, nice to meet you," Sarah replied cheerfully. "I'm Sarah and this is Elijah. Are you also a friend of Harry and Neville?"

"Yes, and I'm Harry's best friend," Ron declared, puffing out his chest with an air of immense importance.

"Oh really?" Elijah interjected, his eyes widening with a sudden burst of thought. "I thought Neville was Harry's best friend, because, well, I don't know. But hey, nice to meet you, I'm Elijah, Ravenclaw, are you three all in Gryffindor? Man, how great. I hope I'll find more friends here too. Sarah's already super, helps me with so much, everything's still so new." Elijah's words tumbled out in his usual breathless rush, a whirlwind of facts and observations.

"Um, what did you want from Jo?" Harry asked the two, cutting through Elijah's stream.

"Oh, we wanted to ask him if he wanted to come to the library, but he just said he didn't care for books," Sarah explained, a slight shrug in her voice, while Elijah nodded emphatically. Then, turning back to Neville and Harry, she asked, "Tell me, have you two also noticed that Elijah and Jo have the same eye colour?"

"Don't start that again!" Elijah exploded, a flash of annoyance in his own eyes, which indeed held a striking similarity to Jo's. "And even if we have a similar eye colour, we're not siblings, cousins, or related in any way. He said he's a half-blood and I'm Muggle-born, we can't be related!"

Sarah was right, Neville thought, Elijah did look somewhat similar to Jo, if one looked very closely, especially around the eyes. Otherwise, the two differed significantly. Jo had much longer hair, though the colour was similar, and he was noticeably smaller than Elijah, even a whole head shorter. Similar to Harry last school year, Jo was the smallest in his year, Neville had already noticed that at the sorting ceremony. But in the face, they shared a strange, subtle likeness in their features.

"Okay, sorry, I'm just saying…" Sarah said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. "So, what do you lot have to do?" she asked Ron, Harry, and Neville.

"Potions," all three said almost simultaneously, their voices laced with a shared, profound groan of annoyance, not because of Elijah and Sarah, but because Snape was their teacher and he had such impossibly high standards, always assigning a mountain of tasks.

"Oh, we still have to do that too," Elijah declared, "but we actually wanted to write an essay for Charms. I mean, Professor Flitwick is nice, by the way, did you know he's half Goblin? Trevor Birch told me, at least, when we were back in the common room later. Did you know…"

Elijah, as always, launched into a long explanation, a torrent of facts and theories, but Neville tuned him out, letting the words wash over him like a distant waterfall. He had to finish his Potions essay. He still didn't understand why he was always quite competent in his eyes in theory, but failed so miserably in practice in Potions. He sighed, the weight of his perpetual struggle with cauldrons and concoctions heavy on his shoulders. And while Elijah kept talking and talking, a seemingly endless stream of knowledge and questions, the four continued to work, hunched over their parchments in the quiet hum of the library, until the bell for dinner finally rang, a welcome chime of freedom.

Later, with dinner finally settled in their bellies, Neville accompanied Harry up to the Owlery. The stone steps of the West Tower spiralled endlessly upwards, cool and silent beneath their feet, the only sound the distant hoot of an owl. Harry had a letter for Remus clutched in his hand, and Neville knew how much this correspondence meant to him.

When they finally reached the summit, a circular room open to the night sky, filled with soft cooing and the rustle of feathers, Harry immediately sought out Hedwig. He stroked her gleaming white feathers, whispering soft endearments, and Neville watched, a familiar ache in his chest. Neville knew that his gobrother adored that owl, a silent, graceful companion in his often-turbulent life.

Then, to Neville's slight surprise, Hedwig ruffled her feathers and fluttered gracefully from Harry's arm to perch on Neville's shoulder, nuzzling gently against his ear. He stroked her soft head.

"I think she notices you miss Trevor," Harry murmured, and he was right. Neville missed his toad, a little. He hadn't seen him since their summer adventure, a fact he often tried to ignore. Perhaps it was for the best, he sometimes thought glumly; he hadn't exactly been a model toad-owner.

Harry took Hedwig back, tying the letter for Remus to her leg with nimble fingers.

"Did you also write to Remus to send me something by Queen?" Neville asked, a teasing note in his voice.

"Of course," Harry replied, a wide grin splitting his face.

Harry leaned his head against Neville's shoulder, and for a long moment, they stood together, watching Hedwig shrink to a tiny speck against the vast, star-dusted horizon, until she finally vanished from sight.

This was it, Neville thought, the perfect moment hanging in the still, cool air of the tower. The perfect opportunity. But the words, the awful, weighty words about Sirius, stuck in his throat like a stubborn Gobstone. He didn't dare. Alone as they were in the West Tower, with no one to disturb them, the courage simply wasn't there. He couldn't bring himself to shatter Harry's fragile peace.

The two boys eventually made their way back down to the Gryffindor common room. Ron was already there, beaming, having just vanquished a fifth-year at Wizard's Chess and, to his utter delight, won a Galleon from the bet. Neville merely shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips; it seemed some people still hadn't learned that Ron was utterly unbeatable at Wizard's Chess. They lingered in the common room for a while longer, the lingering echoes of the party from the night before still clinging to the air, before the last of the embers in the fireplace died down, signalling it was time to climb the stairs to their dormitory.

 

Faster than they realised, it was Friday again, heralded by the first sliver of dawn peeking through the high dormitory windows. The day began with a Charms lesson. Professor Flitwick, tiny as ever, bounced onto his stack of books behind his desk and, with a cheerful wave of his wand, greeted his class.

They started with a small, flicking quiz about the previous school year's spells, each answer punctuated by a shower of colourful sparks, before settling down to write about the Engorgio Charm.

The lesson felt mercifully swift, for they weren't yet expected to practice the spell. Neville, sitting beside Seamus Finnigan, breathed a silent sigh of relief. Seamus, bless his heart, often tended to give his spells a certain… explosive flair, and Neville, to his perpetual dismay, was anything but gifted in practical Charms.

Potions afterwards was no better. The air in the dungeons hung heavy with the smell of bubbling concoctions and Snape's barely concealed disdain. They were tasked with brewing the Wiggenweld Potion again, and though Neville’s cauldron, thankfully, didn’t explode this time, the colour of his potion was far from the satisfactory cerulean it should have been. Snape, with a sneer that could curdle milk, exposed his miserable attempt to the snickering laughter of the Slytherins, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over Neville.

After lunch, a rather grim affair given the morning's classes, they trudged to Defence Against the Dark Arts. To everyone's astonishment, the chaotic aftermath of the previous day's pixie rampage had vanished as if by magic, and the classroom was back to its pristine, if rather self-absorbed, original state. Lockhart, with a flourish, had apparently also recovered his wand. The room plunged into a dramatic, theatrical gloom as he finally managed to darken it, before beginning a long, droning lecture on one of his oh-so-great travels. But Neville barely listened; instead, he found himself idly sketching on his parchment, a quiet habit he had picked up from watching Harry last year. Harry might not like to admit it, but Neville thought his godbrother was surprisingly good at drawing. His own artwork from the lesson might have looked halfway decent, if Susan Bones hadn't kept poking her elbow into his ribs to make Neville pay attention, resulting in a chaotic mess of lines crisscrossing the page.

At the very end of the lesson, which in Neville's eyes passed with excruciating slowness despite Lockhart's self-aggrandizing chatter, Lockhart's impossibly white teeth flashed in a smile as he asked Neville to stay behind.

"Mr Longbottom, could I have a word with you for a moment? I have a question for you," his Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor chirped. Neville nodded, a prickle of unease unsettling his stomach. He waved the other Gryffindors ahead, assuring them he would follow.

"Mr Longbottom," Lockhart began, his voice dropping to a confidential purr, his hand settling on Neville's shoulder, a gesture that felt more like a clammy grip. "What I wanted to ask you, I have an idea for a charity event to raise funds for a charitable trust for impoverished wizarding families, to enable them to receive an education even before attending Hogwarts. Do you think you could interest your grandmother in this? I mean, she's known for her charity events for St Mungo's or for the orphanages." Lockhart’s blue eyes, so often twinkling with self-admiration, now held a slightly pleading, almost desperate glint. He was clearly hoping Neville could open the door to Augusta Longbottom’s formidable network. But Neville remained firm. He knew his grandmother. She would not tolerate someone like Lockhart, who probably only wanted to do this for blatant self-promotion.

"If so, then you'll have to write to her yourself," Neville said dryly, his voice remarkably steady despite the tremor in his hands. "She prefers to deal with such matters directly." Lockhart's smile wavered for a split second, then recovered.

"Alright, if you say so. Different topic, I skimmed your test results yesterday, and something caught my eye." Neville swallowed, a dry, uncomfortable lump forming in his throat. Had Lockhart noticed that he had made up so much? His mind raced, desperate to escape. He would rather be with Harry now instead of here, trapped in this stifling office. Perhaps he would have finally managed to talk to him about Sirius, or they could have just listened to some of their Muggle music. He would even prefer to endure Elijah's seemingly endless, hour-long lectures on obscure Ravenclaw facts than stand here.

Lost in thought, Neville didn't even notice that he had arrived back in the Gryffindor common room until he stepped through the Fat Lady's portrait hole. The roar of the common room, usually a comforting sound, felt strangely distant. He felt oddly empty and confused, as if a vital piece of him had been left behind in Lockhart’s office.

"Hey, there you are at last," Harry's voice, warm and familiar, cut through his daze, and he looked up to see his godbrother smiling at him from near the fireplace. "Everything okay? Shall we go down for dinner?" Neville just nodded, a bewildered "Was it really that late already?" forming in his mind, though he didn't voice it. He and Harry went down to the Great Hall for dinner, their footsteps echoing softly in the quiet corridors, followed closely by Hermione and Ron.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading!😃

My apologies that this chapter came a little later than planned. I usually aim to update at least once a week, but last week I didn't have quite enough time to work on it. So, here we have Chapter 7!

This chapter was mainly from Neville's point of view. What are your thoughts on his experiences so far? Why do you think Harry was in such a bad mood? So many things are already happening in just the first few days at Hogwarts! Poor Neville really had a rough time, even getting hung from the chandelier by those mischievous pixies!

As always, I'm really looking forward to reading your comments and theories!

Chapter 9: Chapter Eight: Secrets and Messages

Summary:

An unexpected start to the Quidditch season, leading to some unfortunate magical mishaps. As secrets begin to unravel between friends, a chilling discovery in the castle hints at a much darker threat lurking within Hogwarts' ancient walls.

Notes:

Welcome back for Chapter 8!

Some warnings for this chapter include: character injury, body horror (kind off) , and slurs

The morning peace in the second-year dormitory was abruptly shattered by a loud, thudding noise that sounded as though a troll was attempting ballet. Oliver Wood, the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, was clattering through the boys' dormitories with an energy that was almost indecent for the early hour, intent on rounding up his team. The, in Neville's opinion, overly fanatical Quidditch Captain didn't spare their room either, for his star Seeker, Harry, slept here. Well, would be sleeping, if he wasn't, as usual, already wide awake.

Wood burst through the door, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on Harry, who was already sitting on the edge of his bed. A bewildered, then approving, expression flitted across Wood's face, which the still-sleepy Neville just about managed to catch.

"Good man, Potter! That's what I like to see! Always giving your all for the team!" Wood boomed through the drowsy room. "Half an hour down in the common room, then we'll head to practice together!" With a final, determined nod in Harry's direction, Wood was gone again, his heavy footsteps thudding down the spiral staircase.

Hardly had the door swung shut when Seamus groaned from the depths of his pillow.

"By Merlin's beard, is it going to be like this all year with Wood?"

"I hope not," Ron grumbled from the other corner of the dormitory, sounding just as sleepy as Finnigan. "Harry," he added, a slight whine in his voice, "couldn't you just ask Wood to skip our dormitory? I mean, you're always up so early anyway."

"I'll try," Harry said, grabbing his Nimbus 2000 and his Quidditch kit, and quietly left the dormitory.

"No point going back to sleep now," a disappointed Finnigan grumbled, flopping back onto his bed with a sigh. Neville agreed with him. He used the time to get ready, and to his surprise, Ron followed suit.

The two went down to the common room, where Wood, Harry, Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and Alicia Spinnet were already waiting. The team's three Chasers seemed to be in a heated discussion with Wood.

"Oliver, it's the first Saturday of the school year!" Angelina said, hands on her hips. The dark-skinned Chaser, with her long, braided hair, was every bit Wood's equal in terms of winning spirit. "You've scheduled practice so early, and there haven't even been try-outs yet! We could reshuffle the squad, give others a chance!"

Wood seemed unimpressed by this argument.

"The team stays as it is," he said with rock-solid conviction. "We're good, well-practised, and with Harry on our side, we'll win every match." He was absolutely determined to win the Quidditch Cup this year. Last year, they had only narrowly failed because Harry had been out of action in the decisive match.

"But you could at least give other students a chance to prove themselves," Angelina insisted. Her remark seemed to have finally struck a chord with Wood, for he frowned.

"Alright," he said after a moment of silence. "We'll have try-outs. But only for the reserves. The main squad stays as it is."

Everyone seemed satisfied with this compromise, at least so Neville observed. A good while passed, but eventually the twins also ambled in. They were, as always, the last. Now that the team was complete, they set off for the Quidditch pitch.

Neville actually wanted to rush down to breakfast now, but Harry stopped him.

"Don't you want to come along? Watch? Ron and Hermione are coming too," his godbrother said, looking at him with such a hopeful expression that Neville found it impossible to say no. It was as if Harry wished for nothing more than for Neville to accompany him to this practice.

Neville didn't really care much for the sport. Of course, he supported the Gryffindor team, but he did so more out of loyalty to his House. Yet he simply couldn't refuse his godbrother this wish. So, instead of stuffing himself with scrambled eggs and bacon, he went with the group down towards the Quidditch pitch.

Even before they had left the castle, Neville noticed they were being followed. Colin Creevey, the overly eager first-year, was creeping after the procession, led by Wood, with his enormous camera.

"We're being followed," Neville murmured quietly to Harry, who was walking beside him with his racing broom in hand.

At the remark, Harry turned his head slightly and glanced briefly behind him. Looking forward again, he rolled his eyes. "Mmm-hmm," he mumbled with a slightly annoyed undertone.

"He's been following me all week. Desperate for a photo with my autograph."

Neville knew Harry didn't like being famous for something he couldn't help. He didn't blame him, but he felt a little sorry for Colin too. He seemed so close to his idol, who, however, always gave him the cold shoulder.

"Creevey's here at my request!" shouted Wood, who had suddenly turned around, having apparently overheard Harry's and Neville's conversation. The brown-haired, well-built Captain continued walking backwards, without stumbling once. "He's to take the team photo! For the '92/'93 winning team!" Grinning, he turned back around, and they all trooped down to the Quidditch pitch.

Already from a distance, the tall stands where spectators sat on match days could be seen. When it was a match day, these were decorated in the respective team colours. Now the wooden structures were draped in the colours of all four Houses and fluttered softly in the cool morning wind.

Hardly had they arrived on the pitch when they noticed they weren't the only ones who wanted to claim the playing field for themselves on this cool Saturday morning. A group in bright green Quidditch robes marched towards them. The Slytherins.

"Flint! What are you doing here?" barked a visibly enraged Wood. His hands clenched around the grip of his broom. He and the Slytherin Captain harboured an old rivalry. "We booked the pitch for this morning!"

"I hardly think so, Wood," Marcus Flint sneered. His face, which always reminded Neville of a troll, twisted into a smug grimace. Beside him, Neville heard Harry murmur quietly, "What does that troll want here?"

No one from the Gryffindor team seemed pleased by the encounter with their arch-rivals. Even Ron and Hermione, standing a little to the side, cast dark glances at the Slytherins.

"Snape gave us special permission," Flint said proudly, holding a piece of parchment under Wood's nose. "We need to train our new Seeker."

"Oh, really?" Wood retorted, annoyed. "And who, pray tell, might that be?"

Instead of replying, the Slytherin players stepped aside with a rehearsed movement, revealing their new Seeker. Also in a green Quidditch outfit, which looked far too new and unused on him, stood none other than the slender boy with the slicked-back, platinum-blonde hair: Draco Malfoy. He grinned arrogantly at the group, but his gaze remained fixed on Harry, a mixture of triumph and challenge.

No friendship bound the two, but a bitter rivalry that, Neville was sure, had only arisen from the childish misbehaviour of both on the first day of school and had escalated ever since.

Immediately, a heated discussion broke out. It turned out that Malfoy had apparently bought his way onto the team – with brand-new Nimbus 2001 racing brooms for all the players. Though it was probably Draco's father who had made this generous donation. Neville remembered what he had observed at Borgin and Burkes.

But instead of following the increasingly loud discussion, Neville's gaze wandered to the stands. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen a movement. He looked into the distance, and the bickering of the two teams became a distant, unimportant murmur. His attention was now on the tall wooden structures. And there, high up, seemed to be none other than Jo. He appeared to want to climb the wooden structures, not by the safe stairs, but he was clambering up the outer wooden supports. That looks dangerous , Neville thought worriedly. But he knew that Jo loved risk.

Neville watched as Jo pulled himself up the stands beam by beam. To Neville's surprise, Jo was alone; no one was with him. What was the boy up to? But before he could think further, Neville heard Malfoy's cutting voice, loud and clear.

"You filthy little Mudblood!"

Neville's eyes widened in horror. The air seemed to freeze for a moment. Had he really dared to insult Hermione like that? The rest of the Gryffindor team also seemed appalled. Only Hermione, Harry, and little Creevey seemed not to know what a terrible, vile word Malfoy had just hurled at the young witch with the bushy hair.

The twins looked as if they were about to lunge at Malfoy, their faces contorted into furious grimaces. But before they could even strike, Ron pulled out his wand. With a face trembling with fury, he aimed it at Malfoy and screamed, "Eat Slugs!"

But instead of a curse shooting from Ron's wand at Malfoy, a small, ominously yellow cone of light built up exactly where the crack in his wand was, and fired it with full force at Ron himself. Ron was knocked off his feet and thrown a few metres backwards. The Slytherins burst into roaring laughter.

Ron immediately scrambled back up, his wand still clutched tightly in his hand. He held it aimed at the Slytherins. But as he tried to form words, he began to gag. He gagged violently, his face turning chalk-white. And at that exact moment, it happened. He spat out slugs. A disgusting, slimy mass landed with a wet splat on the grass, and in it squirmed a few still-living slugs, moving slowly. And again. Ron gagged. Did he have more slugs in his stomach? The curse had rebounded on him, much to the amusement of the Slytherins.

Harry and Hermione were immediately by his side, supporting the poor boy who was writhing. His brothers also rushed over, though, it seemed to Neville, they could barely suppress amused grins. But given the jeering Slytherins, they would probably never admit that.

Colin Creevey, who had been watching the whole spectacle with wide eyes, was just about to raise his camera to take a photo of Ron bending forward to vomit another load of slugs. But Harry pushed the first-year away with a sharp, dismissive gesture. Wood, who had now joined them, also held Creevey's camera lens shut when he stood a little to the side and just shook his head.

"Come on, Ron, we'll take you to Hagrid, he'll know what to do," Harry said to Ron, who looked at his best friend with a pitiful gaze. Harry and Hermione helped the poor, gagging Ron up. The Slytherins seemed to have won their victory; they retreated, amused and with loud laughter. Wood stomped off angrily towards the castle, probably to complain to Professor McGonagall. The twins and the Chasers also made their way off.

So, as Harry and Hermione tried to bring Ron, supported, towards Hagrid's hut, they were repeatedly interrupted because Ron had to vomit again. Neville, who had stayed with them, wasn't sure if this was the right way.

"Shouldn't we rather take Ron to Madam Pomfrey?" Neville asked worriedly. He was sure that the school nurse could help Ron better than Hagrid. Hagrid was nice, no question, but Neville doubted that the gamekeeper knew anything about misguided curses.

"And risk him getting a punishment?" Harry asked Neville back. True, he hadn't thought of that. Ron had tried to curse Malfoy, and that would certainly not go unpunished, regardless of what Malfoy had said to Hermione beforehand. Ron also seemed determined to go to Hagrid. Hermione understood Neville's objection, but she probably didn't want to go against Ron's and Harry's will either. So the four slowly, repeatedly interrupted by Ron's gagging fits, made their way to Hagrid's hut.

As they passed the stands, where Jo was still climbing, they heard a loud shout.

"Hey, wait!" It was Jo. He was still halfway up. The four stopped and looked in the direction from which they had heard the voice. Jo climbed down the wooden supports.

"Careful!" Harry called to the young Slytherin. But it was too late. His school uniform robe got caught while climbing down, and Jo was stuck. He tried to free it, but in doing so, he slipped and fell the last few metres to the ground. A dull thud was heard.

Harry and Neville immediately ran to Jo, while Hermione continued to support Ron. Jo lay on the ground. Fortunately, the fall hadn't been too high, but his face was contorted in pain.

"It's alright," he said, though a slight tremor could be heard in his voice. "It's not that bad, fuck, I'll be fine, had worse." But Harry and Neville didn't seem reassured by this.

Harry pressed lightly against Jo's left wrist while Jo was still sitting on the ground.

"Ow! Hey, you git, fuck, what was that for?" a visibly annoyed Jo said to Harry, who just shook his head slightly.

"You'd best go to the Hospital Wing. Neville, can you take him there? I'll go with Ron and Hermione to Hagrid."

Neville nodded, but Jo seemed anything but thrilled by the idea. He also had no counter-arguments, which was probably because he was obviously in pain, Neville thought. Harry and Neville helped Jo up. His Hogwarts robe was completely torn at the back. Harry said goodbye to Neville, wished Jo a speedy recovery, and said Madam Pomfrey would surely be able to help him quickly. Harry set off with Ron and Hermione towards Hagrid, while Neville helped Jo up to the castle.

On the way up to the castle, Neville noticed Jo muttering quietly to himself, barely audible, probably cursing in pain. Neville tried to reassure him, saying everything would be alright. But Jo didn't seem impressed by this. When he then noticed that his robe was torn, he became truly furious.

"Bloody hell, no, please no! What am I going to do? Where am I supposed to get a new one now? Fuck!" Jo said, half furious with himself, half disappointed that his robe was ruined. Neville looked at him, a little questioningly.

"Don't you have another one? And just hang it in the dormitory, the house-elves will surely mend it. And why are you even wearing your school uniform on a Saturday?"

"House-elves?" said a somewhat bewildered Jo, his face still contorted in pain, ignoring the other questions. Neville forgot that Jo, just like Harry, hadn't grown up in the wizarding world and couldn't possibly know what house-elves were.

"Do you think the food just appears by magic? Hogwarts house-elves work behind the scenes to make everything run smoothly. They even do our laundry without us noticing. They're small, magical creatures who support wizarding families or, as in this case, a school. They're bound to them and their magic," Neville explained to Jo, but he didn't seem to be truly listening.

When they arrived at the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey thanked Neville for bringing Jo, and then sent him away again. Neville said goodbye to Jo, but he didn't seem happy to have arrived in the Hospital Wing now, and would probably have preferred to leave with Neville again. But Madam Pomfrey was strict and kept the young first-year with her; he probably had a broken wrist. She gave him a potion for the pain and then took care of him, but Neville was sent away.

 

 

Towards evening, Ron had to serve his first detention with Filch, because he and Malfoy had fought on the train to Hogwarts. Hermione had already disappeared somewhere into the depths of the library to study, and in the common room, besides a few Gryffindors who were already studying for their OWLs and NEWTs, only Harry and Neville remained. They didn't want to do anything else today. They sat on one of the comfortable sofas in the lions' common room.

But the peace was abruptly disturbed. Fred and George Weasley came down the stairs, followed by Lee Jordan, one of their best friends. The dark-skinned wizard with dreadlocks was known as the commentator for the Quidditch matches at Hogwarts. Sometimes he was a little too biased and also tended to add his own flair to his commentary. Be that as it may, the prominent arrival of the twins seemed to bode no good, Neville thought. And he was right.

For the twins had bags filled with Dungbombs, probably to set them off somewhere in the castle. But as the three were almost run over on the dormitory stairs by two wild, young Gryffindor students, disaster struck. "Hey, careful!" the twins called after the two wild ones, but it was too late, for Fred was shoved so hard against the wall that a Dungbomb in his pocket burst. A foul-smelling smoke, like rotten eggs, spread like wildfire through the common room.

With cursing words, the Gryffindor students who had just been working were driven out. Percy, who was among them, went to his mischievous brothers and gave them a piece of his mind. Neville saw Ginny, who was probably also working, leave the common room in a great hurry with her book through the portrait of the Fat Lady due to the spreading stench.

Harry and Neville looked at each other. And understood each other without words. Nothing would keep the two of them here within this foul-smelling cloud. They too fled and left the common room towards a better-smelling part of the castle.

They found refuge in an unused classroom not far from the Gryffindor common room. The room had visibly not been used for a long time. Tables and chairs stood there, and a blackboard hung at the other end. Old wooden cupboards were also visible. Everything was covered with dust and cobwebs.

"I didn't even know Hogwarts had so many classrooms," Harry said, sounding a little astonished.

"That's because there used to be more wizards when the school was founded," Neville tried to explain what he knew to his godbrother. Various tragic events of the last decades had led to the wizarding community being increasingly decimated.

"Wow, I didn't know that," was Harry's reaction. Neville just nodded. But instead of listening to Neville's further explanations about the history of magic, Harry preferred to explore the classroom. There wasn't much; most of the cupboards were empty, and apart from a few old books and a little parchment lying on the shelves, not much was left.

"You know what," a slightly cheerful-sounding Harry asked Neville, "we could make this our hideout. If it's not being used anyway, we can make ourselves comfortable here… and, erm, well, Hermione and Ron too."

"Good idea, Harry," Neville said, "but what do you have in mind?"

"No idea? … Erm, we'll think of something, okay? We'll bring my gramophone next time, and maybe Remus will have sent me… well, us… more records by then," Harry said, now looking at Neville expectantly.

"You mean your godfather," Neville said with a hint of cheekiness in his voice that surprised even himself. He had just blurted it out.

Harry's eyes widened. He stared at Neville as if he had suddenly grown a second head. "Um... yes, that's right. How... I mean, how do you know that?"

"You said it yourself," Neville explained, watching as Harry's face alternated between confusion and embarrassment. "To Seamus, in the dormitory. You said you got the gramophone from your godfather."

"Oh..." Harry mumbled, running a hand through his hair self-consciously. "Oh, erm, yes, that's right. So... I was going to tell you... don't be angry, okay? I just... forgot, okay?" Harry tried to talk his way out of it.

"It's alright, Harry, I'm not angry with you," Neville assured him, and he meant it. But then, as the words left his lips, his mood shifted. A quiet, bitter undertone crept into his voice. "I just wonder what else you've 'forgotten' to tell me."

Harry stared at him with an open mouth, his eyes wide and hurt. "Hello?" he retorted, hands on his hips. "I could ask you the very same question!"

Now it was Neville who sounded confused. "Why ever would you?"

"Sirius," Harry said, and the single word hung heavy and charged between them in the dusty air. It felt as though a storm could break any moment. "Sirius was with us, I know it. I saw him, Neville. And you... you said nothing. You must have seen him too." Harry's voice was full of accusation, and it hit Neville like a blow. How was he supposed to explain this to his godbrother? What did Harry even know about Sirius?

"I-I... I d-didn't want to t-tell you because... well, I... Sirius, he... well, it was said he betrayed the Potters... so you and your parents... to You-Know-Who," Neville stammered, and the old nervousness overwhelmed him again with full force. His whole body trembled. And Harry, who usually always stood by his side, just stared at him with that unreadable, intense look, which only made Neville more nervous.

"No... No, no, no," Harry murmured, more to himself than to Neville, shaking his head violently as if to shake off the words. "That can't be... I... I've been so down these past few days because I read the last entries in my mother's book."

Harry let his gaze drop to the floor, as if he needed to gather his thoughts. "They... they were hiding from Voldemort... because of me. But it didn't say why, only that they had to hide. Dumbledore offered them his help... but Sirius... Sirius was supposed to help them. Something about a Secret-Keeper. But I don't quite understand it," Harry said, agitated.

"Fidelius," Neville murmured softly.

"Pardon?" Harry asked, looking at him.

"The Fidelius Charm," Neville explained, and his voice grew firmer again, relieved that Harry didn't seem to be angry with him after all. "It's used to make a place... unplottable. Only the Secret-Keeper can reveal it to others."

"Anyway," Harry continued, "Sirius was supposed to be this Secret-Keeper. But at the last second, they switched to Peter Pettigrew, who was apparently also friends with them. And it seems he betrayed them. Because if only he knew where we were hiding, then only he could have been the one to betray them... And... and they thought he was their friend."

Harry's voice broke on the last sentence. He was overcome by a wave of grief. Neville saw his friend struggling with the thought that his parents – and he – had been betrayed by one of their best friends. A single tear made its way down Harry's cheek. He kept his head bowed, but Neville could see it clearly.

"I... I knew it too," Neville said softly. "This summer... Sirius confided in me. I wasn't sure until now, but with what's in your mother's book... it all makes sense. Sirius couldn't have betrayed you. He said you're family. Familia super omnia ."

As Neville spoke these words, all his last doubts about whether Sirius was truly innocent were blown away. But when Neville mentioned that Sirius was family, Harry lifted his head and looked at him with a questioning, almost shocked expression.

"How? How do you know Sirius is my father?" Harry asked, his voice barely more than an astonished whisper.

Now it was Neville who was astonished. His eyes widened. Had he heard correctly? Sirius is Harry's father? Not James? Sirius is Harry's father. Harry is Sirius's son. And then, like a flash, it struck Neville. Harry is a Black. Harry is therefore Familia super omnia . Harry must be the Heir to the House of Black.

"Oh... that... you didn't mean that, did you? You didn't know that?" Harry mumbled, perplexed, shaking his head in disbelief. He sank to the floor, staring blankly, as if the world around him had disappeared. Neville sat down next to his godbrother on the dusty floor and offered him his shoulder, which Harry gratefully accepted.

While Harry leaned his head on Neville's shoulder, he began to tell him everything that had happened at Gringotts. How a forgotten vault key had brought the truth about his heritage to light. And as Harry recounted his real name, the name Sirius had given him, and that he had later been blood-adopted by James, Neville remembered again how his mother, in one of her few lucid moments, had called Harry "Hades." At least, that's what he had understood. It could have been Haedus .

"Harry, my Mum called you Hades. Does that mean she knew?" Neville asked him with wide eyes.

"Yes," Harry said curtly and nodded. "She, Frank, and my... by Merlin, that sounds so strange... my three parents, they knew."

"But... but why is Sirius your real father and not James?" Neville asked, still slightly confused.

"I... erm... I don't really know either," Harry said, who seemed just as overwhelmed by the whole situation but probably didn't want to show it. "It seems my Dad, James, well... erm... he apparently couldn't have children, but Mum wanted some."

Neville nodded. All the information was like a punch to the gut. Hard to imagine what it must have been like for Harry, Neville thought. From one moment to the next, everything he thought he knew about his godbrother Harry – no, not Harry, Haedus – was turned upside down. He was a Black and a Potter at the same time.

"S-should I call you Haedus?" Neville asked cautiously. "I mean, only when we're alone."

But Harry shook his head. "No, I'm Harry. I... I don't really know exactly... a freak... erm... I mean, I look like Harry, the one everyone knows," he stammered, and one could tell how much the whole situation still overwhelmed him. "I look like Harry, like James, like my Dad... Mum wrote in the book that I looked different before the blood adoption."

Neville looked at Harry. The Harry he knew. He wondered what he had looked like before the blood adoption, what he would look like now. Harry had so many questions about the blood adoption, which was more than understandable given his situation. Neville tried to help him understand, as far as he could. He explained that it was quite normal for blood adoption to change one's appearance, but since the ritual was hardly ever performed anymore, he didn't know anything more precise about it; he only knew of its existence.

The two sat there for a while longer, and Neville slowly warmed to the idea that his godbrother was a Black. No, a Black-Potter. Harry was the Heir to two noble, ancient Houses, and Neville wanted to make it his task to help him understand what that meant, what responsibility it entailed. Harry had no one else, after all.

"I... I'm here for you, alright?" Neville tried to assure his godbrother. "And I know exactly that you're thinking you're a freak right now, and no, you're not."

Harry smiled at Neville, and Neville smiled back. But this moment of connection was abruptly disturbed. Harry's smile froze, his eyes widened as if he were hearing something Neville couldn't. A sudden tension shot through his body.

"What's wrong?" Neville asked worriedly, looking around the dusty classroom, but could spot nothing unusual.

"Do you hear that too?" Harry whispered, his voice barely more than a hoarse croak. His eyes darted wildly around the room, as if following an invisible movement.

"Hear what?" Neville retorted, confused. He listened intently, but could hear nothing but the faint rustle of old cobwebs and the distant, muffled murmur from the Hogwarts corridors.

"That voice..." Harry hissed. "It... it wants to hunt. It's hungry." A shiver ran down Neville's spine. It was eerie. Harry seemed to perceive something that remained completely hidden from him. The way Harry's eyes searched the empty space made Neville's blood run cold.

"Ahh, now it's gone again," Harry said after a moment that had felt like an eternity to Neville. The tension in Harry's body eased, but his face was still pale. "Sure you didn't hear anything?"

"No," Neville said, shaking his head slowly. "There was nothing. Maybe... I don't know. Let's just go back to the common room."

And so they did, much to Neville's relief. Whatever Harry had perceived, it worried him. What did his godbrother seem to hear that no one else could?

Back in the Gryffindor common room, Ron had also returned from his detention with Filch. Their red-haired friend was waiting for them on one of the sofas. "Where have you been?" Ron asked, startled, as Neville and Harry entered the common room.

"Out and about," Harry said, giving his best friend a quick glance.

"Fred and George's Dungbomb went off," Neville's explanation followed.

"Not on purpose, though," Harry continued.

"It was unbearable in here then," Neville added.

"So we left. How was it with you?" Harry finished their improvised twin-speak with a question to Ron.

He flopped back onto the sofa with a loud groan. "Ugh, awful! Had to clean loads of trophies and cups. Twice, unfortunately."

"Why ever twice?" Harry asked, a little surprised.

"Slugs," was Ron's short and blunt reply. He closed his eyes, as if he could still taste and feel them inside him. The rest of the evening, thankfully, passed without incident. Harry seemed to hear no further eerie noises, and Ron had no more slug-spitting attacks.

 

 

The first week at Hogwarts flew by, and soon a certain routine had set in. Faster than expected, September was over. There were the Quidditch try-outs demanded by the Chasers, and Wood did indeed pick three reserve players. Cormac McLaggen became the reserve Seeker for Harry, and he seemed to constantly hope that something would happen to Harry. In the following weeks of October, he never missed an opportunity to comment, unprompted, that he would be the new Seeker for Gryffindor if Harry were to be out of action.

Neville tried to cheer Harry up and assure him that nothing would happen to him. But in October, a nasty flu epidemic swept through the castle, and Harry was terrified of catching it. Perhaps, Neville thought, the last illness from the summer, the Black Cat Flu , was more deeply rooted in him than he wanted to admit. Harry was often withdrawn in the first weeks of October, Neville noticed. He retreated more and more frequently and read his mother's book. The few times they met in their newly discovered, secret classroom, they talked about wanting to find out more about Harry's grandfather, but so far they had not found a single trace of him here at Hogwarts.

Classes, with the exception of Potions, went reasonably well. At least there was no further incident in Defence Against the Dark Arts. It seemed to Neville as if this subject barely registered for him anymore. The hours flew by, and the few times Lockhart wanted something from him, regarding his grandmother, were over faster than expected. Most of the time, he was back in the common room before he knew it. September and October passed for Neville in a blur, as if the weeks were simply racing past him without leaving any truly lasting impression.

 

And then it was already Samhain. Or rather, Halloween, for the many Muggle-born students at Hogwarts.

It was Samhain afternoon. Ron stood by Harry's bed, trying to get a slightly demotivated boy out of bed. It didn't suit the usual Harry of the past few weeks at all, Neville thought. After Remus had sent them even more records, Harry had declared Fridays to be small parties in the common room. Until curfew, Muggle music always played in the common room after dinner on Fridays, and Harry encouraged everyone who was downstairs at the time to dance along. Neville, to the surprise of many, was always there too.

The twins supplied the party with snacks from the kitchen, and to Percy's relief, the seventh-years left the first-years alone and kept the Firewhisky to themselves. Even Hermione, after her initial hesitation, showed up at Harry's Friday parties. Neville made it clear to Hermione and Ron that Harry needed this. He believed these parties were a kind of outlet, and since Hermione and Ron wanted to support Harry just as much, they celebrated with him from then on. Hermione even once asked Ron to dance, and he accepted her invitation, blushing furiously.

In general, Harry's Friday evening party was often used by older students as a starting point for dates, Neville noticed. Once, Ginny even tried to ask Harry to dance with her, Neville noticed, but Harry, who didn't understand that the young Miss Weasley only wanted to dance with Harry, took Ginny with him into the large crowd of students from the House of the Lion, and they danced there together in the group. But now there was no sign of the party-loving Harry. Instead, he lay in his bed, his pillow pulled over his head, saying, muffled from under the pillow to Ron:

"Go away! I don't feel like it!"

"Harry, don't be such a baby! Because of you, Hermione and I have to go to this deathday party too! You promised him because he saved you from Filch," Ron tried to get Harry out of bed. Yes, Harry had been stopped by Filch after a rainy Quidditch practice in the corridors of Hogwarts because he had left muddy footprints everywhere. When Harry told Neville this story, Neville had to grin a little. But apparently, the Gryffindor house ghost, Nearly Headless Nick, had saved him from the angry caretaker through a distraction from Peeves, and Harry then promised to come to his deathday party.

"Then just you two go," Harry said, still muffled from under his pillow.

However much Ron tried, he couldn't persuade Harry. Neville came over to them, placed a hand on Ron's shoulder, looked at Ron, and shook his head. Harry was in a fouler mood today than ever before, Neville thought.

"Ugh," Ron said, annoyed, "you try, please, I don't know what else to do."

"It's alright," Neville said reassuringly to Ron, knowing that his godbrother probably wouldn't be getting out of bed anytime soon today. "I'll stay with Harry. You two go on. Maybe... maybe we'll catch up, alright?"

Ron nodded, turned back to Harry as if he wanted to say something, but then he too left the dormitory. Neville heard Ron downstairs telling Hermione that Harry probably wouldn't be coming today, and it seemed as though Ron and Hermione were leaving the common room.

Neville remained alone with Harry in their dormitory. Almost everyone else was probably already on their way to the Samhain/Halloween festivities. Neville sat down directly on the floor by Harry's bed and let his head rest on Harry's bed, so he could see the ceiling of the second-year boys' dormitory.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Neville asked his godbrother, a little worried, but all he got from Harry was a muffled "Mmm." He waited a moment, and then Neville began to ask again.

"We're alone, everyone's gone. So, what's wrong? Do you... do you want to tell me?" Neville asked, wondering if Harry had been reading something in his mother's book again. Ever since Harry had the book, his godbrother had been having mood swings, sometimes good, sometimes bad, depending on what he had read.

Since their conversation in the empty classroom they had found, Harry had also confided in Neville about everything that was in the book. They had begun the search for Harry's grandfather, Riddle, but had found nothing about him yet. They knew he was probably at Hogwarts, but nothing more.

And Neville had told Harry several times that he should write to this Sev, his mother's best friend, if he was still alive. Perhaps he would know more, or he could tell Harry other things about his mother. Harry was surprised why he shouldn't be alive, but Neville told Harry that many of their parents' friends, like the McKinnons, had died in the war. But since Neville didn't know who Sev was, he thought he might still be alive. Just like Harry's mother's best friend, for Neville had never heard of a Mary MacDonald, nor was she mentioned by the few acquaintances of his parents when the victims of the war were commemorated.

For a while, nothing came from Harry. Eventually, Neville noticed Harry peeking out from under his pillow and looking into the empty dormitory, where only the two of them remained. Harry's gaze fixed on Neville, who tried to look at him encouragingly. Harry sat up, as if he was about to jump out of bed, but then immediately flopped back into his bed. "Hmm," Harry made a sound, and then asked Neville in a slightly muffled voice: "Do you know what day it is today?"

"Samhain?" Neville replied, questioning, as if Harry had forgotten what day it was.

"No, today's the day Voldemort... well, erm, you know, today's the day Voldemort killed my parents," Harry said, his voice sounding a little strained.

"Ohh…" Neville reacted, he hadn't thought of that at all. Of course Harry was down today, he thought, for this was the day Harry had so much taken from him in life.

"And do you know what the worst part is, Neville?" Harry asked Neville, who had no answer. "I never thought about it all these years, tried never to really think about it, but now... now with the book... I suddenly feel so connected to them..."

There was silence for a while. Neville didn't really want to answer Harry. He gave him some time, until he eventually asked Harry:

"Have you ever been to your parents' grave?"

"There's a grave?" Harry asked him, surprised, as if he didn't know that a memorial had been erected in Godric's Hollow, the place where it happened.

"Yes," Neville said and began to tell Harry a little about his parents' grave and how a war memorial in the middle of the village commemorated James, Lily, and also Harry. A large statue showing Harry's parents holding him stands there. Harry, who seemed completely perplexed that this monument existed, which only wizards could perceive, would love to visit it someday.

"Can we go there during the Christmas holidays? I mean, erm, only if you don't mind, alright?" Harry asked his godbrother. Neville was surprised; wouldn't Harry spend Yule at Hogwarts as usual?

"You can't just leave Hogwarts without permission," Neville said to Harry, who was sure he would spend Yule at the castle again.

"Erm... I've been invited by Andromeda... I'll be spending Christmas with her and her family... I'm sure... if I ask Tonks, they'll take us there." Neville was surprised that Harry had been invited by Andromeda Tonks for Christmas. But if he thought about it carefully, it wasn't so far-fetched. Did Andromeda Tonks suspect something about Harry? After all, Neville knew whose family she belonged to, and now Neville also knew that Harry isn't just a Potter.

"But don't tell Ron. I mean... I haven't told him yet, and I want to tell him personally, alright?" Neville nodded at Harry's request. He understood; Ron could be sensitive sometimes. As good friends as he and Harry were, the slightest breath of wind could make their friendship waver, even if only for a short time, because Harry and Ron always got along again immediately.

After Neville had learned of Harry's family secret, he worried about what would happen if Ron found out. Harry also seemed to be having these thoughts. One evening in the empty classroom, they had decided that if they told Ron, they would have to prepare him well for it. Hermione would probably only be briefly irritated, but then accept Harry, or rather, who he originally was. Especially since, apart from the name, Harry was still the same, Neville thought.

Suddenly, Harry sat upright in his bed again. He looked around, searching for something.

"There it is again," Harry whispered to Neville, "the voice, it's hunting something again. It wants to... kill something." Harry immediately jumped out of bed and ran out of the dormitory.

Neville couldn't react fast enough to his godbrother supposedly hearing this eerie voice again and now apparently running after it. What was Neville to do? Stay behind? Fetch a prefect? So he ran after Harry. They ran through the corridors until they reached a flood on the first floor and Harry slowed down. In front of them was something that was clearly visible through the reflection in a puddle of water.

Then suddenly a voice appeared behind them.

"Oh dear, I think Myrtle has flooded the girls' lavatory again." Harry and Neville started, but it was Hermione and Ron, who were approaching them, probably just coming from Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party.

"Myrtle?" Harry asked Hermione, a little bewildered.

"Moaning Myrtle, a ghost, she, well, she haunts the girls' lavatory on the first floor. And well, she's not really... approachable," Hermione said to the three, who were now standing together in the corridor.

"What... what's that?" Ron said, a little fearfully, pointing to something hanging at the end of the corridor. Carefully, the four approached what Ron had shown them.

But as soon as they could roughly make out what it was, they heard splashing footsteps. Splish, splash, squelch, splish. Something seemed to be approaching them quickly from the turning corridor, and the approaching footsteps were clearly audible through the puddles of water scattered everywhere.

"Just wait... stay here," they heard a voice from where the footsteps came.

"Ah, I've got you now, in you go," the voice said, and the footsteps slowed.

They knew the voice, they knew who it belonged to, luckily not a teacher.

Suddenly the footsteps stopped.

"Oh, fuck," they heard him say, and now everyone knew who it was. Jo was with them in the corridor. He was standing at the corner and stopped, looking horrified at the wall where the thing they had seen earlier was hanging from the ceiling.

Then Jo seemed to notice them too.

"Ah... fuck... sorry... lads..." Jo said to them in his usual manner, "tell me, is this normal?"

Jo pointed to the wall, and Neville's eyes, as well as those of the other three, widened.

What was hanging from the wall was Mrs Norris, Filch's cat. She looked stuffed, dead, not alive. But what Jo probably meant was the message in red that stood behind it.

"THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE."

Everyone swallowed. And Neville saw Harry also turn a little pale. Who were the enemies of the Heir and which Heir was meant, Neville wondered. But everything was very, very eerie to him too.

"Come on, lads, let's go before Filch and who knows who else sees us," Jo said, a little fearfully.

But before the now five students in the corridor could escape the crime scene, they heard a great commotion of voices. Apparently, the feast was over, and everyone was now returning to their common rooms. In an instant, everyone saw the message and Mrs Norris hanging motionless on the wall.

First, the students began to whisper, then they noticed that Harry, Ron, Hermione, Jo, and Neville were already there before them. The murmuring of the student body was topped by Draco's remark to Hermione. He read the message aloud and then turned to Hermione. "Mudbloods, you're next." He hadn't addressed her directly, but everyone who had been there when Draco insulted Hermione at Quidditch practice knew he meant her.

Ron wanted to lunge at Draco. But before the red-haired boy could defend his good friend, the quiet murmuring of the student body was broken by the outcry of the caretaker Filch, who had probably noticed that his beloved cat was affected.

"Mrs Norris? ... Mrs Norris!" Filch's voice, usually just a scratchy growl, broke into a tortured sob. Everyone could hear the pain and fury that overwhelmed the caretaker at the sight of his cat. "You ... You two!" Filch gasped, and his bony finger trembled as he pointed first at Jo and then at Harry. The two, along with Neville, Ron, and Hermione, had been pushed to the front by the throng of arriving students and now stood as if on a platter. But before Jo or Harry could defend themselves, Filch had already delivered his hasty verdict.

"You two... you two... you've killed my cat... you've killed my cat! For this... for this you'll pay... yes, you will... you... You!" But before Filch could make good on his threat, the rest of the school's teachers arrived. They too seemed to read the message first, and Neville could see Dumbledore, who was present, glance worriedly at Aunt Minerva for a brief moment, before he raised his universally audible but gentle and calming voice. "Argus... that's enough. I don't think mere accusations help anyone."

"But my cat!" Filch sobbed.

"Argus... please calm down," Dumbledore said to Filch again.

Meanwhile, Aunt Minerva, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout had asked their respective Prefects to take the remaining students to their common rooms. Only the five who had been there first were to remain.

"I think... it's better if we continue the discussion in my office? It's just here," Lockhart offered, seeming a bit disgusted by the puddle of water.

"Thank you, Gilderoy, yes, of course," Dumbledore said and smiled slightly at Lockhart. Thereupon, Dumbledore carefully took the cat down, and Lockhart led them to his office. Besides the five students, they were accompanied by Dumbledore, who walked beside the sobbing Filch and held his cat, and by Snape, who held Jo by the collar and whispered something to him that no one else could hear. Aunt Minerva also joined them in front of Lockhart's office. "Albus, the remaining students are in their common rooms," she said with her usual stern expression. "Good, shall we?" Dumbledore then asked the group.

"Do come in, do come in, my dear colleagues," Lockhart said, smiling at everyone present as usual.

Lockhart's office was no different from his classroom. Pictures of him and his alleged successes hung everywhere. On the desk lay postcards from fans and next to them a stack of autograph cards and envelopes, probably to reply to his fans. But what Neville immediately noticed when he entered the office and perceived its atmosphere – the smell, the portraits, simply everything in the room – was that his stomach clenched. He didn't understand why. It was difficult to follow any conversation at all. He suddenly had to contend with a rising nausea that he couldn't explain to himself.

While Dumbledore examined Mrs Norris, Neville tried not to direct his gaze at the portraits or Lockhart himself; something inside him told him to avoid it. Instead, he seemed to observe what the other attendees were doing. Snape stood in the doorway and had apparently placed Jo in front of him. Probably because, as Head of Slytherin House, Jo was under his protection? Ron, Hermione, and Harry stood a little to the side.

Neville used the quiet in which Dumbledore examined Filch's cat, and went to his aunt, hoping that she would shield him, should accusations be made against him, just as Snape seemed to do for Jo. Hardly had he reached Minerva when she looked at him briefly. What kind of look must he have had, Neville thought, probably worried and frightened at the same time. In any case, Minerva turned him around so that he could see the room like her, and she placed her hand on his shoulder. Neville was glad that he could at least still rely on his aunt here.

The silence was broken by Lockhart himself, who apparently couldn't bear not being the centre of attention for once.

"I think this is a Transmogrifian Torture," Lockhart said confidently, almost boastfully. "There have been several murder series of this kind, not least in Ouagadougou. I myself, of course, helped to solve the case there, all to be read in one of my works." Neville could see Snape raise an eyebrow, probably believing that Lockhart was exaggerating.

"Hmm, no, I don't think the good Mrs Norris is dead here, merely petrified," Dumbledore said in a calm tone and was abruptly interrupted by Lockhart.

"That, yes, I suspected that too, just wanted to let a little drama unfold," he said and grinned widely. "I know exactly how we can lift the curse."

From the corner, only Professor Snape could be heard saying: "I doubt it."

At Snape's remark, Lockhart merely grinned at him and seemed to ignore Snape's doubts.

"Dead... or petrified... I don't care... someone has to pay for this!" Filch fumed in the middle of the office.

"Argus, please calm down. If I remember correctly, Pomona is currently growing young Mandrakes, and when they are old enough, a revitalising potion can certainly be brewed from them, which is needed," Dumbledore said, trying to calm Filch, but he would not be appeased.

"I want someone punished! The two... one of them did it... most certainly... if no one wants to talk... then both should be punished!" Filch raged, pointing first at Jo and then at Harry.

Now it was Snape, who intervened.

"I strongly doubt that young Mr Pryle here is capable of petrifying a cat or even leaving such a message. But as for Mr Potter... well, we all know what wonders he can already perform. And I cannot recall seeing him or any of the other three here at the feast," Snape said, holding his hand protectively in front of Jo and clearly glaring at Harry, who returned an equally angry look.

"Sir," Hermione said, "Ron and I, we were invited by Nearly Headless Nick to his deathday party. He and other ghosts can attest to our presence." Hermione apparently had an alibi, which convinced Snape, for his gaze was now fixed on Harry. But instead of answering, Harry glared back just as fiercely.

"H... Harry... and I... I w-were in the common room," Neville began to stammer, but glad that he had found his courage to speak in this impressive company. "He w-wasn't feeling well... because... because of today... what happened... and then we wanted... we wanted to go to the feast after all."

Neville began to lie, but before Neville could finish speaking, Minerva took over. "We heard it. And no one, I think, no one can blame Mr Potter for not attending the feast today. Everyone present knows only too well what happened eleven years ago today. And if no one had noticed yet, since the summer everyone should know that Mr Potter and Mr Longbottom are there for each other. So they couldn't have been the ones, if they were in the common room."

Neville was glad his aunt had taken over. He had concealed that Harry heard a voice, which was why they had left the common room in the first place, but he knew that neither Harry nor he were responsible for the message and the cat.

"They're lying... all of them... one of them certainly did it!" Filch still ranted, but when Dumbledore began to speak, everyone was quiet. "I doubt that a first or second-year is capable of performing such a dark magical spell. And I think this is about something or someone who has not yet openly appeared. It remains to be seen if this was a one-off incident."

"Well, then I think if none of the students present here are to blame, they should quickly return to the others in their common rooms," Minerva said and firmly squeezed Neville's shoulder.

"I agree with Minerva," Snape said, nodded to the group, took Jo with him, and disappeared from the room. He probably accompanied his Slytherin student to the dungeons, where the Slytherin common room was.

Minerva did the same and accompanied the four remaining Gryffindor students back to the Gryffindor Tower.

Neville could hear Hermione, Ron, and Harry whispering behind them and probably exchanging something, but since Minerva still had him by the shoulder, he couldn't hear it. She brought them to their common room and said goodbye to the four. Neville was still so affected by the nausea in the room that he also said goodbye to Harry, Hermione, and Ron, but he urgently needed to go to bed, he wasn't feeling well. Neville noticed his godbrother looking at him questioningly and probably hoping it wasn't too bad. But Neville had already disappeared upstairs into the dormitory and collapsed onto his bed with his clothes on.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! 😃

So, we kicked off this chapter in the first week of Hogwarts, then had a little time jump to Halloween. Finally, Neville and Harry had to be open about their secrets. Well, at least as far as Neville knows – Harry still hasn't told him about his Slytherin and Peverell heirship. On Halloween, the first petrification happened and the message was written on the wall just like in canon, but this time two more students were at the scene before everyone else: Jo and Neville.

And speaking of Jo, what's going on with him? First, he was alone at the Quidditch pitch, and then later in the corridor too. Who was he talking to? I promise, in the next chapter, you'll get some answers because we're shifting perspectives again, and we'll finally see Hogwarts from Jo's point of view.

As always, I'm really looking forward to reading your comments and theories!

Chapter 10: Chapter Nine: Strange new world

Summary:

Jo Pryle grapples with the bewildering reality of Hogwarts and his new life as a wizard, facing both magical challenges and the harsh disdain of his Slytherin peers. As he navigates unfamiliar classes and the intricacies of a world he never knew, Jo struggles to keep his past hidden while searching for a place to truly belong.

Notes:

Welcome back to Chapter 9!

Please be advised that this chapter contains references to Jo's difficult life on the streets prior to Hogwarts, including subtle implications of past sexual abuse. While these elements are present in his thoughts and reactions, we won't be exploring them in depth in this chapter.

What had that just been? Jo wondered. Just like the students before him, he was supposed to put on this old, shabby hat, but what Jo had by no means expected was that the hat would suddenly speak to him. A quiet, crackling voice, directly in his head. Had the others heard that too? Hardly, Jo thought, for those who had worn the matted headgear before him had shown no signs of hearing voices.

The hat's monologue still echoed in Jo's memory, a tangled web of words that made no sense. "Ahh, most interesting… and two of them too. Souls lost and found again, most interesting. Alike and unalike. Separated and yet together. Both sharp and brilliant, while one strives, the other lives. No… survives." And that was only part of what this crazy hat had whispered in his ear.

Jo didn't know where he had ended up. The last few weeks had been one strange rush. And today was the absolute climax. He was supposedly a wizard. Nothing about him was magical, Jo was dead certain. He couldn't do card tricks or pull a rabbit out of a hat. Learning that would certainly have been useful, another way to subtly pick people's pockets on the street, Jo thought, but he quickly learned that the magic that reigned here was completely different from that of conjurers.

The moment they had pressed that intricately carved piece of wood into his hand – a wand, they had called it – Jo had felt a slight tingle. Supposedly magic. Yet Jo had been sure it was just a cheap novelty item, a small taser that sent a slight tingle through his fingers on contact. Wands for Jo had always been those black plastic rods with white ends that he had often seen street performers use. The doubts lingered for a long time, indeed, they hadn't quite disappeared yet.

Where was he, and how, in the world, had he ended up here? At least he didn't seem to be completely alone. Neville and Harry, the two boys he had met in the summer, were also at this "school" or whatever this strange place was, Jo thought, as he strode through the enormous hall and made his way to one of the outer tables. He did as those for whom the hat had also shouted "Slytherin!" and sat down at the table that apparently belonged to one of these four houses.

At least the older students all wore the same black robes with green and silver embellishments and those, in Jo's eyes, rather silly, pointed hats. While the other newcomers at the table were immediately drawn into conversation, Jo remained an outsider. No one spoke to him, which suited him quite well, actually. It was mutual, he thought stubbornly. It seemed as if most people here already knew each other, were at least acquainted or even already friends. Jo felt alien, like a foreign body in a world where he didn't fit.

He let his gaze wander through the great hall, looking at the ceiling, which looked as if it reflected the night sky outside, complete with twinkling stars. Was it enchanted? Jo wondered. In general, it was deafeningly loud in the hall, an overwhelming sea of noise and laughter that seemed to come from every table. Jo had only one clear thought: "What the fuck am I doing here? This is all just a bad joke. How did I end up here?"

Then, as if from nowhere, food appeared before them on the golden platters, and Jo was utterly astonished. He had never seen so much food at once in his entire life, and he had to do absolutely nothing for it. He hesitated a moment, looking to see if it was real, perhaps just an illusion like the ceiling? But when the others at the table greedily helped themselves, Jo followed suit. He ate as much as he possibly could, stuffing everything in until he felt sick. Not a good idea, Jo thought, as his stomach painfully clenched. He would definitely regret this later.

After the meal, an old, bearded man in a long, silver robe, apparently the Headmaster, rose and spoke a few words, not a single one of which Jo understood. Then everyone stood up from their tables and left the hall in groups. Jo's group was led by two older students, who called themselves Prefects. They guided the group into the depths of the castle, while the others ascended into the towers.

The path to the dungeons was cold and damp, the torches casting long, dancing shadows on the moist stone walls, Jo thought. Nothing, absolutely nothing, about this resembled the homely comfort of a straw bed in a warm stable. A place where Jo had often found refuge. Jo deliberately walked at the back of the throng of students who descended deeper and deeper into the bowels of the castle. Very deliberately, to avoid the gazes and whispers of the others. He preferred, yes, he preferred to observe, to analyse the dangers and opportunities that presented themselves. Keeping his distance often meant safety for Jo, especially when he was in a strange, unpredictable environment.

They seemed to have arrived wherever they were going. A bare, damp stone wall at the end of a corridor. The older Prefect, a girl with a stern face and a gleaming badge on her robe, let the group know that a password, which changed at certain intervals, was needed to enter the common room. "Pure-blood," she said in a clear, loud voice. Jo rolled his eyes. Pure-blood? Really? How original. But what Jo didn't know yet was that this one word was more than just a simple password; it was a statement, an ideology.

When the Prefect said the password, Jo was quite astonished. The stone wall revealed a hidden door with a soft, grinding sound. The frame was artfully formed from the body of a massive snake, its scales shimmering eerily in the torchlight. It was one of the few moments when Jo truly saw that magic existed. Similar to that strange shopping alley, where a brick wall had also revealed an entrance. For Jo, these had initially been illusions, clever tricks. Magic had never encountered him until this year. Everything was all the more foreign to him.

Especially when he then stepped through the suddenly appearing door and stood for the first time in the Slytherin common room. He stood rooted to the spot. The room was enormous, long and low, like an underground vault. Heavy, silver chains hung from the ceiling, to which round, greenish shimmering lamps were attached, bathing the entire room in a dim, eerie light. When Jo then looked through the large panoramic windows, his breath caught. He was underwater. Beneath the lake that surrounded the castle. Dark, shadowy figures glided past outside, and once he thought he recognised the huge tentacles of a gigantic kraken. How is that possible? Magic again?

The room was furnished with heavy, dark wooden furniture. Deep black leather sofas with silver studs stood in front of artfully decorated fireplaces, in which a green fire crackled without radiating warmth. On the walls hung old, woven tapestries, telling of the glorious deeds of medieval Slytherins, and portraits of stern-looking wizards and witches, whose eyes seemed to scrutinise the newcomers with a mixture of mistrust and contempt. Jo had already noticed when entering the castle that the pictures on the walls moved. He had initially thought they were a kind of television, but apparently these were also no illusions or tricks.

Jo stood a little to the side, leaning against a cold stone pillar and scanning the room from top to bottom. He absorbed everything. From the middle of the room, two corridors branched off to the left and right, where, according to the Prefect's explanation, the dormitories and the year-specific common rooms were located. Apparently, each year had its own additional room besides this large one. While one side was for the witches, the other corridor was for the wizards.

Jo noticed the Prefect herding the group of first-years together, and at that exact moment, the door to the common room, through which they had just entered, opened again.

An adult man with dark, slightly greasy hair falling in strands over his face, a hooked nose, and skin as pale as old parchment, stepped in. He was dressed from head to toe in black, and his robes billowed behind him like a bat's wings. It was impossible for Jo to read the man, which he disliked intensely. He had learned early on that it was vital to observe those around him, to read their thoughts in order to anticipate their possible actions. The fact that this man was unreadable presented an immediate danger to Jo. Unpredictable , he thought, and involuntarily tensed his muscles.

The man began to speak in a quiet but cutting voice that effortlessly silenced the murmuring in the room.

"My name is Professor Snape," he said, and his gaze swept over the new faces, lingering a moment longer than necessary on Jo, who swallowed involuntarily. "I am the Head of Slytherin House. You are now part of the noblest house of Hogwarts. A house that has produced more great witches and wizards than all other houses combined." His voice was a low, dangerous hiss.

"But this glory comes at a price. Be aware of it. Outside these walls, you will not be admired for your affiliation with Slytherin. You will be feared, you will be despised, and you will be met with ill will." He paused briefly, dramatically, letting his black eyes sweep over the intimidated first-years. "Therefore, the virtues of our house are not mere suggestions, but necessities for survival. Ambition. Cunning. Resourcefulness. And above all: Unity. In here, we are one. A family. To the outside, we present a united front. We show no weakness. We do not air our dirty laundry in public. What happens here, stays here. Have I made myself clear?"

An assenting, if somewhat intimidated, murmur went through the ranks of the first-years. "Good," Snape said, and his mouth twisted into something that was meant to be a smile, but looked more like a threat. "Then I expect you to bring no shame to the House of Slytherin."

As soon as he had finished his speech, Snape disappeared again with a wide sweep of his robes, leaving the first-years alone. Jo noticed how the older years immediately resumed their usual activities, engrossed in quiet conversations. But he also quickly noticed that there was a kind of hierarchy here. Certain fellow students seemed to be the clear ringleaders of their years. For example, a blond boy stood with two heavy-set bodyguards by one of the fireplaces, telling another pale, brown-haired boy something, while the two heavyweights stood silently behind him like minders. He had observed similar behaviour in even older students. What makes them so? Jo wondered. Why do they seem to play a special role? It was a dynamic he knew from the streets. There was always a leader, and there were always those who followed.

He and the other boys from his year were led into their own small common room. It was noticeably smaller and more intimate than the large main room, but no less opulent. Another fireplace with green fire cast an eerie light, and a few heavy, green velvet armchairs stood around a low table. From this room, four more doors led off. One, as the male Prefect explained, led to a shared bathroom, the other three to the dormitories. Always in pairs.

Jo was assigned to a boy named Vikram Thakur, who had dark, almost black hair and tanned skin. The other pairings were a brown-haired boy named Harper with a dark-blonde one named Lofthouse, as well as a stocky boy named Hatton with a scrawny one named Cowley. Jo immediately noticed how Harper swaggered about as if he were a born leader. He and Lofthouse cast glances at Jo that were so full of contempt that they almost physically struck him, while Hatton and Cowley simply ignored him as if he were air.

A sharp pain pierced Jo's chest, an old, familiar wound that was ripped open again and again. He was used to being the outsider, the one looked down upon. But here, in this place that was supposed to be so different, it felt even worse. It was as if the cold, damp air of the dungeons was constricting his throat. He didn't belong here. He would never belong here. To survive here , he thought with a sudden, icy determination, you must become invisible.

He retreated without another word to the dormitory assigned to him. His bulky trunk already stood at the foot of one of the two four-poster beds with heavy, emerald green curtains. Probably mine , he thought, and let himself fall onto the cool, smooth silk duvet with his crumpled old school robe, which had already had a previous owner. The fabric felt alien, too soft, too clean. It had been an exhausting day, full of new, confusing impressions, and he would have loved to fall asleep immediately, right here and now, to escape this strange, hostile world.

Through the heavy oak door, he heard the muffled but clear voices of the others:

"Scum,"

"Street urchin,"

"No idea where he comes from,"

"Certainly just a Mudblood."

Every word was like a small, sharp dagger that pierced his heart. It was primarily Harper's and Lofthouse's voices he heard, and the others seemed to agree with them, their quiet snickering like poison. The pecking order was already decided, Jo thought bitterly. He was at the very bottom. He knew this game all too well. Be small, don't stand out, offer no target. He clenched his fists under the duvet until his knuckles turned white.

When Vikram later came quietly into the room and hesitantly asked if he was asleep, Jo didn't stir. He slowed his breathing, forcing his body into complete stillness. He built a wall around himself, high and impenetrable.

The next morning, Vikram tried again.

"You can call me Vikram," he said, sounding almost apologetic. A tiny part of Jo, a part he had long tried to bury, wanted to take the outstretched hand. But the wounds from last night were still too fresh. He sat up, his amber eyes cold and hard.

"I know what you said about me yesterday," he spat out, his voice sharp as a shard of glass. No vulnerability. No weakness. That was the first rule of survival.

The morning passed quickly, a blur of new routines and unfamiliar faces. Jo copied Vikram, who seemed to know the ropes, still wearing his school robes from yesterday, as he had nothing else to sleep in. Apart from a few worn band shirts he'd picked up here and there, a pair of knee-torn trousers, and his old trainers, the school robes were all he possessed. The orphanage he'd been taken to had provided him with the bare necessities: a school robe, a decent pair of trousers, some better shoes, and a wooden stick that they called a 'wand'.

The headmistress of the last orphanage had wanted to know where Jo had been all these years, but Jo remained silent, his lips sealed tight. Why should he confide in her, he'd thought back then as she approached him, her face a mask of feigned concern. Jo merely shrugged. The truth was that Jo had somehow managed to survive for half his life, whether mostly on the unforgiving streets or when he was temporarily assigned to various orphanages by the authorities. And since he'd managed it before, he'd manage to survive here too, Jo thought, a grim determination hardening his jaw as he made his way down to the Great Hall where everyone had gathered last night.

As Jo had heard from Vikram, there was breakfast before classes began. For Jo, the idea of regular meals was still completely crazy, something he only knew from the brief, often unpleasant, stints in orphanages. And even though he'd had to spend part of the summer in one again, but that place in the summer was definitely different from the others he stayed before. It was his first magical orphanage. There weren't many children there, and the food was surprisingly good, far better than in any other orphanage he'd been in. But still, everyone there was suspicious of him, Jo thought, a familiar knot of unease tightening in his stomach. It was a feeling he knew from every other orphanage too. Jo retreated into himself, wanting to run away again, but couldn't. At the first attempt, someone was immediately there, as if a silent alarm warned them that Jo wanted to leave. He had tried a few times, but each time someone seemed to have noticed, appearing as if from thin air. Magic, he thought, it must be magic. Everything, yes, everything in the last few weeks had been so different for Jo. Even now, at breakfast in Hogwarts, as he watched the golden platters refill themselves as if by an invisible hand.

Then suddenly, a flurry of wings and soft hoots filled the Hall as owls flew through the enormous space, landing, to Jo's astonishment, on the tables. They seemed to be like carrier pigeons, Jo thought, for they carried letters, post, and the like. Some even carried parcels, clutched in their talons. How could owls carry that? Jo asked himself, a flicker of genuine wonder in his amber eyes. Magic was probably the answer here again. The answer to everything in the last week. Magic.

Jo was then pulled abruptly from his thoughts at breakfast when he heard a man's voice; it sounded anything but happy, almost furious, and the voice echoed across the table he was sitting at, making the silverware tremble. Jo looked to see where it came from and saw how the already pale blond boy in front of him grew even paler, the letter from which this voice came shaking in his hands. No one else said anything, the usual breakfast chatter dying down to a tense silence. When the angry man's voice died down, a low murmur rippled through the Hall. "Malfoy got a Howler," was the whispered gossip at breakfast, carried on the air like a secret. Malfoy, that must be the name of the blond boy, Jo thought, filing it away for later. As it later turned out, he was a year above him and apparently from a very good family, as he overheard his classmates' hushed conversation.

After breakfast, classes began, a monotonous procession of unfamiliar subjects. Here too, Jo simply followed Vikram and the others, always a little behind him, a silent shadow. And the lessons couldn't have been more boring. Reading, writing, theory. As if Jo had any desire for that. He didn't care. What did he need all that for? Because in his eyes, he didn't belong here. He watched as classmates waved their wands and muttered some strange words, and with one or two, the objects placed in front of them changed, shimmering or floating. Jo tried it once too, a half-hearted flick of his own wand. No success. Why would there be? He's not a wizard like the others, he thought, a familiar bitterness rising in his throat. So why should he be able to do that? Listlessly, he looked out the classroom window, his gaze fixed on the distant, misty mountains, and hoped the lesson would soon be over. Later, perhaps later, he could listen to some music, the only comfort he had found in this bewildering new world.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp push in his side.

"Hey, why aren't you participating, Pryle?" Vikram asked him, seemingly irritated that Jo was staring bored out the window.

"Don't need to," Jo said indifferently, shrugging his shoulders, "I'll be gone soon anyway."

For the rest of the lesson, Vikram ignored him, turning back to his own attempts at magic. And whenever the strict teacher, the same woman he knew from his first unsettling encounter with this world, came by, Jo pretended to practise by doing what the others did, waving his wand vaguely and muttering nonsense. She told him he just needed to keep practising diligently. Then it would work. He merely nodded, a silent promise to himself that he would do no such thing.

The remaining lessons were much the same. Writing, listening, theory. Ugh. Jo felt a leaden weariness in his limbs, a boredom so crushing that he longed to simply stand up and walk away. In the evening, the same dismal game repeated itself. While the other boys sat in the common room, laughing and chatting as if nothing were amiss, Jo retreated to the cold silence of their shared dormitory. He lay in bed, drew the curtains, and stared into the darkness. Loneliness was an old, familiar companion, but here, in this vast, cold castle, it felt heavier, more suffocating. He was sure he'd be gone from here before October. Either they'd kick him out for refusing to participate, or he'd take matters into his own hands. Run away. He could do that.

 

The next day, Jo did the same again. He followed the others from his year like a shadow, always a few steps behind them, careful not to draw attention. But in the afternoon, his luck ran out. The group dispersed after lunch, and he found himself alone in one of the countless, winding corridors. Where was he supposed to go? He didn't know. How could he? He hadn't even properly looked at the timetable that Snape had given him. And even if he had, how was he supposed to find out where the blasted room was? The stairs moved on their own, the corridors seemed to shift, and the portraits on the walls whispered and giggled as he passed.

After what felt like an eternity of wandering, he stumbled, by sheer good fortune, upon a Prefect from his House, who eyed him grumpily.

"Lost, first-year?" he asked with a bored voice. Jo merely nodded.

The older boy led him to a classroom from which the faint murmur of voices already drifted. A very small man, standing on a stack of books to peer over his desk, greeted him with a surprisingly cheerful smile. He didn't seem in the least bit annoyed that Jo was late.

"Ah, Mr. Pryle! Take a seat, take a seat!" he squeaked.

Jo let his gaze sweep around the room. The only free spot was next to a girl with long, brown pigtails and a friendly face. She wore the yellow and black crest of Hufflepuff. Jo reluctantly slumped down beside her.

"Hi, I'm Sarah," she introduced herself with a smile that caught Jo a little off guard. She seemed keen to know a bit about him, asking him questions that he dismissed with curt, one-word answers. Sarah was kind, no question. But making friends here would only make a potential departure harder, Jo thought, and rebuilt his inner wall.

The small, bustling Professor, who introduced himself as Flitwick, explained the Lumos spell to them. The one that made light. Jo frowned. Why would you use your wand to make light? Why not just use a torch when you're out and about? he thought, rolling his eyes inwardly. The other students began making the wand movements and chanting the incantation. A soft "Lumos" could be heard everywhere, followed by disappointed sighs when nothing happened.

Jo looked at Sarah. He tried to mimic her elegant, sweeping movement. He whispered the incantation, softly, almost inaudibly. At first, he felt like it wouldn't work, that he couldn't do magic, that he was a fraud. But then he felt it. A tingling sensation that shot through his right arm, moving towards his wand, which he held in his hand. Suddenly, he felt something, a kind of energy, flowing into the wand, and then… light. His wand tip glowed, dazzling and bright, so bright that he had to squint.

Jo was shocked. His heart leaped. For a moment, he forgot everything around him. That… that was me , he thought, dumbfounded. I can do magic. I am a wizard after all. He could barely contain his triumph. He had doubted it until now, but this was the definitive proof for him. Jo was a wizard.

Professor Flitwick immediately hurried to the table where Jo was sitting. "Very good, Mr. Pryle! Excellent! The first one to do it! Five points for Slytherin!" cried the Professor, his voice almost bursting with pride. Jo looked around. He saw Vikram smiling at him, an honest, approving smile. But Harper and Lofthouse merely stared at him with grim, scowling faces, as if he had just snatched away their favourite toy. Shortly afterwards, most of the others had also mastered the spell without any problems.

At the end of the school day, Jo thought that this had to be celebrated. He wanted to hold onto this one, triumphant feeling. He went up to his dormitory, rummaged through his belongings by emptying his trunk onto his bed, and grabbed his cassette player, his last piece of home. He plugged in his headphones and went to press play. But instead of the familiar, loud sounds of Iron Maiden, nothing came. Only a faint, pathetic whirring. It was dead. No music. Just when he desperately wanted to listen to some music, the batteries gave up, Jo thought, and a feeling of emptiness and despair washed over him. But perhaps, just perhaps, there were batteries somewhere in the castle that he could find.

If he were to find batteries anywhere, it would surely be in the caretaker's office, Jo thought. On the very first day, the caretaker had wanted something from him. He had accused him of stealing something from the trophy room. Not that Jo might not consider it in the future, for all kinds of metals were easy money, he knew that, but at the time he had still been innocent.

So now was the time to truly steal from the caretaker, or rather, relieve him of two batteries; Jo needed no more. He waited until the caretaker left the office. It wasn't long before the screeching caretaker stormed out.

"What has that blasted Peeves been up to now?" Filch croaked furiously and left the office, followed by a ghost – something Jo still had to get used to. Jo seized the chance and opened the door. The office was full of confiscated items, Jo noticed. This place will definitely be worth revisiting in the future , he thought. He quickly searched the office. No batteries. That couldn't be, Jo thought. Disappointed and sad, he left the office again.

On his way through the school corridors, still hoping to find batteries somewhere, Jo ran into Sarah again. She was accompanied by a boy. A Ravenclaw, if one were to correctly interpret the blue pattern on his robes, Jo thought. He was about to slip past them, but then Sarah stopped him.

"Hey, Pryle, fancy coming to the library with me and Elijah to work?"

Jo had better things to do, he thought, so he shook his head and tried to move on, but Sarah held him fast.

"Hold on, wow…" she said, astonished, and looked at Jo. "When I first saw you, I thought it, and I asked Elijah here, because… just look at yourselves." Elijah looked at Jo. Jo didn't know what this was about.

"Everything alright? What have you noticed?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders, not knowing what the other person wanted from him.

"I mean, you two look so alike, just the eyes alone," Sarah said, and immediately Elijah and Jo simultaneously blurted out, "No, we don't!"

Jo merely rolled his eyes. Elijah said, "I've told you before, I have no relatives besides my parents, no brothers, no cousins. I mean, maybe it's just a coincidence, ever thought of that? There are plenty of people who have the same eye colour or who look similar in one way or another."

"Yes, yes, alright, and you, Pryle?" Sarah said, a little disappointed.

"Firstly, my name's Jo, and secondly, no, and if so, I haven't a clue, my parents died in a car crash," Jo said, cold and distant, hoping to be freed from this situation soon.

"Oh," Sarah and Elijah said, visibly affected, "that… that's awful, I'm so sorry," Sarah added, "does that mean you're Muggle-born like Elijah too?"

Jo shook his head; he had quickly learned the terms, in Slytherin they were important.

"No, half-blood," he said dryly, knowing full well that this would surely be followed by more disparaging glances, but they didn't come. Only a somewhat understanding look, and then Sarah nudged Jo.

"If you like, you can still come with us to the library. It's just here," she said, pointing to the door, through which a room filled with countless books and tables for working could be seen. At one of the tables, Jo recognised Neville and Harry sitting there too. He would have loved to talk to them, perhaps they knew a solution to his battery problem, but to go to a library for that? What would he do there? He couldn't make any sense of it anyway.

"Nah, nah, you two go on without me. As if I'd waste my time with books, I've got better things to do." And Jo walked on, without looking back again.

 

Friday was much like the days before. This time, he had Potions. He sat with the other Slytherins on one side of the room. A gloomy atmosphere hung in the air, suiting Slytherin like the rest of the dungeons. Not least, their Head of House was also their Potions Master. Professor Snape had certainly made an impression on Jo on the first day, one he couldn't quite decipher, and that bothered him.

When Snape swept into the room, all eyes were on him. He spoke of Potions needing no wands and such. Good, Jo thought, perhaps one of the few subjects where I won't have problems. But he was mistaken. When Snape questioned the class on their knowledge, Jo could only shine with his ignorance, much to the displeasure of the other Slytherins and Snape himself. Even Vikram, who sat beside him and whispered the answer in his ear, was disappointed that Jo preferred to say, "I don't know, Sir." But to Jo's relief, Snape hadn't deducted points from him, unlike the Gryffindors. Poor Colin Creevey, as Jo noticed, was particularly singled out by Snape. He should stick his gaze in a book rather than the viewfinder of a camera. The Slytherins next to Jo snickered at the remark, but Jo didn't know if he should join them.

When it was time to prepare the ingredients for a potion, Vikram sent him off. In front of the ingredient cupboard, Jo observed what all his classmates were grabbing. So he did the same. It seemed he had gathered everything. They were supposed to brew a potion, the recipe for which was on the blackboard and in the book. Vikram immediately noticed that the recipes differed. Jo didn't know what to do. So he made the best of it and watched what his classmates were doing. Which ingredients they threw into the cauldron in front of him, how and when. Basically, it's like cooking, Jo thought. Something he had never really done either, but it would somehow go wrong, he thought.

When he threw something slimy into the pot, the colour changed from orange to red. And suddenly, it began to bubble furiously. "Sir?" Jo asked Snape uncertainly, wondering if that was right. When Snape's eyes fell on him and then on the cauldron, his eyes widened, and Snape seemed to grow even paler than he already was, Jo thought. Immediately, he drew his wand and muttered something Jo didn't understand. Instantly, a dome of light appeared around the cauldron, and no sooner had the dome lowered to the table than it went Bang , and it seemed as if the cauldron and its liquid had exploded, but fortunately, the explosion was contained by the dome.

Snape looked furiously at Jo.

"Pryle, you will stay after class. Now, you can clean up your mess. Be glad you warned me of your foolishness in time," Snape said, swallowing deeply. "Five points from Slytherin." Snape seemed displeased to deduct points from his own House. Something Jo still didn't understand; this whole points system was utterly daft in his opinion. It only fostered mistrust, resentment, and discord among the students, who, in Jo's eyes, should actually stick together against the teachers.

Snape kept Jo in the classroom after class, while the rest left. No one waited for Jo, why would they?

"Explain yourself, Pryle, what was that all about? Are you incapable of following a simple recipe? Your foolishness could have injured you and your classmates. I expect you to follow the recipe more precisely in the future. And let me tell you this: just because you think I am your Head of House, you are mistaken if you believe I wouldn't also deduct points and give detentions," Snape said nastily, glaring at him. Jo merely nodded. He couldn't say anything.

"And let me tell you something else, I am perfectly aware of your… your behaviour here on the first day and all the amusing things you got up to in Diagon Alley. Believe me, I tolerate neither troublemakers nor young pilferers." Snape looked at him, probably trying to read him.

"Sir, the caretaker, Filch, he… I mean… I didn't do anything. He says I tried to steal something, but it's not true, Sir. I was just walking through the castle, honestly, I mean, there was so much time, and Harry and Neville were, well, gone, and I was alone, Sir, I just wanted to look around."

Snape sighed at Jo's explanation and closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and looked at Jo with a stony expression.

"It would do you good to end your acquaintance with Potter and Longbottom. I dread to think what harebrained ideas you three might come up with." Jo merely looked disdainfully at Snape. As if he would let him dictate who or what he was friends with.

"Another thing, Mr. Pryle," Snape said, looking at him, "where are your writing implements? I haven't seen any. Are you so conceited that you think you don't need to take notes?"

"No, Sir," Jo said, looking at the floor, "I… I forgot them… thought perhaps we wouldn't need them here, because, well, we're brewing potions and all." Jo lied. He hadn't brought them, not because he thought he wouldn't need them, but because he didn't need them anyway.

He looked up at Snape again and saw him raise an eyebrow.

"Be that as it may, I am aware of your situation with the orphanage. Did it provide you with everything necessary? Should anything be missing, it can certainly be arranged for you to receive something later," he said, seeming to scrutinise Jo. "You will definitely need a new cauldron, but that shouldn't be a problem, surely a replacement will be found."

"Yes, Sir, I was equipped by the orphanage," Jo said, somewhat surprised that an adult was halfway interested in his situation. Most people overlooked him, unless they could gain something from him. So why had Snape shown this interest?

"Sir, I'm sorry about the cauldron," Jo said, a little wistfully. He hoped this halfway genuine remorse would get him dismissed quickly, because he honestly couldn't stand it here any longer. This uncertainty behind Snape's motivation concerning him made him sceptical of his Head of House.

"You may go, Mr. Pryle, but woe betide if I hear of you falling back into your old ways." Relieved, Jo left the classroom.

When Jo returned to the first-years' common room after dinner on Friday evening, a wave of biting comments washed over him as soon as he opened the door.

"You can be glad Snape reacted so quickly, you could have injured us all! You're too stupid to brew a potion properly, aren't you?" Harper sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

"Yes, that they even let you in here. You're barely not a Squib. They should have left you where you were," Lofthouse added with a nasty grin, his words like daggers.

Jo tried to ignore their taunts, but the fury simmered within him. He stormed into his dormitory, slamming the door behind him with a resounding thud. He could hear his classmates' mocking laughter, a chorus of jeers that twisted his gut. He was sick of it. He couldn't take it anymore. But what was he to do? Running away wasn't really an option yet; he didn't even have a clue where this sprawling school was. Running away needed to be planned, meticulously.

But he could disappear from the dormitory, Jo thought, a desperate plan forming in his mind. Sleep somewhere else. Jo was good at finding alternative sleeping places, and the castle seemed vast enough to swallow him whole. He packed everything he needed, cramming his few possessions into his rucksack. Most important to him were his cassette player and his precious cassettes, his last tangible links to a world he understood. He had packed. He had everything.

But now he sat on the bed, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. Should he really flee the common room? Should he really give in and give Harper and Lofthouse the satisfaction of driving him out? But then Jo heard Lofthouse's voice again, sharp and venomous: "Honestly, Thakur, how you even get along with Pryle amazes me. That his stupidity hasn't landed you in the Hospital Wing yet is a miracle."

Vikram didn't seem to reply, but Jo didn't care. He was incandescent with rage, he couldn't bear these taunts any longer. With a surge of desperate defiance, he stormed out of the dormitory into the first-years' common room, ignoring the startled faces of those sitting in their armchairs. With his old rucksack on his back, he fled the Slytherin common room and the cold, damp dungeons. He wandered through the castle, driven by a raw, burning rage and suppressing the hot, stinging tears that threatened to spill.

How long he was on the move, he had no idea, nor on which floor he was. Eventually, he found a kind of old storage room. Many large rolls of parchment were crammed together, reaching almost to the ceiling, and the room had a large window facing the courtyard, though it was too dark to make out anything clearly, only guess that the Hogwarts grounds were somewhere out there. The room is perfect , Jo thought, a flicker of grim satisfaction. Secluded, and it doesn't seem to have been used for a long time , which could be seen from the thick cobwebs and layers of dust that lay over the large rolls standing upright in the room. Jo made himself comfortable by the window, curling up against the cold stone. For now, it would suffice. He took out his cassette player and switched it on. Silence. Utter, crushing silence. No music.

A single tear traced a hot path down Jo's face, then two, and finally a torrent, a river of tears. Slowly, he seemed to sob himself to sleep, the exhaustion and despair finally claiming him. He wanted away from here, he wasn't safe here, everyone seemed to have something against him. Weeping, Jo fell asleep with his head on his rucksack and his gaze fixed on the dark, impenetrable expanse outside the window, longing for a world where he truly belonged.

 

Saturday morning broke, and Jo stirred, blinking against the pale light that filtered through the dusty window. He didn't quite remember falling asleep. The cold, hard stone floor was a stark, unwelcome contrast to the soft, emerald-green duvet in the dormitory he'd fled. But then, he admitted to himself, he'd known far worse nights. Nights he tried desperately to forget, to push deep down into the corners of his mind where they couldn't reach him.

Jo gazed out at the sprawling grounds, his amber eyes scanning every detail. From the courtyard, his gaze drifted to tall, wooden structures. From up here, he thought, he'd finally get a proper overview. An overview he desperately needed, for his gut told him he wouldn't last much longer within these ancient, magical walls. Yesterday evening had been a stark reminder: he needed a plan, an escape route, and quickly. He left his few belongings hidden in the room, a small, anxious hope stirring that no one would stumble upon them. Then, silent as a shadow, he slipped through the still-sleeping castle.

He found himself on the fourth floor, and it took another ten minutes of careful navigation through winding corridors until he finally emerged into the cool, fresh morning air. It was a liberating breath, a stark contrast to the stifling air of the dungeons. He walked towards the wooden structures, which, up close, loomed even taller than he'd imagined. But that wouldn't deter him. One wooden rung after another, he began to climb, his muscles burning with effort. It was exhausting, but with his goal in sight – a clear view of the surrounding landscape – he pushed on.

At the top, panting, he collapsed for a moment, savouring the feeling of physical exertion and the vast, blue September sky above him. A rare, genuine smile touched his lips. After a while, he sat up, his eyes sweeping over the distant, rolling hills that cradled the castle and the shimmering Black Lake. He spotted a small village nestled in the valley, not far from Hogwarts. A place he could retreat to, a potential escape.

Then Jo's gaze fell upon the field below, where a group of students stood together. From their colours, he could tell they were a mix of Slytherins and Gryffindors, and they all seemed to be holding brooms. Brooms? Jo wondered. Were they sweeping the pitch for detention? He doubted it. Then the group split, and four Gryffindor students began to approach the tower. He recognised Harry and Neville among them, along with a girl and a red-haired boy. Jo's heart gave a little thump. He absolutely had to speak to them. Perhaps they knew a solution for his broken cassette player.

He scrambled down as fast as he could, hearing a faint shout from below, though he couldn't make out the words. Just then, his school uniform robe snagged on a splintered wooden rung. Blast it! Jo thought, tugging frantically. In his haste, the material ripped, and he lost his footing. With a sickening jolt, he tumbled to the ground.

“It's alright,” Jo gasped, even as Harry and Neville rushed towards him, the pain in his wrist already beginning to throb. “It's not that bad, fuck, I'll be fine, had worse.” But the pain flared, sharp and insistent, and the world around him began to blur. He knew how to handle himself; he always had. He'd manage this too.

But Harry and Neville didn't seem to want to leave his side. In a semi-daze, he felt one of them press against his left wrist, and a fresh wave of agony shot through him. Instinctively, a crude insult burst from his lips. "Ow! Hey, you git, fuck, what was that for?" He barely saw their startled reactions, only their blurred outlines. They seemed to be arguing about who should take him to the castle, to the 'Hospital Wing'. Jo wanted to protest, to tell them he didn't need their help, but no proper words would form. Only meaningless, quiet murmurs escaped him.

Finally, he realised it was Neville who was helping him up, leading him towards the castle. Halfway there, his head cleared a little, and a fresh wave of despair washed over him as he felt the gaping tear in the back of his only school uniform. "Bloody hell, no, please no! What am I going to do? Where am I supposed to get a new one now? Fuck!" Jo muttered aloud, the words reaching Neville. It was Neville who then explained that there were magical beings who could help mend his robe. Jo clung to that hope, a desperate, fragile thread.

Eventually, they arrived at the Hospital Wing, and Jo's stomach lurched. It was a vast, sterile room, lined with beds, each one a stark white island. A woman, whom Jo instantly labelled 'hysterical' in his mind, rushed towards him, her voice a flurry of questions directed at Neville. To Jo's relief, Neville seemed to explain what had happened, for Jo was still too dazed by pain and the sheer strangeness of it all to string together a coherent sentence.

No sooner had Neville finished than the nurse, who introduced herself as Madam Pomfrey, thanked him and, to Jo's quiet dismay, sent Neville away. When they were finally alone, Madam Pomfrey began to scold him, her voice brisk, telling him how foolish he'd been. Yet, beneath the reprimand, Jo sensed a strange, unsettling intent to 'care' for him. He swallowed whatever foul-tasting concoction she pressed into his hand, and miraculously, the pain vanished. Then he heard her murmur Episkey , felt a faint warmth as she touched her wand to his wrist.

"As good as new, Mr. Pryle," she said, a small, unnerving smile on her face.

"Can I go?" Jo asked immediately, his voice flat. He wanted out. Hospitals, or 'wings' as they called them here, always meant questions, prying eyes, and endless forms, should he ever be foolish enough to need their 'help'. To his immense relief, she let him go.

Jo spent the rest of Saturday making his hidden room comfortable, the memory of the hospital already fading like a bad dream. To his astonishment, his hand truly felt as good as new. Magic, he thought, a flicker of grudging wonder. So it was real, after all. And still utterly bewildering.

 

The weeks that followed blurred into a peculiar rhythm for Jo. His days were a careful dance of blending in, of becoming as unremarkable as the dusty tapestries lining the castle walls. In every class, he sought to be a shadow, observing, mimicking, and hoping against hope that no one would truly notice him. To his utter astonishment, a spark of something akin to talent flickered within him during Charms lessons. Professor Flitwick, the tiny, bustling figure, was always pleased with Jo's surprisingly swift grasp of the spells, and Jo found himself learning with an ease he hadn't expected. The undeniable fact that he could, indeed, perform magic was the only anchor that kept him tethered to this bewildering castle.

Yet, the chilling disdain from his 'oh-so-illustrious' Slytherin classmates remained a constant, icy draught, their sneers and whispers a daily reminder of his outsider status. So, more often than not, Jo retreated to his refuge, a small, forgotten chamber, tucked away in the castle's labyrinthine depths. Over the weeks, he had transformed it into a semblance of comfort, a haven of stolen cushions and blankets that seemed to appear as if by magic, just as his tattered school robe had miraculously mended itself. He often wondered if those peculiar creatures Neville had mentioned, the house-elves, were somehow involved. And so, as the crisp days of September drifted into memory, Jo found himself slowly, almost imperceptibly, settling into the bewildering reality of being a wizard. His carefully guarded secret, seemed for now to remain hidden, a silent companion in this new, extraordinary world.

Yet, by the end of September, everything seemed to be crumbling. Snape kept him back again after a Friday Potions lesson. Until then, there had been no incident, so why did he have to stay, Jo wondered.

Snape looked at Jo with a stony face.

"Mr. Pryle, it has come to my attention that you are not handing in your essays? And not just to me. And you appear to be making no notes in class." Snape's voice sounded accusatory. "Do you think that just because you fare well in practical work, you don't need to? I expect more discipline from you; I have hesitated too long, hoping you would mend your ways, but..."

Before Snape could finish, Jo interrupted him.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I, I, I'll do better... I promise," Jo tried to find words to escape the situation. How was he to maintain his secret, he wondered; he needed essays that could be his, perhaps he could bribe an older student, but with what? Here, it was certainly not as easy as on the streets, where people did each other favours to survive. 'One hand washes the other' was the motto there, and never question too deeply. But here? Here it wasn't possible, at least not so quickly, Jo thought.

Snape looked at him disbelievingly and raised an eyebrow.

"Then be so kind and start right here, right now; consider it detention for believing for weeks that you had better things to do with your time than study for my class. Others may overlook it and give you poor grades without further question, but I will not tolerate negligence from my Slytherins." Snape said with a piercing voice. Jo swallowed. How was he to get out of this?

"Sir, my writing implements, I don't have them with me." Jo stammered.

"No problem." Snape said coolly, "Here are parchment and quill, begin," and pointed to a table where both lay. Jo walked slowly over and took the quill in his hand. It was an unfamiliar feeling; what was he supposed to do? He couldn't even write with a pen, so how was he supposed to do it with a quill?

"Never written with a quill? Do you need an extra invitation, or should I turn the quill into a pen for you?" Snape sounded sarcastic but not truly unkind, more as if he expected a reaction from Jo.

"Sir, I don't know how to start, I mean, what to write." Jo said in a quiet, humbled voice.

"Is that so? How about you take a look at your book then? Or do you not have that with you either, Mr. Pryle?" Snape continued in his piercing tone. Jo shook his head, whereupon Snape sighed and then pushed the textbook towards him.

"Read it, aloud," Snape said gruffly, emphasising the last word. Jo winced a little. It was unavoidable, he thought. He couldn't prevent it any longer.

Jo slowly took the book before him. Snape apparently thought he was too slow, for he had, with an eye-roll, opened the page of the book he wanted Jo to read aloud.

"What are you waiting for? Do you think I have all day to play along with your delaying tactics?" At Snape's insistent words, Jo shook his head. There was definitely no turning back now. He tried to make out the words written there.

"Th... The... The... s... sim... simp... simple... P."

Jo tried to read somehow, but to both his relief and acute embarrassment, Snape interrupted him.

"Just as I thought," he said coldly, "You cannot read or write, I presume?" Snape asked him and looked at Jo. Jo's gaze immediately dropped. This was it; he would be expelled from Hogwarts. He had only just got used to being a wizard, and now it was all over. Instead of answering, Jo stood up and wanted to go to the door. To fetch his things, because he suspected he would soon be sent away; who would want someone like him here, neither raised in this world nor able to read or write? But before Jo had moved even half a metre from the table, Snape's echoing voice stopped him from behind.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Jo froze. What was he to do? He turned slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor, unable to meet his Head of House's eyes.

"Explain yourself," Snape said dryly, his voice a silken sneer. "Were you not taught to read and write in the Muggle world? Are you familiar with the concept of a primary school, or did you keep clear of that too?"

Jo bristled at Snape's comment. Of course, he knew what a primary school was; he'd even gone to one, though not for long. At some point, he’d realised no one cared if he was in school or not, and that was precisely when he’d run away from the orphanage, as no one there cared for his well-being either. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Sir, I, well, I," Jo didn't know how to explain it, but to his relief, Snape stopped him there.

"Spare me the words," he said, and Jo braced himself, expecting to be expelled from Hogwarts, but what Snape said next surprised him.

"You have a noticeable deficit, but that should not prevent you from excelling here. You have talent, no question, and it would be a shame if it were to fail due to the neglect of others."

Jo wasn't quite sure what Snape was getting at. Snape took a deep breath and tried to compose his stony expression once more.

"Consider this detention for your misdeeds, but we shall resolve the problem." Snape paused briefly, letting the moment hang in the air. "Together."

"Sir, you want to help me?" Jo was astonished; never had an adult truly wanted to help him without expecting something in return. "You want to teach me to read and write?" Jo sounded utterly bewildered.

"Is that so preposterous to you?" Snape asked with a slight sneer.

"Yes, Sir, I mean, I'm not going to suck your dick or anything," Jo blurted out, surprised by his own sudden honesty. Had he seriously expected to have to give his teacher a blow job?

But before Jo could retract what he'd said, for he hadn't meant to say it like that, he saw Snape turn pale. Snape seemed to scrutinise him from head to toe, calculating something, and then the formerly horrified-looking teacher resumed his stony expression, staring at him.

"Come with me," he said.

"What, no!" Jo cried, not knowing what the teacher wanted from him. Jo only thought the worst.

"I said, come with me, we are going to Madam Pomfrey, immediately," Snape's voice was commanding. But even if the prospect of being taken to the Hospital Wing was better than being dragged off somewhere with Snape, to a storeroom or something where he'd have to do him a favour – not that Jo would expect such a thing from Snape, he wasn't that type, but that was how other adults who demanded favours from him had behaved so far.

Jo didn't move, rooted to the spot, whereupon Snape grabbed him by the collar and dragged him through the castle, from the dungeons up towards the Hospital Wing. Jo struggled vehemently. He lashed out lightly, shouting, "Let go, you bastard!" But he couldn't break free. Then, right in the castle's entrance hall, he saw his chance. He bit Snape's hand, who immediately cried out and released him.

Jo darted out of the castle, heedless of whom or what he ran into. He must have knocked over a few students, he thought, but he had to get away, immediately. He saw a forest at the edge of the castle grounds, an ideal place to hide. He tried to reach it before others could stop and hold him back. As he ran past a somewhat dilapidated hut compared to the castle, a giant of a man, the biggest Jo had ever seen, called out to him.

"Hold on there, boy, don't go in there, it's too... too dangerous, yeh know."

But Jo no longer heard him, for he had already vanished into the woods.

The darker the forest became, the slower Jo ran. Eventually, he couldn't tell where he had come from. He didn't care. He took a breath, catching his wind. Where was he? He needed to find his bearings. But he was safe. At least, he hoped so.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! 😃

This chapter is our first glimpse into the wizarding world through Jo's eyes. It seems he's a deeply traumatized kid, and I apologize for that, but living on his own and on the streets for so long would undoubtedly leave its mark. It also appears that Snape is the first adult who genuinely wants to help him.

And of course, we have the delightful Harper and Lofthouse! Just a quick note: Harper is actually a book character mentioned by Ginny, so he officially makes his first-year appearance here. The other characters are drawn from various Harry Potter games, and I felt they fit well into the story.

I hadn't initially planned to stop the chapter here, especially with Jo heading into the Forbidden Forest. However, I realized the chapter was becoming much longer than anticipated, so I decided to split it in half. The second part will likely be posted when I return from my vacation (apologies for the wait, but perhaps I'll find time to finish it while I'm away, so it can be posted right after I'm back).

As always, I'm eager to hear your comments and thoughts!

Chapter 11: Chapter Ten: When The Truth Comes Out

Summary:

After a moment of panic, Jo flees into the Forbidden Forest, haunted by guilt and the memory of his actions. He finds a moment of solace with an unexpected companion, but as more secrets about his past are revealed, he finds himself in need of help from an even more surprising source.

Notes:

Welcome back to Chapter 10.

Please be aware that this chapter delves into Jo's past. While it is revealed that Jo faced various abusive situations during his time as a street child, including sexual abuse, these topics are not described directly. They are only implied and mentioned in a loose context.

Why?

The thought hammered in Jo's head, in time with his feet stumbling over the uneven forest floor. Why did I have to bite him?

Snape had wanted to help him. That was the most absurd thing about the whole situation. An adult, a teacher , had actually wanted to help him, and Jo had reacted like a cornered, wild animal. He had bitten. The surprised, pained cry of his Head of House still echoed in his ears, louder than the crackling of branches under his feet. Now it was all over. Definitely. They wouldn't let him back, not after what he had done. With that one, panicked bite, he had finally sealed his time at Hogwarts.

With this dark, heavy thought, Jo ran deeper and deeper into the forest. It quickly grew dark around him; the dense canopy of ancient trees swallowed the last daylight and plunged everything into an eerie, green twilight. How he wished he had his cassette player with him now. How he longed to hear the distorted guitar riffs of Iron Maiden that usually carried him over his fear. But the device lay useless in his hiding place on the fourth floor of the castle. Jo had learned the hard way that electronics didn't work at Hogwarts. He had asked Colin Creevey, that annoying little Gryffindor with the camera, how his Muggle camera worked here, and he had explained that Professor McGonagall had specially enchanted it for him. But Jo would never ask the strict Head of Gryffindor for such a thing. She would certainly do him no good, because he was a Slytherin. And Snape? Snape would hate him from now on. He had bitten him. Why on earth did Jo have to bite him? Snape meant no harm, and now Jo had pushed away the only adult who might have helped him unconditionally, in the stupidest way imaginable.

Tree followed tree, their gnarled branches reaching out like bony fingers. The ground was soft and yielding, covered by a thick layer of damp moss and rotting leaves. Jo didn't know where he was running. Every step felt like one in the wrong direction, but there was no turning back for him. So he ran on, deeper and deeper into the darkness of the forest.

A rustling behind him made him flinch. Am I being followed? No, it was just some animal scurrying through the undergrowth. Oh, what wouldn't he give for his Iron Maiden cassette now. Then Jo had an idea. He knew the lyrics. He knew the melody. He could sing to himself. Sing himself courage, even if he didn't have the cassette with him that usually helped him in such situations. In his head, he could already hear the first few bars. He remembered them well.

 

"I am a man who walks alone

And when I'm walking a dark road

At night or strolling through the park…"

 

His voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper, but it was something, a small anchor in this strange, eerie world. Even the air in the forest had changed. No breath of wind. Only the slightly stale smell of old earth and damp leaves. The chirping of birds had long since fallen silent. He was completely alone. But was he really? Or was someone here after all? Again that rustling, this time closer. But he absolutely refused to look back. Straight ahead. This forest had to end eventually, didn't it?

 

"When the light begins to change

I sometimes feel a little strange

A little anxious when it's dark…"

 

Then Jo almost tripped over a thick, gnarled root. But before he fell over the old, protruding wood, he merely stumbled slightly. He looked down at the ground for a moment and froze. Right next to the root, something was moving.

A street of spiders. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, crawled in a long, unbroken line, as if following an invisible trail. Jo had never seen anything like it in all his time on the streets. He wasn't really afraid of spiders. He had often slept in various abandoned sheds where huge spiders had built their webs, but he didn't know this strange, purposeful behaviour from them. He looked to see where they were going. It seemed as if the spiders were all moving into an even darker, eerier part of the forest. The direction they were crawling was covered in dense, sticky cobwebs, and something in Jo, an old, deep-seated instinct, screamed at him that he should under no circumstances go in that direction. Who knew what kind of spiders existed in this crazy, magical world. So he continued on his way, away from the spiders, hoping to finally get out of this cursed forest.

 

"Have you run your fingers down the wall

And have you felt your neck skin crawl

When you're searching for the light?

Sometimes when you're scared to take a look

At the corner of the room You've sensed that something's watching you…"

 

Again, there was a rustling behind him. Louder this time, closer. His heart began to pound, a wild drumbeat against his ribs.

What was that? Something's there. Something's following me.

The hairs on his neck stood on end. Should he dare to turn around? Jo swallowed hard, his throat parched. If someone was there now, what would he do? Where would he run? He had no knife, nothing to defend himself with.

A picture flashed in his mind, a memory he had buried deep. Barely a few weeks on the street, he had seen three drunk men fighting after a lost football match. Two against one. When the lone man was cornered, he had pulled a knife. With precise jabs, he had freed himself, leaving his attackers bleeding on the ground. Jo had seen the man throw the knife into a bush before the sirens wailed. Fascinated and driven by a naive sense of security, he had picked it up, washing the blood off in a nearby river. Today, he knew how foolish that had been. It was a murder weapon. But he had been so young, and the knife had felt like a shield.

But now he didn't have it anymore. Those blasted Aurors had taken it from him. He was defenceless. Instinctively, his hand went to the spot on his trousers where he used to hide the knife. But instead of cold steel, he felt something hard, elongated. His wand. Right , he thought bitterly, I'm a wizard now, aren't I? He pulled out the wand of dark, almost black wood. It was barely decorated, unlike the others. He'd heard someone else's before, hadn't he? But what good was it to him? He didn't know a single spell that would help him now. He hadn't read the Defence Against the Dark Arts book – how could he? And that odd bird Lockhart was far too preoccupied with himself to have taught them even one sensible protective charm. Not Jo's words, but Cowley's, but they were true.

Nevertheless, he turned around, the useless stick outstretched like a weapon. He stared in the direction from which the sound had come. It was just a bush, looking eerie and menacing in the fading light of the forest.

"Who… Who's there?" Jo tried to call out in a loud, firm voice, as if he wasn't afraid. But there was no answer. Again, just a rustling. And then, yes, then he saw it.

From the dark green of the bush, a long, pink snout slowly emerged, almost like a beak. And attached to this snout was a small, rounded body, covered in dark, fluffy fur. Two small, black eyes blinked at him, almost as if asking what he was doing here alone in the forest. Jo had never seen an animal like it. It was barely larger than a small rabbit or a mole, which it resembled somewhat with its stocky build. Jo had often seen moles when he walked alone through the fields in the morning, but this animal was definitely not a mole. Its snout was too long and too strangely shaped for that. It stood up on its hind paws and simply looked at Jo, its head tilted slightly. What does it want from me? Jo thought suspiciously.

"Shoo! Go away!" he said, but the animal didn't move and continued to just look at him. Jo didn't know if the animal would be dangerous to him. Who knew what was dangerous and what wasn't in this strange, magical world?

He noticed the black ball of fur slowly moving towards him. Okay, it won't hurt you, it won't hurt you , Jo told himself inwardly and tried to calm his racing heart. He crouched down to the small animal.

"Well?" he said softly. "Are you lost too?" As if the creature would understand him. But apparently, it seemed to understand Jo somehow, for it looked at him with an almost pleading expression. Jo grinned slightly. Somehow, it was rather cute, this little fellow.

"Are you scared here in the dark forest too?" he asked softly. Again, the animal just looked at Jo, but it seemed to understand him. Jo put his wand away. And the moment he wasn't looking, the animal quickly scrambled into the open pocket of his robe. Jo had to smile.

"Well, you've made yourself comfortable there. Do you want to come with me?" What a silly question, Jo thought, as if the animal or he himself knew where he was going. But since the animal didn't climb out of his pocket again, Jo left it there.

"Alright, if you want to stay with me, then please do." Jo then continued to look for a way out of the forest. But he wasn't truly alone anymore. He had found someone, even if it was just a very, very strange-looking mole or something similar. And as he walked on, he continued to sing the song loudly in his head.

 

"Have you ever been alone at night

Thought you heard footsteps behind

And turned around and no one's there?

And as you quicken up your pace

You find it hard to look again

Because you're sure there's someone there"

 

Jo didn't know how long he had been walking, it felt like an eternity. But eventually, he felt the air change. The dense, suffocating canopy of trees thinned, and a small clearing opened up before him.

Fresh air! Air that didn't smell of damp earth and decay, Jo thought, breathing deeply and greedily. Even the small creature, still hidden in his pocket, seemed to notice the change, its small head with the long snout peeking out curiously.

Jo looked around. Yes, it was a clearing, a small island of peace, but all around still lurked the dark, impenetrable forest. And as night was already falling and the shadows grew longer and more sinister, Jo had no desire to go back into that gloomy thicket.

He wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but Jo was afraid. What should he do now? Why did he have to bite Snape? Why did he have to run away? He had messed everything up. There was no going back. With a feeling of utter defeat, he sank onto an old, moss-covered tree stump, his back leaning against the rotting wood.

Jo, what have you done? he thought, burying his face in his hands. He had pushed away the first adult who truly wanted to help him, in the stupidest way imaginable. A warm tear ran down his cheek, then another. He grieved.

For now, in this moment of absolute desolation, it painfully dawned on him for the first time that Hogwarts, as strange and hostile as it had seemed to him at first, could actually have become something like a home for him. A place with a warm bed and regular meals. A place where he might even have found friends. And then, like another punch to the gut, he remembered: his cassette player. He had left it behind in his hiding place in the castle. Jo's greatest, his only treasure.

He had been given it when he was four years old, by an older boy with whom he had shared a room in one of the many bleak homes. The boy hadn't been able to bear Jo crying all night. At first, he had given him old audio play cassettes that had helped him fall asleep in the lonely nights. #Later, as he grew older, Jo had discovered music for himself. He no longer knew who it had been, but someone had shown him rock music, and Jo had immediately been captivated by the wild, untamed guitar sound.

In another home, a teenager had then shown him how to copy music from one cassette to another, and so Jo had started collecting. He had guarded his favourite songs like a treasure, and now… now he had left them behind. This thought, combined with the crushing feeling of having destroyed all the chances he had been given with a single, foolish action, overwhelmed him.

A sob escaped his throat, then another, until he wept uncontrollably, here, in this lonely clearing, alone with his despair. He didn't know when or why, but suddenly he felt a gentle movement in his pocket.

Of course, the little fellow from the forest, he had almost forgotten it again. It slowly climbed out and looked at him with its small, pearl-like eyes, its head tilted slightly. It climbed onto Jo's stomach, and then it began to rummage with its tiny paws in a kind of pouch it apparently have like a kangaroo. And what it pulled out made Jo gasp in disbelief. Headphones. How the hell…? And then he recognised them. They were his headphones. The ones he had forgotten in his robe when he had been fiddling with his cassette player, because he hadn't expected the batteries to be dead.

"Hey, those are mine!" Jo said, his voice a mixture of anger and incredulous astonishment, as the little fellow held out the headphones to him. He took them gratefully, and a small, hesitant smile flitted across his tear-stained face. But what good were the headphones to him now? Nothing. Yet the small creature looked at him as if it expected a "thank you." Jo gently stroked its fluffy fur, and it seemed to enjoy the touch, for after a short while it snuggled up on Jo's stomach and fell asleep.

Jo grinned briefly, but the smile quickly faded again, for night had now truly fallen, and it was getting noticeably chilly. A cold gust of wind made him shiver. Lightly sobbing and stroking his new, strange companion, Jo closed his eyes. He hoped that when he woke up tomorrow, he might find a way out of this whole mess.

But that was not to be. Jo hadn't even been able to close his eyes for a moment.

He felt the cold wind gnawing at him. It was cold. He knew the feeling. But somehow, it was worse than usual. For too long now, he'd had a warm refuge. Again and again, he had to remind himself how bad the first few days are once summer ends and the nights grow colder. He knew the feeling. But now, at the same time, to feel the loss, the loss of that strange sense of security he had found here at Hogwarts. Why did he have to do that? Why on earth did Jo always manage to mess everything up?

As Jo noticed the moon traversing the night sky, some time must indeed have passed. Even if he couldn't truly sleep deeply, at least his new animal companion seemed to find sleep. On Jo's stomach. As Jo began to stroke him, he heard voices.

They seemed to be calling. For him? Did the voices seem to be calling for him? What did they want?

And then the thought came again. They certainly wanted to punish him for what he had done. Just like in all the homes. If Jo somehow broke the rules, he had felt it in most of the homes. And the absence of food was the least of the punishments. No, I mustn't be found , Jo thought. And tried to hide in a nearby bush. He made himself as small as possible. And as the voices grew louder, he saw a tall, no, a giant man with a lantern and a large, wrinkled, dark, and slobbering dog emerge from the forest, and behind them was Snape. Professor Snape.

He had his wand drawn, and both seemed to be calling him. Jo would gladly say "Here!" but what then? He had bitten Snape, and he would punish him, no, even expel him from Hogwarts, but why didn't he look angry? They called for him again.

This now also woke the animal, which Jo held tightly. Lightly struggling, it tried to free itself from Jo's grip. Very softly, Jo hissed at it.

"Shhh, be quiet, please."

But it seemed as if Jo's pleading and the animal's attempts to free itself had attracted Snape's attention. With his wand drawn, he pointed it at the bush. Jo saw Snape draw smoething in the air from his perspective and murmur Revelio.

Jo felt something invisible and inconspicuous pulling at him, yes, it literally tingled. But Jo didn't move. Nevertheless, Snape now seemed certain that Jo was hiding in the bush, for he walked straight towards him. His wand no longer outstretched, but his hand. Jo held his breath, expecting a fist or some other, in his eyes, justified reaction from his probably former Head of House.

But that was not to be. The hand pulled him up out of the bush.

"Thank Merlin, Mr Pryle, to have found you here. Who knows what creature you would have run into through your foolishness," were Snape's cold words, though he apparently sounded somewhat relieved to have found Jo, which noticeably confused Jo.

"Sorry, Sir," Jo mumbled, "You… You can send me away now, but could I please get my things first?"

"And why should I do that?"

"Well, I'd like my things."

"No, you idiot, why should I send you away?" Jo didn't know what to say to Snape's words. The tall man who had accompanied Snape seemed to be taking a keen interest in something else.

"Look 'ere, the young runaway seems to've found a friend, an' Fang seems ter like the Niffler too," said the giant man, holding the lantern in Jo's direction. Jo looked down and saw the large dog sniffing at the animal he held in his arms.

"A what, Sir?" Jo asked, probably guessing that the two adults knew what animal Jo had found.

"A Niffler, Mr Pryle. Extremely thievish. The irony of meeting you together is almost amusing."

"Oh, so you're a Niffler," Jo said and looked at his new friend.

"Aye, an' a male, by the looks o' him," said the giant, who now also approached Jo and stood beside him. "Lovely little creatures, they are, yeh. A bit o' a peculiar sense o' possession, but lovely all the same." Jo looked at the Niffler again.

"Can I keep him?" It was a childish thought, to keep him, but he hoped to be able to keep something that reminded him of his time here, if he had to leave the wizarding school.

"Mr Pryle, do us and your fellow students a favour and leave this pilferer where he came from. One is enough in the castle, and I'm not referring to Peeves." Somewhat disappointed, Jo looked down. He would have loved to keep him. He carefully set him down and said goodbye to his temporary companion.

"If yeh like, I'd be happy ter show yeh a whole nest o' Nifflers, next week or so," said the giant.

"Does that mean I'm not being expelled from Hogwarts?"

"If I hear Mr Hagrid's invitation here, Mr Pryle, then it seems that is not the case," Snape said.

"But I… I bit you," Jo stammered.

"Under the assumption I would harm you. It was an act of self-defence. Even if I can overlook that, we should discuss what led you to expect such behaviour from me. But first, we should go to Madam Pomfrey," Snape said coolly and calmly, as he conjured a blanket around Jo as if by magic. Snape took Jo by the arm and slowly led him away.

Jo looked back once more and saw the Niffler standing alone in the clearing, also looking at Jo. He seemed just as sad as Jo that he was being left behind. But Jo could no longer look back; for some irrational reason, the sorrow of having to lose this new friend again was too great.

But as Jo, together with Mr Hagrid, the dog Fang, and Snape, re-entered the forest towards the castle, Jo felt something secretly crawling into his pockets. A grin spread across Jo's face. He wasn't going to be expelled, not yet, and the Niffler absolutely refused to leave him.

Hagrid and Fang said their goodbyes at the hut, and Jo found himself alone with Snape on the long, silent path back to the castle. It must have been very early morning; the air was cold and damp, and the first, hesitant sunbeams struggled over the distant hills to bathe the night in a pale, grey light. Inside the castle itself, an almost eerie silence reigned. Everyone was still asleep, everyone but him and the dark, shadowy man who walked silently beside him.

An unpleasant feeling of guilt crept up on Jo. He had cost his Head of House his sleep, simply because he, Jo, had messed up again. He didn't dare to look at Snape, staring instead at his own worn-out shoes shuffling over the damp grass. He waited for the outburst. Now that they were alone, Snape would surely show him his true colours. Now the anger would come. Anger because he had bitten him. Anger because he had cost him his sleep. Anger because he had simply run off.

But Snape had said he wouldn't be expelled from Hogwarts. A small, hesitant spark of hope flickered in Jo, but he immediately extinguished it. He didn't trust Snape's words. How often had he been disappointed by adults? Jo knew better. Adults could say a lot when the day was long. In the end, they only disappointed you. In the end, they hurt you, sometimes with words, sometimes with their hands. In the end, they couldn't be relied upon.

Without exchanging a single word, they reached the Hospital Wing. The heavy oak door swung open with a soft creak, and Madam Pomfrey immediately hurried towards them, her white apron rustling with every step. Did she never sleep?

"Oh, Severus, thank Merlin you found him!" she cried, her voice a mix of relief and reproach. She rushed to Jo, her eyes scrutinising him from head to toe. "Mr Pryle, what on earth were you thinking? It's extremely dangerous in the Forbidden Forest, and alone at that!"

Jo didn't know what to say. He felt ashamed. A blush rose to his face, hot and betraying. He had caused them all so much trouble. He was a burden, just like always.

"Poppy," Snape interrupted the nurse's impending lecture with his usual cool, emotionless voice. "I want you to perform a full, detailed diagnosis on Mr Pryle."

Madam Pomfrey turned to him in surprise, a crease of confusion forming between her eyebrows.

"A full diagnosis? But Severus, he appears to have been found in good health. A little chilled perhaps, but nothing a Pepperup Potion couldn't remedy."

"I have my reasons," Snape retorted, his voice as sharp as a shard of ice. He stepped closer, his gaze grim. "I have a suspicion. And I sincerely hope I am wrong and we can rule something out."

Madam Pomfrey seemed to sense the ominous gravity in Snape's words. She nodded slowly, her expression now serious and concerned.

"Very well," she said, turning back to Jo. Her voice was now softer, but still firm. "Mr Pryle, please sit on that bed and take off your robes."

Jo obeyed mechanically. His heart began to beat an uneasy, hammering rhythm against his ribs. He sat on the edge of the bed, which felt cold and hard beneath him, and slipped the heavy Slytherin robes from his shoulders. Clad only in his old shirt and trousers, he suddenly felt defenceless.

"I will now perform a diagnostic spell," Madam Pomfrey explained, pulling out her wand. "It might tickle a little. The spell will reveal all injuries and ailments, even old ones."

Jo said nothing, just nodded silently. But inwardly, everything in him screamed. An icy knot tightened in his stomach. He suspected what this test would reveal. He had hoped to keep it secret forever, to banish it to the darkest corner of his mind where no one could find it. He wasn't proud of it. Nothing the test would reveal had happened voluntarily. He had done it to survive. He had endured it to survive. Jo knew it wasn't right, but had he ever had a choice? Had anyone ever given him a choice? The images flashed before his inner eye, unbidden and cruel: cold hands, dirty alleys, the metallic taste of fear on his tongue. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

As Madam Pomfrey finished the spell, a blank sheet of parchment hovered beside her in the air. With a soft scratching, an invisible quill began to write the results upon it. Jo dared not look. He stared instead at a crack in the stone floor, counting the seconds. One, two, three… The scratching ceased. An eerie silence settled over the room. Then he heard a soft, choked sound. He looked up and saw that Madam Pomfrey had gone pale, paler than the sheets on the beds around her. Her hand trembled as she held the parchment, and she seemed to be fighting back tears. Trembling, without a word, she handed the parchment to Snape. His face too turned ashen upon reading it, yet unlike the nurse, he maintained his iron composure. Only the barely perceptible twitch of a muscle in his jaw betrayed the shock that ran through him.

Snape slowly folded the parchment, his movements stiff and unnatural. He stepped towards Jo's bed, his black eyes unfathomable. The silence in the Hospital Wing was so thick that Jo could hear his own heart hammering.

"Mr Pryle," Snape began, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper that cut through the silence. "The results… they confirm my worst fears."

Jo looked up, his heart painfully contracting. What does he mean? he thought, panicked. The few scars? Some poorly healed wounds? He had sustained countless injuries over the years – falls, fights, accidents. But then there was the other. The thing he never spoke about. The things that happened in dark alleys and cold nights, when a roof over one's head or a handful of coins came with a price no child should ever have to pay.

Snape seemed to sense his inner struggle. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was strangely brittle. "The test shows… traces. Traces of… interactions a child should never have experienced."

Jo froze. He knew exactly what Snape was talking about. He felt the flush rise to his face, a wave of shame and fury. He wanted to scream, to run away, but he was paralysed.

"Who…" Snape asked, his voice so low that Jo had to strain to hear him. "Who were they?"

"No idea," Jo choked out, the words scratching in his throat. "I don't know their names. Some… some for a night's stay. Some for a bit of coin." He said it as if describing the weather, emotionless, detached. It was the only way not to break down.

"When…" Snape pressed on, and Jo could see him swallow, "…when was the first time?"

The question hit Jo like a punch. The memory he had suppressed for so long burst forth with full force. A dirty back alley. The smell of rubbish and cheap alcohol. He had been so hungry.

"When I was nine," he whispered.

Snape grew even paler, if that were possible. His face was now a chalk-white mask.

"I… I didn't know what they wanted from me back then," Jo added quickly, as if he had to defend himself. "I didn't understand."

Snape's dark eyes seemed to lose their composure for a moment, an expression of infinite pain and revulsion flashing within them.

"And the last time?" he asked, his voice barely a breath.

"This summer," Jo replied tonelessly. "For a place to sleep." He had learned that there were people who helped you for such a "favour." It was just another rule in the brutal game of survival.

"This must end," Snape said, and in his voice was a mixture of horror and iron determination.

And then, in that one moment, something in Jo broke. The carefully constructed wall of indifference and hardness shattered into a thousand pieces.

"DO YOU THINK I DO THIS WILLINGLY?!" he roared, his voice cracking with pent-up rage and despair.

"WHEN I WAS NINE, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT AWAITED ME! I CRIED FOR DAYS! FROM PAIN AND FROM SHAME!" He sprang from the bed, his fists clenched, his whole body trembling.

"AT SOME POINT, I HAD NO CHOICE! I HAD TO SURVIVE!"

He struggled with his composure, gasping for air, the words coming out in broken bursts. It wasn't easy to talk about it. It was like tearing open the wounds again and again. Snape didn't really seem to know what to say either. He just stared at Jo, his face an impenetrable mask. Madam Pomfrey, who had sat down by now, trembled all over, her hands clutching the arms of her chair, her face an expression of pure horror at the cruelty Jo had experienced.

"Poppy, is everything alright?" Snape asked, without taking his eyes off Jo. His voice was quiet, but firm.

Madam Pomfrey swallowed hard and nodded, unable to speak. She pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and full of tears.

"I… I'll be fine," she finally whispered, her voice breaking. "But I never… never thought people were capable of such… cruelty." She stood up, trembling, and approached Jo's bed. Her hand hovered uncertainly over his shoulder, as if she didn't know if she was allowed to touch him.

"Oh, my boy," she said, and her voice was filled with such deep, sincere pity that it almost physically pained Jo. "I'm so sorry. So truly sorry."

Pity. Jo hated pity. It was a useless, fleeting emotion. People felt sorry for him for a moment, saw the dirty boy on the street, perhaps threw him a coin, and then they were gone again, back to their clean, safe lives. And he was forgotten again. Pity didn't undo the deeds. It didn't alleviate the pain.

Snape shook his head barely perceptibly.

"I think Mr Pryle knows we want to help him," he said, and it sounded almost like a question directed at Jo.

Jo, who was still trembling all over, nodded silently. He didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore. But he wanted this conversation to stop.

"Good," Snape continued, turning back to the nurse. "Poppy, if I interpret the diagnosis correctly, are nutrient potions advisable given his malnutrition?"

"Yes, absolutely," Madam Pomfrey said, and seemed glad to be able to focus on her work again.

"Excellent," Snape said. "I'm brewing new ones anyway. Whether I brew them for one or two people makes no difference." He turned to Jo, his black eyes scrutinising him unfathomably.

"I presume Madam Pomfrey would like to keep you here for a day, Mr Pryle. To treat the hypothermia and so you can calm down." He looked at Madam Pomfrey, who immediately nodded eagerly. She shooed Jo into an empty bed at the other end of the room, gave him a mug with a warm, sweet-smelling potion, and told him to rest.

Snape approached his bed once more.

"I will help you," he said, and his voice was so quiet that Jo wasn't sure if he had only imagined it. "No child deserves the fate you have experienced. No child."

Jo looked up in surprise. The words were so unexpected, so… sincere, that they completely disarmed him.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why do you want to help me?"

Snape merely shook his head, a gesture Jo couldn't interpret.

"Rest now," he said and left the Hospital Wing with a sweeping swirl of his robes.

Madam Pomfrey came to Jo once more to make sure he had drunk the potion.

"If I've learned one thing in all these years," she said quietly, pulling the blanket up to his chin, "it's that Professor Snape, regardless of his often… difficult demeanour, cares very deeply about the well-being of his Snakes."

Jo just looked at her, unable to reply. He took the potion and felt a comforting warmth spread within him, slowly driving out the cold in his bones.

"Rest now," Madam Pomfrey said once more before she too left him alone.

Now Jo was alone in the Hospital Wing. Day would soon break, he knew, and he also knew that his darkest secret no longer belonged to him alone. He clung to the vague hope that their words weren't empty promises. Alone in the silence of the Hospital Wing, as the first pale dawn seeped through the high windows, it happened. A tear, then another, traced its way down his cheeks. Weeping softly, almost silently, emotions overwhelmed him. The heavy burden he had carried alone for so long began to lift, and with it came a strange, almost frightening feeling of relief. He was allowed to stay. He would be helped, even if he didn't know how. Snape knew everything. Oh, man, Snape knows everything , the thought repeated over and over in his head, a mixture of fear and an inexplicable hope.

Alone with his swirling thoughts in the early morning, Jo suddenly heard a soft rustling. In his crumpled robe, which lay carelessly on a chair, something was moving. It was the Niffler. The little creature had secretly crept back into his pocket; he had completely forgotten it in all the excitement. With a soft hop, the Niffler sprang onto the polished stone floor and began to curiously explore the Hospital Wing. Its small, beak-like snout twitched as it sniffed the unfamiliar room. Jo watched from his bed as the Niffler skilfully stowed one glittering thing after another – a forgotten silver bowl under a bed, the polished stopper of a medicine bottle, a shiny spoon from the bedside table – into its belly pouch. Afterwards, the Niffler trotted to Jo, jumped onto his bed, and sat, its pouch bulging, on his stomach. It looked at Jo with its small, pearl-like eyes, as if nothing had happened.

Jo had to grin, a genuine, albeit faint, smile.

"Professor Snape would scold and punish you for that now," he whispered to the Niffler. "One shouldn't steal." He tried to teach the little thief a lesson, but his voice sounded more amused than stern. Yet the Niffler just looked at Jo with its innocent eyes, as if it didn't understand a word. Jo gently stroked the Niffler's head; its fur was soft and warm.

"You want to stay with me, hmm?" he asked softly. The Niffler just looked at Jo and laid its small head on Jo's chest, a gesture of such trust that it warmed Jo's heart.

"I think I'll call you Will. Will Scarlet," Jo whispered. "I'm Robin, by the way. Robin Hood." Will seemed to accept his new name, for he snuggled even closer to him. Then Will crawled under Jo's duvet, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Jo fell asleep, not alone, but with a small, warm creature by his side.

---

Jo was discharged the next day, and the weeks that followed remained strangely uneventful. He still slept in the empty room he had found and tried to keep Will a secret. He really should have left him in the forest, but the little fellow just had to crawl back into his pocket. Secretly, Jo was glad. It made the time in his dusty hideaway not quite so lonely. He always smuggled some food from the Great Hall – a few rolls here, a piece of cheese there – enough for him and a little Niffler.

Also, a small vial with a thick, earthy-tasting potion now appeared next to his plate at every meal. Snape explained to him in his first detention, with an icy voice, that he was to drink it, no ifs, ands, or buts.

Jo spent his detentions with Snape, which took place twice a week, learning to read and write properly. At first, he was stubborn and unmotivated, preferring to stare at the wall than struggle with the strange squiggles on the parchment. But over time, and with Snape's unyielding, almost uncanny patience, he noticed his first, tiny successes. Jo was still miles away from writing entire essays, as that Elijah apparently did for fun. To his great relief, Snape never again spoke about what the test in the Hospital Wing had revealed. He focused exclusively on Jo's academic deficiencies, and for that, Jo was endlessly grateful.

The only other extraordinary thing that happened in those October weeks was that Jo was approached by two red-haired boys: the Weasley twins.

Harry had pointed them out to Jo, and they asked him if he fancied finding out what happened when you fed fireworks to Fire Dwelling Salamanders. Jo wasn't averse; in fact, he was delighted. The twins seemed pleased too.

"We knew it, you like pranks just like us," they said in unison, just as Jo had only known from Harry and Neville before.

They fed the salamanders the fireworks, and Jo watched, laughing with the twins, as they flew through the corridor. It was a true spectacle of colours and sounds. The small, glowing lizards shot like shimmering comets through the corridor, leaving trails of crackling, colourful sparks and performing the most daring loops in the air. A loud pop here, a shrill whistle there – it was a chaotic, but incredibly funny mess.

But Jo forgot that it was the corridor with Filch's office. The door to Filch's office opened, and Filch stormed out furiously. The twins managed to flee, but Jo was caught by Filch. He grabbed him by the collar of his robes.

"Gotcha! We'll see what Professor Snape says when I bring him one of his snakes and tell him what a mess he's made again!" Jo swallowed hard.

Filch dragged Jo through the corridors, his bony fingers digging painfully into Jo's collar.

"Just you wait, you little troublemaker! Professor Snape will teach you some manners!" the caretaker shrieked, and a triumphant, malicious grin flitted across his face. Jo tried to resist, but he had no chance against Filch's iron grip. They arrived outside Snape's office, and Filch knocked on the heavy oak door with such force that it echoed through the entire corridor.

"Enter," Snape's cold, emotionless voice drifted out. Filch ripped the door open and shoved Jo unceremoniously into the room.

"Professor Snape, Sir! I've caught one of your snakes! Red-handed! Caused an unholy mess in the corridor outside my office!" Filch grinned broadly, clearly delighted to have got Jo into trouble, and waited expectantly for Snape's reaction.

Snape looked up from a pile of parchments, his black eyes narrowing to slits.

"Thank you, Argus," he said in a voice as cold as the dungeon floor. "I shall deal with it."

Filch seemed disappointed. He had probably hoped for a public dressing-down, perhaps even an immediate, draconian punishment. With a disgruntled grunt, he left the office and closed the door behind him. Snape slowly rose, his dark figure appearing even more menacing in the dim light of his office. He stared at Jo, and for a moment, an icy silence hung in the air. Jo looked shamefacedly at the floor, his heart hammering against his ribs. Then, with a sudden, violent movement, Snape slammed a rolled-up parchment scroll onto the desk. Bang! The loud crack made Jo jump.

"What, by Merlin's beard, do you think you're playing at, Pryle?" Snape hissed, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Are detentions not enough? Did I not make myself clear enough when I said I expect you to shed your old habits?"

Jo tried to speak, to apologise, but the words caught in his throat. He was afraid. Afraid that Snape would give up on him now, that all the quiet hopes that had blossomed within him over the past few weeks were just empty promises, as always.

"It's… fuck, alright, I'm sorry, Sir," he finally stammered.

But Snape ignored his apology.

"If there's one thing I cannot abide," he continued in a cutting voice, "it is troublemakers. Students who think they must constantly play some idiotic pranks."

"But I wasn't alone!" Jo blurted out. "Those bloody Weasley twins, they were in on it too!"

"Mr Pryle," Snape said in a dangerously quiet voice, "one more inappropriate word, and I assure you, you won't get the taste of soap out of your mouth for a week. Understood?" Jo swallowed and nodded silently. The thought of tasting soap again was too real. It was his second tutoring session with Snape; Jo hadn't realised his Head of House was serious about the threat of putting soap in his mouth after the first session if he didn't curb his language. But Jo never learned, and at the second tutoring session, Professor Snape made good on his threat, and Jo had soap in his mouth. Disgusting.

"And yet you are the one who was caught, aren't you?" Snape retorted icily. "Kindly behave like a Slytherin and not like a brainless Gryffindor! Sometimes I truly wonder if the Sorting Hat didn't make a mistake with you."

"I'm cunning and resourceful!" Jo defended himself, surprised by his own courage.

"Yes, unfortunately," Snape said, and a hint of something that sounded almost like approval flitted across his face. "But the daring of a Gryffindor also seems to reside within you."

Jo was no longer sure if Snape would still help him. But then, with an energetic movement, Snape laid a fresh sheet of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell on the desk.

"Right then! If you're already here and I must punish you, then you might as well learn how to write lines. 'I must not play pranks with the Weasley twins again.'"

Jo looked up at Snape, who was staring at him with a grim expression. But Jo couldn't suppress a small, disbelieving grin. Snape wanted to help him despite everything.

"Why the hell…" he began, but immediately bit his tongue when he saw Snape's warning gaze. "Why?" he asked more quietly.

Snape merely shook his head.

"I once ignored a student's cries for help, misjudged him, and deeply regretted it afterwards," he said, and his voice was barely more than a whisper. "That will not happen to me a second time. And now, kindly write."

Jo nodded, infinitely relieved. Snape even helped him write the first sentence, showed him the correct way to hold the quill, and then he was to do it alone.

---

Two weeks had passed since the incident with Filch and the salamanders, and it was the last day of October. For the entire week before, his Slytherin classmates had talked of nothing but the upcoming Samhain festival. Harper and Lofthouse had loudly complained that it had lost its old splendour since more and more "Muggle-lovers" were in charge at Hogwarts. Jo had learned from Sarah that Samhain was something like Halloween and that there was supposed to be a really great feast in the Great Hall, with floating pumpkins and mountains of sweets.

Jo didn't care for the dismissive words of his Slytherin classmates, and to them, he was just scum anyway. So the dislike was mutual. He was glad to be seated next to Sarah in the few hours when he didn't have to sit next to the silent Vikram, who visibly made an effort to simply say nothing to Jo. She at least explained one or two things about the wizarding world to him, and Elijah, who unfortunately seemed inseparable from Sarah, also listened attentively. Jo was reluctant to admit it, but Elijah and Sarah were, well, the only students from his year he spoke to at all.

Jo got ready for the feast in his hideout. By now, he had made himself really comfortable. He had built a sort of sleeping nook out of cushions he had pilfered from various unused rooms and cleared everything aside so that the room suited his needs. He could wash himself in the boys' toilets, which were found everywhere in the corridors. Jo had to admit, it was certainly better than having to eke out an existence on the streets. And Snape was already helping him properly. Reading was still more wobbly than right, but writing was already partly okay, in Jo's eyes. Snape was, of course, never satisfied.

When Jo wanted to go down to the feast, he said to Will: "You wait here, okay? I'll bring you something. Yeah?" His Niffler looked at him as always with its small, pearl-like eyes, and Jo believed he had understood him. Grinning and full of anticipation for the feast Sarah had described, Jo turned around and left his hideout in the direction of the Great Hall.

Jo entered the Great Hall and stopped dead in his tracks. He had never in his life seen anything so… beautiful.

The enchanted ceiling, which he had already admired at the introduction ceremony, was today a deep, velvety midnight blue, studded with twinkling stars that looked so real you could reach out and pluck them. But that wasn't all. Hundreds, perhaps even thousands of hollowed-out pumpkins floated in the air, their crooked, grinning faces lit by flickering candles within. They cast a warm, golden light on the long House tables and danced gently in the air, as if swaying to an invisible melody. Real bats fluttered in swarms through the Hall, their dark wings softly beating against the high, gothic windows.

And the smell… it smelled of roasted pumpkin, of cinnamon, and of countless, delicious sweets piled high on the golden platters. There was everything imaginable: mountains of pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, liquorice wands, fizzing whizbees, and chocolate frogs that merrily hopped across the tables. Sarah had enlightened him and Elijah about all sorts of sweets from the magical world. And now, for a moment, Jo forgot everything around him – the biting comments of his classmates, his loneliness, his fear. He was simply… overwhelmed.

As so often, he sat at the end of the Slytherin table, a little further away from the others. Sarah had offered him several times to simply sit at the Hufflepuff table, but Jo had had to decline her offer every time. Snape wouldn't want that. Jo had asked him, and his Head of House had only replied in his usual, cool voice that if he were to sit at another table, he would only ostracise himself even more from his classmates. Snape had also urged Jo several times not to isolate himself from his House. Jo had then cheekily replied that the dislike was mutual and that he didn't care for other people anyway, he was a lone wolf. Snape seemed more annoyed by Jo's tone than by the fact that Jo didn't get along with the other Slytherins.

Still quite pleased about the feast and contemplating what he could take for Will while eating, he suddenly felt something move in his robes. Will. It was Will. This small, cunning Niffler had hidden in Jo's robe pocket to sneak into the feast. Jo tried not to draw attention, but he could see out of the corner of his eye how Will crept out of his pocket and slowly, carefully moved through the Great Hall under the Slytherin table. Oh no, please no , were Jo's thoughts.

Jo watched with a mixture of horror and reluctant amusement as Will scurried under the long Slytherin table, a small, fluffy shadow between the students' legs. He desperately hoped no one would notice the little thief, but he knew Will's fondness for anything shiny would betray him sooner or later.

And indeed, one of his Niffler's front paws, barely visible under the tablecloth, reached onto the table and tried to grab the silver cutlery. Of all people, it was the platinum-blonde boy whose name Jo still couldn't remember. Oh, right, Malfoy , he thought, rolling his eyes. Will deftly snatched the knife that lay next to Malfoy's plate. Seriously? Jo muttered quietly, hoping no one noticed his strained expression. Luckily, Will seemed to be a master of his craft.

When Malfoy reached for his knife, Jo only heard him say: "Goyle, that's my knife you're using, you imbecile."

Another boy, dark-skinned and also in his second year, whose name Jo couldn't recall, merely said: "Draco, I think you clearly need glasses. You've probably misplaced yours." To which Draco retorted somewhat dismissively: "Do I look like Scarface?"

But Jo couldn't follow the conversation any further, even though he had to chuckle a little at the small chaos Will was causing. He urgently needed to catch him now before he was discovered. Jo watched as Will managed to pull one thing after another off the table unnoticed, before slowly walking out of the Hall. Jo ran after him, hoping no one would notice him.

Will was quick, Jo thought, as he followed the little Niffler through the corridors.

But when the corridor ahead of them suddenly stood under water – well, not really, it was just a huge puddle – Will wasn't so fast anymore. Well, you don't seem to like water much , Jo thought, grinning. His shoes made loud, splashing noises with every step, but with every step, he got closer to Will.

"Just wait... stay here!" Jo called to Will, just before he reached him. And then he had him.

"Ah, I've got you now, in you go," Jo said happily, as he finally managed to grab Will and put the still struggling Niffler back into his robes. Will seemed to sullenly resign himself to his fate of being back in Jo's robes. When Jo looked up again, he realised that something was written on the wall in blood-red script.

He couldn't really read it. At least he immediately recognised the word The . And then he saw her. Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat.

"Oh, fuck," he blurted out. Jo considered quickly leaving so as not to be caught again doing something that wasn't his fault. He looked around, into the side corridor, and there stood Harry, Neville, Ron, and Hermione. Jo had already had the pleasure of meeting Harry's and Neville's two friends. They had also been there when he fell from the tower, almost two months ago. ""Ah... fuck... sorry... lads...," Jo said and then pointed to the cat. "Tell me, is this normal?"

It was probably not normal. Definitely not.

"Come on, lads, let's go before Filch and who knows who else sees us," Jo hissed, his voice barely more than a hoarse croak. Panic, cold and sticky, crawled up his back. He didn't want to be caught by Filch, who surely still held a grudge against him for the salamander prank. And Snape… the thought of Snape's reaction made his blood run cold. He had explicitly told him, in that cutting, unmistakable voice, that he should by all means avoid attracting attention as a troublemaker. What would Snape say to him now? Would he abandon him? Was this it? The quiet, hesitant hope that had blossomed within him over the past few weeks threatened to drown in a sea of fear.

But it was too late. Footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing louder, coming closer. A murmur of voices swelled, and in an instant, the corridor was filled with students returning from the feast. Jo's heart pounded. He couldn't think clearly anymore, the faces around him blurred into a colourful, menacing mess. He only perceived isolated fragments. Malfoy's spiteful voice, reading the bloody message with a triumphant undertone. And then, a scream. A bloodcurdling, heartbreaking scream that pierced him to the bone. Filch's voice. The caretaker wailed for his cat, his words a jumbled, pain-filled stammer that Jo only dimly perceived, as if he had his headphones on.

And then he saw it. Filch's bony, trembling finger, pointing directly at him. He would blame him. The thought struck like lightning. He would take him to Snape again. And then Snape… Snape would scold him again, tell him to stay out of such things. No, not this time. This time Snape would certainly not forgive him a second time. He would abandon him.

Please no , Jo thought desperately. But I need him. He helps me. Like no adult before.

He wanted to run away, just away, but his feet seemed glued to the wet stone floor. He was rooted to the spot, trapped in this nightmare of accusing glances and loud voices. He saw the crowd slowly thin, as the teachers came and sent the students to their common rooms. Jo would have loved to go with them, to hide in the crowd, but he couldn't. He was trapped.

And then he felt it. A strong, unyielding grip on his collar, pulling him roughly backwards. Who was that? Jo dared not look. This was it. He was surely going to be expelled from school now. His heart skipped a beat.

But then he heard a whisper, right by his ear. A familiar, deep voice that silenced the panic within him for a moment. It was Snape.

"Calm yourself, Mr Pryle," his Head of House whispered, his breath warm against Jo's cold ear. "I know it wasn't you. Don't misunderstand me, but you're not capable of such a thing yet." The words were a strange mixture of insult and… protection? "Just stay with me, and nothing will happen to you."

To hear Snape's words was reassuring, odd, but true. And Jo suddenly felt cold all over. Snape wasn't angry with him. He seemed to be protecting him.

They were led into the office of that Lockhart, the puffed-up cockerel with the teeth-baring smile. Even before Jo and Snape, who still held him firmly but strangely protectively by the collar, entered the room, his Head of House leaned down to him.

"No matter what happens in there," Snape hissed so quietly that only Jo could hear it, "you will keep silent. Do I make myself clear?" Jo, whose heart was still beating like a trapped bird against his ribs, merely nodded silently.

"I know full well it wasn't you," Snape continued in the same quiet, insistent whisper. "Don't worry. But in future, you would do well to avoid appearing in places like this. Your... past would not make it easy to believe your innocence."

As if I chose to appear here , Jo thought bitterly, but he said nothing. Snape's words were like a cold shiver running down his spine. He was right. Who would believe a street boy, a thief? Snape knew. And yet... yet he seemed to be on his side.

Then they too entered the office. Snape held Jo in front of him, but his arm was now placed around his shoulder in a way that didn't feel like a grip, but like a shield. It was a feeling Jo had never known before. An adult, protecting him. That... that he didn't know.

The office was a nightmare of self-admiration. Portraits of Lockhart hung everywhere, winking at him and showing off their radiant smiles. Jo felt uncomfortable, watched by the professor's countless eyes. He tried to make himself as small as possible while the adults talked around him. He heard Dumbledore's calm voice, Filch's hysterical sobbing, and Lockhart's pompous comments. He saw Snape piercing Harry with his dark eyes, and felt a strange, unexpected satisfaction. For now, he didn't seem to be the main suspect.

Then he heard Neville stammering an attempt to provide Harry with an alibi, and Professor McGonagall rushing to their aid. Jo was relieved when it became clear that none of them could truly be blamed. He just wanted to get away, back to his hiding place. The tension in the room was almost unbearable, a mixture of fear, distrust, and Lockhart's intrusive perfume. When Dumbledore finally dismissed them, Jo breathed a sigh of relief. He had made it through. And Snape... Snape hadn't let him down.

Outside the office, Snape said to Jo: "I will escort you back to the dungeons, lest you get any further ideas of causing mischief."

That was absolutely not what Jo wanted. If Snape escorted him now, he would find out that Jo hadn't been in the common room for over a month. His sleeping place was somewhere else entirely. He had to get rid of Snape somehow. All the way down to the dungeons, Jo pondered how he could get rid of Snape.

When they were downstairs, Jo simply said: "I can go from here alone." Snape merely looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"If you say so. But woe betide if I catch you in the corridors." Jo nodded.

"Yes, understood." Snape just rolled his eyes and turned away. Jo pretended to head towards the Slytherin common room, but then, when Snape was out of sight, he tried to inconspicuously make his way back to his retreat. Finally, finally, he had managed to get back to his self-chosen sleeping place.

He skilfully threw himself onto the cushions and was about to get Will out of his robe to tell him what a mess he had gotten him into with the cat and all. But before he could reach into his robe, he heard a familiar clearing of a throat. It was Snape. He had followed him. "Fuck," Jo said loudly.

"Language," Snape merely said, his voice icy and cutting through the dusty silence of the room. He stepped from the shadows of the doorway, his dark figure almost entirely filling the small space.

"What exactly do you not understand when you are told to return to the common room? I presume you possess a rudimentary sense of direction, otherwise you would hardly have found this... hideout here."

Jo didn't know what to answer. He had been caught red-handed. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"I... well... bloody hell... it's like this..."

"I said: Language!" Snape hissed, taking another step towards him. His eyes gleamed dangerously. "Should you revert to your vulgar street jargon again, I assure you, Mr. Pryle, I shall wash your mouth out with soap once more. And believe me, I shall enjoy it."

Jo swallowed and nodded hastily. "Sorry, Sir."

Snape let his gaze sweep contemptuously through the room, over the pilfered cushions and the cleared-away parchment scrolls.

"So, how is it that I have the unmistakable feeling you consider this room your dormitory? As far as I recall, the Slytherin dormitories are still in the dungeons and not in some forgotten storeroom on the upper floors."

"Well, because this is my dormitory," Jo retorted cheekily, before he could stop himself. Snape's gaze grew even darker.

"Sorry, Sir," Jo mumbled quickly and lowered his head.

"And how long," Snape continued in a dangerously quiet voice, "have you called this unused classroom your own? Not that it surprises me. It is certainly more comfortable than the lodgings you were accustomed to. But you are entitled to the luxury of a bed in the dungeons and not a collection of cushions designed to exude comfort."

Jo looked up. "Since the start of the school year."

Snape seemed to lose his composure for a moment. He stared at Jo in disbelief.

"And why?" he finally asked, his voice barely more than a hiss.

"Well, to put it mildly, without being lectured by you again," Jo said, feeling the anger surge within him, "I can't stand my classmates. And the feeling's mutual."

Snape took a deep breath, as if trying to suppress his rising fury.

"That is unacceptable."

"I don't care!" Jo snapped at him. "I'm certainly not going back to those idiots! Better here than having to listen day in, day out about what scum I am or that I don't belong at Hogwarts!"

"Come with me," Snape said, gripping Jo's upper arm with an iron hold.

"Hey!" Jo cried, trying to pull away.

"I said, come with me!" Snape repeated, his voice brooking no argument. Jo knew it was hopeless. He submitted, for he had the uneasy feeling that his current relationship with Snape was not conducive to contradicting him.

Snape dragged him through the silent, nocturnal corridors, back into the damp chill of the dungeons. As they stood before the bare stone wall that concealed the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Snape uttered a new password in a cutting voice, one Jo had never heard before: "Eternal Glory". They must have changed it in the time I was away , Jo thought bitterly. How was I supposed to have known? When they reached the first-years' common room, Snape pushed open the door without knocking, and shoved Jo into it.

"Come here! All of you!" Snape commanded in a voice so cold it could have frozen the green fireplace flames. One by one, the other boys slunk out of their dormitories, their faces a mixture of sleepy confusion and fear. Jo could hear curious older Slytherins gathering outside the door, but with an impatient flick of his wand, Snape slammed the door shut with a loud bang.

"Perhaps someone can explain to me," Snape began, his voice a dangerous hiss, and his black eyes bored into Vikram, "why the absence of your dorm-mate for almost two months was deemed not worth reporting?"

The boys stammered, their excuses as flimsy as cobwebs.

"We thought he just got up early, Sir…" Hatton mumbled.

"Or was sleeping on the sofa…" Cowley added.

Snape snorted disdainfully. "Slytherins," he said, and the word sounded like a curse.

"If the other Houses so much as sniff a hint of weakness in our ranks, they will exploit it without hesitation. Whatever childish squabbles you conduct amongst yourselves, they remain within these walls. To the outside world, we are a unit. Understood?" All the boys nodded eagerly, their eyes fixed on the floor.

"And one more thing," Snape added, his gaze sweeping over the faces of Harper and Lofthouse, who visibly flinched. "I do not wish to hear again of any of you mocking Mr. Pryle's life before Hogwarts. He is one of you now. So treat him as such." Again, everyone nodded, but Jo could see a spark of suppressed resistance in the eyes of Harper and Lofthouse. They were only doing it out of fear of Snape.

"Good. If that's clear enough," Snape said, turning to Jo. "Mr. Pryle, I trust you still know where you sleep. Now then, I wish to hear no further complaints. From anyone." And with those words, Snape swept out of the room like a dark shadow.

Hardly had he vanished when the others wanted to say something to Jo; Vikram was the first, taking a hesitant step towards him. But Jo brushed them all off. With a look colder than the deepest dungeon, he walked past them into his dormitory and slammed the door shut behind him. To his astonishment, everything was still there, untouched, as if it had been waiting for him. He threw himself onto his bed and drew the heavy, emerald-green curtains. It had definitely been a strenuous and eventful day. And he was back here. In the place he least wanted to be.

That night, Jo slept remarkably well. Not once did he wake up in a cold sweat. Not once did he have to think about the petrified cat that had hung on the wall like a gruesome trophy. And not once did he feel that old, gnawing fear that someone might reach for him in the darkness. It was the first truly safe night in a long time. In his hideout, he had always harboured the constant dread of being discovered, especially by the ghosts who glided silently through the walls. But here, back in the Slytherin dormitory, it was different. For the first time since his arrival, there were no strange remarks in the morning, no scornful glances. Snape's words truly seemed to have worked.

As Jo got dressed, Vikram quietly approached him. He seemed to have been waiting.

"Pryle," he said cautiously, as if not wanting to startle him. "I wanted to tell you again… I… what Harper and Lofthouse said… I… erm, I don't agree with it. I don't care who you are… I… I just didn't say anything out of fear… out of fear that they… well, that they'd turn on me."

Vikram's words sounded sincere. Jo had wanted to ignore him again, to put his wall back up and let no one in. But he couldn't. He saw the genuine remorse in Vikram's dark eyes.

"It's alright," Jo said, and his own voice surprised him. It didn't sound quite as harsh as usual. "Call me Jo. Short for Jonathan."

A relieved smile flitted across Vikram's face.

"Fancy going down to breakfast together?" Jo asked, and it felt strange to ask such a thing. But it also felt… good.

"Sure," was Vikram's prompt reply.

On the way down to the Great Hall, they mostly walked in silence, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. Jo had to admit, Vikram was pleasant company. At least better than Elijah, who talked like a waterfall. Perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn't so bad being back here after all.

---

The weeks after Halloween were marked by a strange, tense atmosphere. The school speculated about who this mysterious heir could be. It had spread like wildfire that the Chamber of Secrets was firmly connected to Jo's House.

Apparently, Salazar Slytherin, one of Hogwarts' founders, had secretly built it into the school and hidden a monster there. This information had spread like wildfire among the students, creating a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. Just as quickly, the rumour spread that there were students who suspected Harry or Jo of leaving the bloody message.

No one wanted to approach Jo directly, as he was now always moving in a pack of Slytherins. Snape's words had worked, and it seemed that no one really dared to simply attack or accuse Slytherins when they were in a group. It was different with Harry. Jo could observe from a distance how he was repeatedly given sideways glances or even insulted. Harry didn't seem to take it lightly, as he always tried to leave the scene as quickly as possible.

Otherwise, Jo now spent most of his free time in the common room. If he wasn't sitting with Snape painstakingly learning to decipher the strange squiggles on the parchment, or sitting with Sarah and Elijah in the library, who had initially bombarded him with questions about what had happened after the Halloween incident. Since Jo couldn't – or didn't want to – really remember the details, he just said mysteriously: "Confidential, can't say." He felt a little important saying that. Elijah, of course, didn't accept that and pressed him, but Jo remained stubborn, and eventually the annoying Ravenclaw gave in.

On the Thursday after Halloween, Jo lay on one of the cold, black leather sofas in the main Slytherin common room, pretending to be asleep. He just wanted some peace and quiet. But then he heard the familiar voices of the second-years, who had just returned from their lessons. He immediately recognised Malfoy's arrogant, drawling speech.

"Father says the Chamber was opened once before," Malfoy said, his voice filled with a mixture of self-importance and a hint of genuine fear. "Many years ago, even before he was at school. A girl died back then. They expelled the culprit from the school."

"He didn't say anything else? Who could it be this time?" asked another, quieter voice. "I mean, it must be someone from our House, mustn't it? After all, it's Salazar's Chamber."

"Possibly, Theo," Malfoy replied thoughtfully. "But as far as I know, everyone was at the feast. No one was missing."

Theo , Jo thought. So that's his name.

"No one but that strange little one," said a third, softer voice. "The one who's reappeared here now."

"You mean Pryle?" Malfoy asked, and Jo felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "Uncle Severus says it wasn't him. And he warned me we'd jolly well better leave him alone. If anything's up with him, we're to go straight to him."

"Odd, isn't it?" said the boy Malfoy had called Theo.

"Indeed," Malfoy admitted. "But Uncle Severus means it. And whatever's up with him, we'd rather not know about it."

"Right," the soft voice said again. "That leaves Potter and his friends."

"Scarface? The Heir?" Malfoy sneered contemptuously. "Don't be ridiculous, Blaise. Even if the rumours accuse him, I don't believe he and his idiotic friends are capable of it. Let alone that they even know what the Chamber is about."

"Well, he's been behaving particularly oddly this year, though," said the soft voice, which Jo now identified as Blaise. "Ask Theo."

"Oh, really?" Malfoy asked, his voice suddenly sounding curious.

"Well, Potter spends a lot of time in the library," Theo reported. "Especially now, since Samhain, daily. And mostly with Longbottom. He's hardly ever seen with Weasley and Granger anymore, even before Samhain."

"True," Malfoy said thoughtfully. "I've noticed too that he spends more time with Longbottom than with the Weasel or the Mudblood. What's he doing in the library all this time?"

"Well, it seems he and Longbottom are poring over some archives," Theo explained. "Yearbooks, newspaper articles and such. I think they're looking for the Heir themselves."

"Possible," Malfoy said.

Then it went quiet. Too quiet. Jo risked a peek through his eyelashes and saw Malfoy's cold, grey eyes fixed directly on him.

"Hey, Pryle," Malfoy said, his voice dripping with scorn. "If you're going to listen in, perhaps you can contribute something. You know Potter, and you were there when you were all questioned by the professors, weren't you?"

Jo slowly sat up. He thought feverishly. He hadn't taken much in at Lockhart's office, too preoccupied with his own panic. But he remembered Harry had been silent the whole time.

He merely nodded.

"What did Potter say?" Malfoy pressed.

"I don't think he said anything," Jo replied, hoping he wasn't getting Harry into trouble. "He was silent. Was… quiet."

"Nothing?" Malfoy repeated incredulously. "Scarface was silent? That doesn't fit the usually impulsive Gryffindor at all. I tell you, something's not right there."

"You're far too obsessed with Potter, Draco," Blaise said with an amused undertone. "One might think you fancy him."

"What? No! Not Potter!" Malfoy blurted out, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"As you say," Theo and Blaise said in unison.

Jo had heard enough. He didn't want to get dragged deeper into this. Quietly, he stood up and left the common room, the mocking glances of his classmates at his back.

On Saturday, the first Quidditch match of the year was due: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. The air in the castle positively crackled with excited tension. Vikram wanted Jo to come along to cheer for their House, but Jo had absolutely no desire for broomstick sports. Even during the first flying lesson in the initial weeks at Hogwarts, he had been so clumsy that he would have preferred to give brooms a wide berth forever. So why should he even watch?

Instead of watching the match, Jo sat down not far from the Quidditch pitch, in the grass, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He had brought Will with him, whom he still guarded like a state secret, although Vikram apparently already suspected something. He had given Jo a few strangely knowing glances when he thought Jo wouldn't notice. And as he lay there, stroking the soft, fluffy fur of his Niffler, Jo pondered.

He thought about his first weeks at Hogwarts, about the gnawing fear of not belonging here, which was slowly giving way to a strange, almost reluctant acceptance. He couldn't imagine a life without magic anymore. And then there was Snape. Snape was helping him like no one before. Regardless of his brusque, often terrifying manner, Snape was… nicer than his reputation suggested. And to Jo's infinite relief, they had so far only discussed his academic shortcomings. Yet Snape had hinted that they would eventually have to address his past, and at the thought of it, Jo's stomach painfully clenched. He wasn't sure if he would ever be ready for that.

And as he lay there lost in thought, he was suddenly torn from his reverie by a deafening wave of noise and cheering that washed over from the Quidditch pitch. Apparently, one team had won.

But then Jo saw something that gave him a queasy feeling in his stomach. Harry. Harry was being carried off the pitch by his teammates. And he didn't look good. He looked as if he was injured or worse. Jo earnestly hoped Harry was alright.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! 😃

First of all, Jo already hinted his difficult and abusive past in the last book when he warned Neville and Harry about people who expect favors on the streets of Nottingham. I've always had this backstory in mind for him, and I'm glad he's finally found some help.

I honestly don't know how this "Jo interlude" got so long! My original plan was just a small chapter to introduce him because he will become more important later on. I didn't want to describe everything that happened this school year when Jo's/Elijah's story (oops, yes, they have a story!) is planned for the third book. Maybe we'll return to Jo later in this book, but Sarah and Elijah will also get their own interludes. However, the next few chapters will focus on Harry's perspective before we switch to what has been happening with Sirius and Remus (no, I haven't forgotten them!).

Since Jo is one of my three original characters, I'm really interested in what you think of him. Also, isn't Will just the cutest Niffler?

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments!

Chapter 12: Chapter Eleven: A Snake Among Lions

Summary:

After a botched Quidditch match, Harry finds himself in the hospital wing, where he not only battles physical pain but also his inner demons. He feels misunderstood by his friends and grapples with the revelations about his true origins. A surprising nocturnal visit reveals a shocking truth about the recent events at Hogwarts, forcing Harry to a disturbing realization about an invisible threat. In addition, Harry himself now seems to be regarded by some students as the one responsible for the recent events at Hogwarts, which he is even made to feel directly.

Notes:

Welcome back to Chapter 11!

We are now back in Harry's second year, told from his perspective. Please be aware that Harry is a traumatized child. In this chapter, besides his painful healing process in the hospital wing after the Lockhart incident, Harry also experiences a panic attack later on, which is triggered by someone's words and actions. Please read with care.

Harry lay in the Hospital Wing, glaring furiously at the pristine white ceiling. His right arm was, well, a joke, something that looked like an arm but definitely didn't feel like one. It felt more like a limp, skin-filled glove, hanging loosely from his shoulder. When he tried to move it, which he couldn't, it just flopped uselessly. No firmness, no structure, just a disgusting, empty feeling. And it was all Lockhart's fault.

Alright, he'd broken his arm during the Quidditch match. That hadn't been his fault – that cursed Bludger had been after him from the start, chasing him like an angry, magical boomerang all over the pitch – but a simple bone fracture was like a common cold to the wizarding world. Madam Pomfrey would have fixed it in less than a minute. But no, Gilderoy Lockhart, that puffed-up show-off, just had to display his incompetence. And instead of healing the bones, he'd simply made them vanish. Brackium Emendo! What utter rubbish.

The worst part of it all was that it was bound to happen eventually anyway. It had been agreed that Andromeda would take care of it during the Christmas holidays, in the safe, familiar surroundings of St. Mungo's. Not here, at Hogwarts, through the incapable hands of his idiotic Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. And so, here he lay, instead of enjoying the holidays, forced to gulp down the abominably tasting Skele-Gro Potion. He knew it already. He knew the burning pain in his throat that felt like swallowing liquid fire, and the dreadful aftertaste that clung to his tongue for hours. And he knew the tormenting, nagging pains that followed as the bones slowly, splinter by splinter, grew back. A pain that gnawed deep inside, as if a thousand tiny needles were piercing his flesh.

"I'm truly disappointed in you, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey said, handing him the goblet with the potion. Her expression was stern, but there was a hint of concern in her eyes. "You should have come straight to me."

"I would have liked to," Harry retorted sharply, taking the goblet. "But Professor Lockhart is such a git and thought he could do better." He emphasised the word "Professor" with as much contempt as he could muster.

"You shouldn't speak about your teachers like that, Mr Potter!" Madam Pomfrey scolded him, fluffing up his pillows with energetic movements. "Even if this particular teacher seems to cause more damage than a whole swarm of pixies in a greenhouse."

Harry ignored her hint and grimaced as he gulped down the potion. Lockhart's just a complete idiot , he thought stubbornly. Full stop. He wished he could write it on a banner and hang it above the staff table. And perhaps Harry was simply agitated with anger at what Lockhart had been thinking, going against his objections. But this potion here definitely tasted worse than at St Mungo's.

He leaned back into the pillows and closed his eyes as the first unpleasant tingling began in his arm. He focused on the sensation, trying to ignore the pain and instead think of something else. Of Ron and Hermione, who would surely visit him soon. And of Neville. He wondered what they would say about all this.

He didn't have to wait long. Madam Pomfrey had barely left him alone with a final, disapproving look when he heard the faint squeak of the Hospital Wing door. Ron and Hermione came in, their faces a mixture of triumph and concern.

"Blimey, that was a mad Bludger, mate!" Ron burst out, even before he'd reached Harry's bed. "Never seen anything like it! Chased you all over the pitch! But hey, we won!" His eyes sparkled with pure excitement over the victory, but beneath it lay a shadow of unease. "It was odd, though, wasn't it? How it only went after you."

"But at what cost, Ronald!" Hermione immediately snapped at him, giving him a reproachful look. "Harry's lying here in the Hospital Wing, and you're talking about winning!" She hurried to Harry's bed and scrutinised his limp arm with a worried expression.

"It's alright," Harry said, trying to force a smile, though it didn't quite work. "Um... where's Neville?"

Ron and Hermione exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible glance.

"He'll be here in a moment," Hermione said hesitantly. "We... we just wanted a quick word with you. Alone."

They sounded worried. That was the right word, Harry thought. An uneasy feeling crept over him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, trying to sit up, which sent a stabbing pain through his boneless arm. "Um... Is everything alright?"

"With us, yes," Ron said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "But... well, with you..."

"Harry, we're worried," Hermione interjected in her usual serious voice. "You've changed."

Harry stared at them. "Changed? What do you mean?"

"Yes, a lot," Ron confirmed, avoiding Harry's direct gaze. "Somehow... ever since you ran off with Neville this summer."

"We know you two spend a lot of time together," Hermione quickly added, as if to ensure he didn't misunderstand her. "Because of the godbrothers thing and all that. And we think that's good! Really, Harry. It's nice that you're so close."

"But," Ron continued, "something else happened this summer. Something that changed you."

Harry knew exactly what they were talking about. It wasn't just the escape, not just the time with the Weasleys. It was the truth. The truth about his origins, which had exploded like a bomb in his life. He wasn't just Harry Potter. He was also Haedus Black. The son of a wanted murderer. The heir to one house, in fact, several houses. He couldn't even think about it without feeling a little dizzy. He would tell them, he really wanted to. But the words stuck in his throat. He didn't want to be lectured by them, didn't want to endure their worried looks. And he was afraid. Afraid of Ron's reaction, of his deep-seated aversion to anything concerning the noble houses. He'd seen how Ron had reacted to just his Potter title at Neville's birthday reception this summer. He couldn't imagine what would happen if he found out he had four more. And who knew how Hermione would react. Would she try to logically analyse everything and give him advice he didn't want to hear? He wasn't even sure who he was himself, so how was he supposed to explain it to them? And then there were Ragnok's warning words, echoing in his head. There must be a reason it was kept secret. But Kreacher said the Blacks weren't estranged and were an honourable house. Harry didn't know what to think. And in the end, maybe he was just a freak after all. No matter what Neville told him. A freak, who else had so many titles in the wizarding world?

"And you're always carrying that book around," Ron said. Harry knew he meant his mother's book. He couldn't keep it a secret forever, and so it happened that Ron had caught him one evening engrossed in the book while he was lying on his bed in the common room. From that moment on, Harry didn't care if other people noticed, as long as no one tried to read the book itself, because it did state that James Potter had only blood-adopted him and Sirius was his father.

"That's my mum's!" Harry retorted, sharper than intended. "She left it to me. It's important to me. There... there's so much in it."

"We know, and we understand that, Harry, we really do," Hermione said gently. "But... somehow you're not yourself anymore. And perhaps constantly living in the past isn't good for you either."

Then it burst out of Harry. A wave of anger and frustration that had built up inside him over the past few weeks. "I'm more myself now than I've ever been!" he cried, his voice trembling with suppressed emotions.

Ron and Hermione flinched in alarm. "Okay, okay, calm down," they murmured almost simultaneously, raising their hands in a placating gesture.

"And then you've just been in the library all last week," Ron added a little more quietly, as if trying to change the subject, but hitting precisely the next sore spot.

"We've got a research project," Harry said, and it sounded more like an excuse than an explanation. The research project. It had started with them wanting to find out more about his maternal grandfather, that mysterious Tom Riddle. But then, at some point, they had let it slide. And now, since Halloween, since that eerie message on the wall, they had continued with renewed vigour. At least, Harry had put a little pressure on them. Because the sudden mention of an heir had given him a deep unease.

They hadn't found much. But Neville had stumbled upon something. An illustration of a tapestry in an old newspaper article from 1985.

The article was about the death of Walburga Black – Sirius's mother and, as Harry realised with a cold shiver, his grandmother. Neville had explained to him that he had been to her funeral as a small boy. There he had also met Draco Malfoy for the first time.

Harry had been puzzled. What were Neville and Draco doing at his grandmother's funeral? Neville had shown him the tapestry. A complicated web of names and lines. Apparently, both the Longbottoms and the Malfoys were related to the House of Black. Neville's great-grandmother had been a born Black, and Draco's mother, Narcissa, too. Neville had explained to him with a patience Harry admired that the Black family had once been one of the greatest and most powerful families in the wizarding world and there was hardly an old family line that didn't carry Black blood somewhere. Even Ron, his grandmother Cedrella had been a Black, the sister of Neville's great-grandmother. Although, as Neville had added with a quiet sigh, she had been disowned with her marriage into the Weasley family and burned off the tapestry because the Weasleys were considered "blood traitors." All these family feuds, the complex family trees, and who was related to whom and how, was a single, confusing mess for Harry, and he wondered how Neville could keep track of it all. Neville had just shrugged and said that was part of an heir's upbringing. Because of politics and all that.

"Harry, are you even listening to us?" Hermione's voice ripped him from his wild thoughts.

"Hmm?" Harry just hummed. "Sorry, the pain..." he mumbled, blaming his distraction on the unpleasant throbbing in his arm.

"It's alright," Hermione and Ron said almost simultaneously, their faces full of concern. "We can talk to you another time."

"No, no," Harry quickly said, trying to focus on their worried faces. "What is it?"

"Right then," Hermione began hesitantly, casting a quick glance at Ron, as if seeking reassurance. "We've heard what people are whispering. They... they think you're the Heir of Slytherin."

"They think you petrified Mrs Norris and wrote the message on the wall," Ron added, his voice sounding as if he'd happily hex anyone who even thought such a thing.

"No! I wasn't!" Harry retorted instinctively, a wave of panic and defensiveness surging through him. He was afraid they might believe he'd done something wrong.

"We know that," Ron said immediately, looking at him as if he were mad to even consider such a thing.

But Harry thought to himself: I am, actually. The Heir of Slytherin. The thought was a cold, heavy stone in his stomach. He had the ring, even if it was safely in Gringotts. Hopefully. Perhaps he should write to Ragnok and ask if it really was. But he hadn't written the message. And he certainly hadn't attacked Mrs Norris. That meant someone was impersonating the Heir of Slytherin. Someone was pretending to be the Heir, and in the end, perhaps someone was trying to frame the real Heir – meaning him. Harry felt sick at the thought.

"I've got an idea," Hermione said suddenly, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of nervousness and determination. "An idea of how we might be able to prove who the real Heir is."

"Really?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"Yeah," Ron said, grinning broadly. "Together, we'll get it out of the Slytherins!"

"What? How?" Harry asked, completely perplexed.

"Hermione's got an idea," Ron repeated, looking at his friend expectantly.

"Well," Hermione began, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "it's not entirely... legal, or anything. But I've found something that might get us in."

"If you say so," Harry said, wondering if he should perhaps just tell them the truth. That he was the Heir. But what would they think then? That he had been behind it all along? After all, they had appeared at the scene after him. Somehow, it was all despairing.

But just as Hermione was about to continue, the Hospital Wing door flew open and Neville stormed in.

"Sorry, Harry!" he cried, immediately hugging his godfbrother, who was still lying in his bed. Harry winced.

"Oh, sorry, Harry!" Neville said again, as he noticed Harry had flinched in pain because Neville had hugged him too tightly and squeezed his boneless arm – or rather, the one in which bones were just beginning to grow.

"It's alright," Harry managed, trying to smile through the pain.

"We'll leave you two alone," Ron and Hermione said, leaving the Hospital Wing. As they walked out, Harry heard Ron say to Hermione:

"We're still doing it, no matter what Harry says, aren't we?"

"Shh, Ron, not so loud!" Hermione hissed.

Harry merely rolled his eyes. Neville looked at him questioningly. "What's Ron on about?"

Harry explained to Neville that Hermione had an idea how they might sneak into Slytherin. Neville asked if Harry knew more about their idea.

"Um, not really," Harry said, shrugging. At that moment, Madam Pomfrey came back in and shooed Neville out of the room with a stern gesture.

"Mr. Potter needs his rest now!" They said their goodbyes, promising to meet tomorrow. Both were a little disappointed to only see each other briefly, but Madam Pomfrey was stubborn and insisted Harry rest.

Harry would have liked to spend more time with Neville. Not because he ultimately wanted to tell him that he was the true Heir of Slytherin. No, Harry wanted Neville there because he needed him. His godbrother. In moments like these, in the quiet, sterile solitude of the Hospital Wing, they were there for each other. And what Harry couldn't bear at all: the longer he was alone with himself and his thoughts, the deeper he sank into a dark, unstoppable spiral. Thought after thought dragged him down, like quicksand. That was precisely what had weighed him down at the start of the school year, that was precisely what had almost suffocated him on Halloween.

When Harry was alone, he had to think. He had to think about how others saw him, as something he didn't want to be: the boy who lived. A hero. A symbol. He had to think about how his best friend might see him if he ever found out the truth. If Harry were to tell him to his face: "I'm Haedus Black-Potter. Heir Black, Heir Potter, Heir Gaunt, Heir Peverell and, oh yes, I'm also Heir Slytherin, by the way."

Slytherin. The word that once tasted like snake venom on his tongue. Ron was anything but positive about that House, and Harry was painfully aware at that moment that it had been Ron who had first explained to him that Slytherin was the House of dark wizards. Harry had had no idea about the wizarding world back then – not that it was much better now, so much was still new and confusing – but without Ron's passionate aversion, Harry might not have resisted the Sorting Hat. Slytherin would lead you to true greatness , the Hat's words had echoed in his head.

And then, in that moment, in the quiet solitude of the Hospital Wing, it dawned on Harry. The Hat knew. It could see into minds, into the deepest corners of the soul. Had the Hat known? Had it known that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin? Had it wanted to send him there for that reason? Because he belonged there? Because it was in his nature? Was he truly a snake among lions? And thus a freak?

Yes. He was a freak. And the first ones to know it had been the Dursleys. They had always known. They knew what Harry was: the boy who had survived what one shouldn't survive, and thus a freak. They had been right about all of it. And all that they had done to him... had he deserved it? The pains, of which he still bore the faded, silver scars on his back today, were they a just punishment? He had deserved to feel the pains, just as he now felt the pains that shot through him as his bones slowly and excruciatingly grew back.

Harry was used to pain. That's why it was good that he was the one whose bones Lockhart had made vanish. Just imagine if Draco Malfoy had been the one closer to the Snitch, who could have caught it, and just before that had broken his arm from a mad Bludger. No, Draco wouldn't have deserved that. Because Draco wasn't a freak, as much as Harry detested him. Draco was a snake among snakes. He belonged there. And in principle, Lockhart had even done Andromeda a favour; now she didn't have to mend Harry's right arm. And by that, he'd also done Harry a favour, because what Harry absolutely didn't want was to be a burden to anyone. He didn't want to be a burden. He had been one for the Dursleys, which was why he had received what he deserved.

Harry didn't even notice how he was caught in this gloomy thought spiral, how it spun round and round, driven by the throbbing pain from the Skele-Gro Potion. It was Madam Pomfrey who finally pulled him out of his trance. She stood beside his bed, her face a mask of professional concern, and handed him a tray with supper and his usual nutrient potion.

"Everything alright, Mr. Potter?" she asked, her voice sounding worried as she noticed how absent he was.

"Um, yes, quite," Harry mumbled, trying to force a smile that felt more like a grimace. He didn't want to be a burden to her either. She surely had better things to do than look after a grumpy, twelve-year-old boy. He was probably already enough of a burden to her with the regular check-ups for his nutrient potion, which she had to carry out on Andromeda's instructions. No matter what she or Professor McGonagall said, that it was no trouble for them. His Head of House even insisted on being present at every examination. Harry had told her several times she didn't have to, but in loco parentis had always been her unyielding answer.

At least there was a small ray of hope. After the last examination, Madam Pomfrey had said he was well on the way, but he would certainly have to take the potion at least until Christmas. That also meant he would still be a burden to her until Christmas. Harry didn't want to be a burden to anyone, and now, now she was sitting beside him on the bed while he clumsily tried to spoon the thin chicken soup with his left hand. It wasn't as easy as he thought, and more soup ended up on his pyjamas than in his mouth. But it was certainly better than being fed. He'd rather go hungry; he was used to that. He had to go hungry when he was locked away because he, well, did freakish things. Freaks belonged locked away. With every spoonful Harry slowly and tremblingly brought to his mouth, the word repeated in his head, a soft, poisonous whisper. Freak. With every single spoonful. Freak.

"What do you mean, Harry?" Madam Pomfrey suddenly asked, still sitting beside him on the bed. Harry froze, the spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. Had she heard him? Had he said it aloud? Who would do such a thing, he thought in a panic. Only... No, don't say it, no, don't think it, Harry , were his last, desperate thoughts before he said to the nurse, who looked at him worriedly from her chair beside his bed:

"Um, it's fine... it's just... just the pain... I, um, I'm trying to bear it."

A look of pity flitted across Madam Pomfrey's face. "Oh, you brave boy, Harry," she said, and her voice was soft and full of compassion. And then she did something that caught Harry completely off guard. She put an arm around his shoulders and gently pulled him close. Harry was perplexed. He wasn't used to being touched, certainly not like this. His muscles tensed involuntarily, but then, very slowly, he felt the warmth of her embrace begin to drive out the cold within him. It was a small gesture, but it felt good. Harry wasn't used to it, not at all, and yet, and yet it felt good, like security.

When Harry had finished eating, Madam Pomfrey told him to rest further, as it certainly wouldn't be a pleasant night. Harry nodded. He already knew what awaited him. A small part of him even longed for it, for he knew that through the pulling and throbbing, he would heal, he would become himself again, the one he was meant to be.

Harry tried to sleep, as far as it was possible through the incessant pain of the regrowing bones. He would have loved to have his mother's book to read now. It had almost become a ritual when he was at St. Mungo's, to find comfort in her words while trying to escape the pain. But lying here in the Hospital Wing now, alone with the sensation of regrowing bones, was definitely more unpleasant than at St. Mungo's. He would gladly swap and rather lie there than here. Yet somehow, between the waves of pain, he managed to drift into a restless, shallow sleep, until something woke him in the middle of the night.

Someone seemed to be dabbing the sweat from his forehead. A cool, damp cloth gently touched his skin. Was it Madam Pomfrey? Harry slowly opened his eyes, his eyelids feeling like lead. No, whoever or whatever it was, it was far too small to be Madam Pomfrey. It seemed much more likely to be a student. But even for that, it was too small. Whatever it was, it was standing right next to him on the bed he was still lying in.

"Get off me!" Harry said with a mixture of fright and anger, pushing the something away without knowing what had been leaning over him.

And then he saw it. It had to be a house-elf. Probably one from Hogwarts, after all, Harry knew that they supplied him with the nutrient potions.

Quickly, he reached with his left hand for his spectacles, which lay on the bedside table next to the bed. Madam Pomfrey had probably been kind enough to take them off him. For a brief moment, he had to wince as he touched his right arm while leaning over to grab his spectacles. Not good , Harry thought, but bearable for me.

When Harry put on his spectacles, he recognised who was beside him. The bat-like ears, the enormous, tennis-ball-sized eyes.

"Dobby?" Harry exclaimed in surprise. Why was Dobby here? What did Dobby want from him?

"Harry Potter called Dobby, sir!" squeaked the house-elf, his voice an excited chirping. "Dobby has come to serve Harry Potter!"

"I didn't call you," Harry said, confused, so what was Dobby doing here then?

"But Harry Potter needed Dobby!" Dobby insisted, bouncing excitedly from one foot to the other. "Dobby warned Harry Potter, sir! Dobby told Harry Potter not to come to Hogwarts! But Harry Potter did not listen to Dobby!"

"Warned?" Harry repeated, slowly sitting up, carefully pressing his limp arm to his side. And then Harry remembered the message in his trunk. He had completely forgotten that it came from Dobby.

"Hogwarts is too dangerous for Harry Potter!" Dobby squeaked, and his enormous eyes filled with tears. "Harry Potter did not listen to Dobby's warning, so Dobby had to convince Harry Potter differently!" His eyes travelled to Harry's right arm, which lay limp on the duvet.

An icy suspicion crept up Harry's spine, as cold and unpleasant as the Skele-Gro Potion. "That... that was you," he whispered, his voice barely more than a disbelieving croak. "You were behind the Bludger."

Dobby's bat-like ears drooped, and he looked down, as if he wished the floor would swallow him whole. "You could have killed me!" Harry cried, his initial confusion giving way to a wave of fury.

"Dobby never wanted to kill Harry Potter!" whimpered the house-elf, tugging at his long ears. "Dobby only wanted to injure Harry Potter! Just a little! So Harry Potter would be sent home!"

"Home?" Harry repeated, dumbfounded. "I can't go home! I've got no home but Hogwarts! And if I'm sent to the Dursleys, who knows what'll happen then! You might as well have killed me!"

"Dobby apologises! Dobby didn't want any of this!" sobbed Dobby, and thick tears streamed down his cheeks. "But Dobby had to do it! Dobby's master..."

He broke off, as if he had said too much. Harry's ears pricked up. Most house-elves, he had learned, belonged to a family. Kreacher had said he belonged to the Black family, and therefore to him too. But whose family could Dobby belong to? And then it dawned on Harry. Kreacher had spoken of a "Miss Cissi." And if Kreacher knew Miss Cissi, she must belong to the Blacks. Which of his relatives, Harry wondered, could the name Cissi fit? He thought of the tapestry Neville had shown him. And then it hit him like a lightning bolt. Cissi. Narcissa. Narcissa Black, no, Malfoy.

"Dobby, you belong to the Malfoys," Harry said, and it was not a question, but a statement.

Dobby froze. His eyes widened in horror. "Dobby... Dobby has said too much! Dobby must punish himself now!" he shrieked, and rammed his head with a loud, dull BONG against the iron bedpost.

"Stop, Dobby!" Harry cried in horror, trying to pull the little elf away. "Stop it at once!" But Dobby was not so easily deterred. He wanted to bash his head against the bed again, and Harry knew he had to stop him before Madam Pomfrey woke up from the noise. Last time, Kreacher had helped. You could certainly summon house-elves, but how? How was he supposed to get Kreacher's attention? Last time he had ordered him to disappear.

But in the midst of his desperate thoughts of Kreacher, Harry heard that voice again. Cold and hissing, it crept from the walls of the castle, directly into his head.

"...rip... shred... kill..."

An icy shiver ran down Harry's spine. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins. He understood the words, every single one, and that was the most terrifying thing about it.

"Do you hear that too?" Harry whispered, grabbing Dobby's arm, his eyes darting wildly through the dark Hospital Wing.

Dobby immediately stopped hurting himself and stared at Harry with his enormous, frightened eyes. He shook his head violently. "Dobby hears nothing, sir. Nothing but Harry Potter, sir."

Fortunately, Dobby stopped punishing himself and looked at Harry in bewilderment. Then the voice fell silent. Dobby asked, "What did Harry Potter hear?"

"Something that wants to hunt something," Harry said, his voice trembling. He wondered if the legend of the monster that might live in this Chamber was true after all, no matter what Binns had said when the students asked him about it after Halloween. But why could only he hear it? And why did he understand it? Then he asked, "What do you know about it, Dobby?"

Dobby trembled slightly all over. "Dobby cannot say anything, sir!" he whimpered. But something seemed to be sensing Dobby, for he too looked frightened. "Dobby is so very sorry," Dobby said. "If only Harry Potter had listened to Dobby's warnings!" And with a soft pop , Dobby vanished again.

Harry was a little relieved that Dobby had disappeared so quickly, just as the unknown voice had also faded away. But tomorrow he would tell the others about it, because he was now sure that Malfoy at least knew more, if not was responsible. He was convinced that Draco could be behind it. In the end, it made sense. Draco had been neither shocked nor surprised when he saw the message. And he had threatened Hermione. For Harry, it was perfectly clear: Draco wanted Harry out of the school, which was why he had sent his house-elf. With the new knowledge that Draco was somehow complicit, Harry now wanted to help with Hermione and Ron's idea, whatever they had planned. Now that Dobby was gone, Harry also noticed his pulse racing. He tried to calm his pounding heart, but the adrenaline still surged through his veins. The voice… it had been so real, so malicious. And Dobby hadn't heard it. Was he going mad? Was that why the Dursleys had always called him a freak? Because he heard things that weren't there?

He shook his head, trying to suppress the rising panic. No. He wasn't mad. The voice had been real, he was sure of it. But why could only he hear it?

A cold shiver ran down his back. The Chamber of Secrets. The monster. The legend that Professor Binns had so casually dismissed suddenly seemed terrifyingly real. And if there was a monster, it was awake now. It was hunting. And it wanted to kill.

Harry swallowed hard. He had to talk to the others. Tomorrow. Urgently. He would tell them everything. About Dobby, about the Malfoys, and about the voice. Okay, maybe not about the voice, at least not Ron and Hermione. In the end, they'd just worry he was going mad. Neville knew Harry heard this voice. He had told him. Neville had been there when Harry chased after it on Halloween. But he kept it secret from Ron and Hermione. Should he tell them? After all, they surely wanted to find out what was going on here too, before anyone else got seriously hurt. Or worse.

With a new, iron resolve in his heart, Harry leaned back into the pillows. The pain in his arm was still there, a dull, unpleasant throb, but it was secondary now. There were more important things to do. And for the first time since the Quidditch match, Harry felt the anger at Lockhart and Dobby give way to a cold, clear determination. He would find out what was going on here. And he would stop it. Whatever the cost.

Harry had just drifted back into a restless, pain-filled sleep when he was disturbed again. This time it wasn't the quiet scuffling of a house-elf, but the muffled, urgent murmuring of voices and the heavy creak of the Hospital Wing door. He blinked sleepily and saw two familiar figures in the faint light spilling from the corridor. Professor Dumbledore, tall and imposing in his star-spangled robes, and Professor McGonagall, whose stern face looked even more strained than usual. Between them floated a stretcher, and on it lay a small, motionless figure.

"Poppy, quickly!" Professor McGonagall's worried voice cut through the silence. Madam Pomfrey, who apparently never truly slept, immediately rushed out of her office.

"What's happened?" she asked, her voice a horrified whisper.

"There's been another attack," McGonagall explained, as she and Dumbledore carefully set the stretcher opposite Harry's bed of the other side of the room. "This time it's a student. Petrified, just like Mrs Norris."

Madam Pomfrey let out a soft, horrified gasp. Harry pretended to be asleep, his eyes open only a tiny slit. He wanted to hear everything.

"Albus, the Chamber... it's been opened again," McGonagall said to Dumbledore, her voice trembling.

"So it seems, Minerva," Dumbledore replied, his usually calm voice unusually grave. He bent over the petrified student. "But I'm sure it's someone different from last time."

"Who?" McGonagall asked urgently.

"Not who , Minerva," Dumbledore corrected her gently. "But how , is the question."

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey noticed something. "He's got his camera with him," she said, pointing to the bulky Muggle device hanging around the boy's neck. And there, in the faint light of the Hospital Wing, Harry recognised him. It was Colin Creevey.

An icy stab went through Harry's heart, a mixture of shock and a terrible, gnawing guilt. He remembered the Quidditch match, how he had lain on the ground, injured and in pain, and Colin had tried to take a photo of him. He had yelled at him in front of everyone, pushed him away, full of anger and pain. And now Colin lay here, petrified, lifeless. This is my fault , Harry thought, biting his lip to stop himself from sobbing aloud. I yelled at him. In front of everyone.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore said, carefully taking the camera in his hand, "the attacker can be seen in the photo."

But as he opened the back of the camera, there was a soft hiss, and a small cloud of smoke rose. Harry wondered. Didn't Dumbledore know how a Muggle camera worked? Harry had once accidentally exposed the film in Uncle Vernon's camera, and the subsequent punishment was still painfully etched in his memory. Vernon had roared that he had irrevocably stolen important memories from him. But Vernon's roaring didn't stop there. Surely one of the scars on his back came from that day.

"What does that mean?" McGonagall asked, her voice strained.

"I'm not sure," Dumbledore replied thoughtfully. "But in time, the culprit will reveal themselves."

"But at what cost, Albus?" McGonagall countered, her voice trembling with suppressed concern. "More petrified students? We must take precautions!"

"We shall, Minerva. We shall," Dumbledore said reassuringly. Before the two left, he turned to Madam Pomfrey once more. "I trust young Mr. Creevey is in good hands with you?"

"Of course," Madam Pomfrey said firmly, bidding farewell to Dumbledore and McGonagall.

Harry tried to sleep again, but the images wouldn't leave him. Colin's lifeless face, the puff of smoke from the camera, the worried expression in Dumbledore's eyes. Tomorrow, he would tell Neville, Hermione, and Ron everything he had witnessed that night. Everything.

---

The next morning, Madam Pomfrey discharged Harry early, with the strict admonition not to overexert his arm. While the bones were back, they still felt strangely rubbery and unreliable. He met up with Ron, Hermione, and Neville in the hiding spot Hermione had chosen: the girls' lavatory on the first floor. The place was perfect. Aside from Moaning Myrtle, who usually sulked and wailed in her cubicle, no one ever came here. The smell of damp stone and old pipes hung in the air, and the constant dripping and gurgling from the plumbing created an eerie but undisturbed atmosphere.

"Right then," Harry began, as they gathered in a semicircle around one of the sinks, "I've got something to tell you."

He told them about the previous night. About the hushed conversation between Dumbledore and McGonagall, the floating stretcher, and the horrifying realisation that the petrified student was Colin Creevey.

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. "Oh no! Colin? But he's only a first-year!"

"Merlin's beard, Harry," groaned Ron, running a hand through his red hair. "People are going to think you did it! You had a go at him in front of everyone after the Quidditch match! You told him he'd regret it!"

"That's why I want in on your plan!" Harry said urgently, looking from Ron to Hermione. "We've got to find out who's really behind this before there are any more attacks." He paused briefly. "I could also write to Remus. Maybe he knows something about the Chamber."

"Good idea!" said Neville at once. "And while you're writing to him, why not ask him for a few new records for us?"

"Neville!" Hermione exclaimed indignantly. "Haven't we got enough music?"

"You can never have enough music," Neville and, to Harry's great surprise, Ron replied in unison.

Harry then told them about his encounter with Dobby. He spoke of the jinxed Bludger and how the house-elf apparently belonged to the Malfoys. He kept silent about Kreacher and his first meeting with Dobby over the summer. That was a secret he wasn't yet ready to share.

"Malfoy!" Ron growled, clenching his fists. "I knew it! It all fits! The animosity towards you, Hermione, Dobby trying to get you kicked out of school... it's all his doing!"

"So what exactly is your plan?" Harry asked, turning to Hermione.

Hermione pulled a thick, black leather-bound book from her bag. "I got Lockhart to sign a permission slip for the Restricted Section," she explained, a hint of pride in her voice. "He'd sign anything as long as you butter him up enough."

"Oh, so you're not a fan of his anymore?" Ron teased her.

"Not since he… well, you know… with Harry's arm," Hermione said, blushing slightly. "Oh, and sorry Neville. And the pixies, of course. Anyway, I found a book here: Most Potente Potions . And I think I've found the solution to our problem of how to sneak into Slytherin."

"Why not just use the Invisibility Cloak?" Harry asked, confused.

"And how are we supposed to question Malfoy or the other Slytherins if they can't see us?" Hermione retorted, a logical point.

"We could ask Jo," Neville suggested. "Maybe he knows something."

"Are you mad?" Ron snapped at him. "You don't seriously think one of those snakes is going to tell us anything! They're all slimy, cunning beasts, I'm telling you!"

"That's not fair, Ron! You don't even know Jo!" Harry defended him.

"A snake's a snake," Ron insisted stubbornly.

Harry was about to reply, but he saw Neville subtly shake his head. This argument wasn't worth their friendship.

As they left the girls' lavatory, they tiptoed down the corridor, hoping not to meet anyone. But they were out of luck. They had barely turned the corner when they came face to face with Percy Weasley, who was patrolling with his chest puffed out and his glistening Prefect badge on his robes.

"What exactly," Percy began in a voice dripping with importance, "are you four doing in a girls' lavatory?"

"We… erm…" Ron stammered, but Percy cut him off with a commanding wave of his hand.

"I don't even want to know. That is a clear violation of school rules. Five points from Gryffindor." He tapped his badge meaningfully, as if to make sure they had properly acknowledged his authority.

"Worst brother ever," Ron muttered as Percy marched past them with a proudly puffed-out chest.

 

The week after the attack on Colin Creevey was marked by a chilly, unpleasant atmosphere. The uncertainty crept like a cold fog through the corridors of Hogwarts. Everywhere there were hushed whispers, furtive talks behind hands, and far too often, Harry heard his own name. Students avoided his gaze, crossing to the other side of the corridor when he approached, as if he were a contagious disease. Only the Gryffindors stood by him, forming a protective circle whenever they could. Harry wondered if it would be the same if he were in Slytherin, would they protect him just as much there?

But that wasn't all. Harry felt it. A soft hiss in the air, a tingle on the back of his neck. Again and again, when he walked through the corridors alone, he was attacked from behind with quiet jinxes. Yet nothing happened to him. He only felt the barely perceptible vibration of the invisible ring on his finger, a quiet hum that told him danger was afoot. Then, a tiny, almost inaudible 'plop,' and the curse bounced off an invisible shield.

Harry had almost forgotten about the silver ring with the grey stone. Normally, when he was feeling unsure, he would absent-mindedly fiddle with his Potter ring, the only one of his three rings that was visible to everyone. Now that his right arm was healed, he noticed his left hand instinctively wandering back to it. Aside from that, Harry was now infinitely glad he had the Gaunt ring, because it made the cowardly attackers, who only dared to attack him from behind, look mighty foolish when their little curses simply bounced off him. Unfortunately, among those who witnessed it, it also strengthened the rumour that Harry might have something to do with the attacks, because the jinxes fired at him seemingly couldn't touch him.

In addition to the cowardly attacks, which came mainly from older Hufflepuff and Slytherin students, Harry noticed that the general panic in the castle had a strange, bustling side effect. A veritable black market for talismans and protective amulets had emerged. Whispers travelled through the corridors, and in the corners of the common rooms, small, oddly-smelling packets and strangely shaped stones were traded under the table. Even Neville had fallen victim to this hysteria, which surprised Harry in particular.

"Do you really think that thing will protect you?" Harry asked him incredulously one evening as Neville stepped through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, proudly wearing a large, purple crystal around his neck that looked suspiciously like a piece of cheap Muggle glass.

"Hundred percent," Neville said with a conviction that Harry almost felt sorry for. He shook his head. "I would have got one for you too, Harry, but he only had this one left. I had to get the last one. It cost me almost a Galleon, he wanted fifteen Sickles for it," Neville said, almost proudly, holding the amulet out to Harry, who saw it as worthless junk that someone was trying to make a quick buck with.

"Fifteen Sickles?" exclaimed Parvati Patil, who was sitting at one of the tables and had overheard them. She jumped up and showed them a small, smelly bag hanging from a cord around her neck. "Neville, you've been ripped off! I got mine for nine, and it even came with an extra anti-pimple charm!"

Harry couldn't help but shake his head. He had thought his godbrother wouldn't be so susceptible to such things. But fear seemed to drive people to the oddest things.

At least Ron and Hermione hadn't fallen for this nonsense. Though Harry was pretty sure that if Hermione wasn't constantly talking him down with logical arguments, Ron would probably be running around with an amulet made of dried frogspawn by now. As if these cheap talismans would really protect anyone. Then again… Harry's hand unconsciously moved to his right ring finger. His rings protected him. But in them, as Ragnok had explained, were woven genuine, powerful spells. A protection no one knew about and one he couldn't share with anyone.

It was Saturday, and the attack on Colin was now almost exactly a week ago. Harry and Neville were just coming from the Owlery. Harry had sent a letter to Remus. He wanted to know from his godfather if he knew more about the Chamber; perhaps it had been opened once before during his time at Hogwarts. Neville had come along to make sure Harry asked Remus if he could send them some new records.

Now both were on their way back from the Owlery in the West Tower to Hermione and Ron, who were waiting for them in the girls' lavatory on the first floor. Regardless of Percy's warning, they were sticking with their hiding place.

Suddenly, Harry felt his Gaunt ring vibrate again. A soft, warm hum on his finger, followed by a barely audible 'plop' behind him. Again, someone had jinxed him. Again, the ring had protected him.

"Come on, let's hurry," Harry said to Neville, so as not to receive any more spells. Neville looked at him quizzically, but he nodded and they walked more quickly through the corridors. But their luck didn't last long. For this time, the attackers revealed themselves.

From behind, Harry heard a drawling, arrogant voice.

"Stay there, Potter. Think you can just get away with it, boy?"

Harry froze. Boy . The word hit him like a punch to the stomach. It wasn't the word itself, but the tone of it – contemptuous, condescending, full of revulsion. It was Vernon's voice. For one terrible, confusing moment, he wasn't in the bright, stone corridors of Hogwarts, but back in the dark, cramped cupboard under the stairs.

He turned around slowly. It was Adrian Pucey, one of the Slytherin team's Chasers, flanked by two other Slytherins who were two years above them and whose faces Harry only knew, but not their names.

"What do you want, Pucey?" Neville asked, stepping protectively in front of Harry. But Harry barely noticed. He was paralysed, trapped in the echoes of the past. He felt Neville trying to pull him away by the arm, but his feet seemed to be rooted to the floor. He couldn't move.

The three attackers reached them in no time. Neville was pushed roughly to the side and stumbled against the wall and then to the floor. Harry would have liked to help him, but he couldn't. Why couldn't he? Then he felt one of the three, it was probably Adrian judging by the voice, push him against the wall with his arm. Harry's breath hitched. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't anyone see he couldn't breathe?

As he struggled for breath, he heard Pucey's voice, which eerily mingled with that of Uncle Vernon. "What's this then, boy, eh? Thought you and your little shield trick could stop us, did you? You're nothing but a…"

But before Pucey could finish his sentence, which to Harry's ears sounded almost exactly like Vernon's, Harry just kept whispering the same thing over and over. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Once again Harry heard Pucey talking at him, just as Vernon usually did.

"What was that, boy?" But Harry couldn't answer him. Harry couldn't say a thing.

He was breathless, his mouth completely dry. His surroundings began to blur even more than if he wasn't wearing his glasses, yet Harry was sure he had them on. Harry couldn't really see where he was anymore, but he could feel Pucey's arm pressing him against the wall, making it impossible to breathe. Why wasn't anyone helping them? Couldn't anyone see what was happening?

But before Harry could take another, useless breath, he no longer felt Pucey's arm on his chest. The wall he was pressed against gave way to the feeling of a cold stone floor, as if he'd simply splatted onto it.

Harry heard distant words he didn't understand. A distant murmur. Then he felt a hand. A hand on his arm. It pulled him up. And it seemed to be leading him. It seemed the hand was guiding him through the castle. Somewhere. Harry hoped the hand was leading him to safety. But he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was Pucey after all, or worse, Vernon. But why would he be at Hogwarts? No, it couldn't be him. But what if it was? Where was he leading him? To Harry's cupboard? Where he always locked him up when he was a freak, when he did his freaky things. And a shield like that was definitely freaky. Perhaps Pucey also wanted to lock him in a cupboard in the castle. Air, he needed air, but it remained half-stuck on its way to his lungs, Harry thought. Then he heard the sound of a door slamming. Okay, this is it, Harry thought. Now I'm going to be locked up. Locked in a cupboard. And no one, no one would be able to free me. No one.

"Potter!"

A female voice, sharp and urgent, cut through the fog of his fear.

"Potter, drink this!"

Was that Petunia? Was that his aunt demanding he drink that disgusting cough medicine, just like she did when he was five years old? Just like then, Harry pressed his lips tightly together. He desperately hoped he wouldn't feel his aunt's sharp fingernails digging into his skin again, making him cry out in pain just so she could pour the vile syrup down his throat.

"It's no use, he's not responding at all, and he absolutely won't open his mouth," he heard the female voice say again, this time it sounded concerned. "I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, but I'm afraid I have to do it this way. This is going to be a little unpleasant."

Suddenly, Harry felt an unpleasant tingling in his stomach. It was as if the tingling was pulling at his lungs, preventing them from so desperately gasping for air. At the same time, he felt his heartbeat also begin to slow down again. It was as if something was drawing the fear, the wild, panicked emotions, out of him. For a moment, Harry felt dazed, almost completely numb. Not entirely. He felt as if his emotions had been pressed down, into a deep, silent chamber inside him. And little by little, he became aware of where he was again. He wasn't in a cupboard. He wasn't locked up anywhere. He was sitting on a bed. He was in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. And across from him weren't Pucey or the other two attackers. Across from him stand Neville, who was looking at him with concern, and Madam Pomfrey. And then it dawned on Harry. It had been her voice he had heard.

"I'm sorry I had to spell the Calming Draught in you, but you left me no choice. Are you feeling better now, Mr Potter?" she asked him. Harry nodded. He couldn't say anything. Because suddenly, right where Pucey had held him, he felt a sharp pain.

"Let me have a look, Mr Potter," Madam Pomfrey said when Harry reached for the spot where he felt the pain.

Harry obeyed Madam Pomfrey and opened his shirt. A few large, bluish bruises were probably visible, as Madam Pomfrey reached for a pot of a thick, purple ointment. "Bruise Balm," she explained, as she gently spread the cool cream across his chest. "That should help," she said.

No sooner had Harry buttoned his shirt again than the door to the Hospital Wing swung open. Professor McGonagall marched in with quick, energetic steps, her lips pressed into a thin line. When she saw Harry, her worried expression gave way to one of stern relief.

"Thank Merlin," she said, her voice sharper than usual. "When I heard you'd been attacked, Mr Potter, I feared the worst."

Did she think the monster had gotten him? Harry wasn't sure.

She turned to him, her eyes fixing him through her square spectacles. "What exactly happened?"

Harry's thoughts were still a jumbled mess. The memory was blurred, overlaid with the terrible images from his past.

"Um I… I'm afraid I don't know, Professor," he stammered. "I'm sorry." He would have liked to tell her everything, but he couldn't make any sense of what had really happened. First he was attacked, then this unbearable pressure, the desperate struggle for air, and suddenly, he was here.

Professor McGonagall sighed and turned her stern gaze to Neville. Neville flinched, but immediately straightened up.

"Aunt Minerva," he began, his voice surprisingly steady. "We were attacked by Adrian Pucey and two other Slytherins when we were coming out of the Owlery." He swallowed. "I wanted to run away with Harry, but he... he suddenly couldn't move anymore." He cast a worried glance at Harry. "Then I was pushed away. I had to watch as Pucey pressed Harry against the wall. And when Harry didn't react to Pucey's words, he got even angrier and pressed down even harder. So hard that Harry gasped for air as if he couldn't get any."

Hearing Neville's explanation, Harry almost felt dizzy again, but the Calming Draught was still working and keeping the panic at bay.

"Then," Neville continued, "two prefects from Ravenclaw came along. Sixth-years. They forced Pucey to let go of Harry, and he just slumped to the floor, motionless. Since Harry wasn't reacting, I picked him up and, on the prefects' instructions, brought him here."

For Harry, it was completely bizarre to hear about something he had no real memory of. It was as if Neville was talking about some other boy, a stranger who was trapped in a story he himself didn't understand.

McGonagall and Pomfrey looked at him, their expressions filled with concern.

"Have you had something like this before, Mr. Potter?" Madam Pomfrey asked, her voice a low, worried whisper. "Such a... panic attack?"

Had he? Harry's thoughts raced. He remembered the dizzying feeling at Gringotts when the truth about his heritage had crashed over him like an avalanche. But it hadn't been the same. Not this total paralysis, this feeling of being trapped in his own body. He slowly shook his head, but he saw Neville looking at the floor as if struggling with himself.

"Neville, there's something you want to say," Professor McGonagall said, her voice gentle but firm.

"Yes," Neville said cautiously, barely daring to look up. "Well, I'm not sure. In the summer, when we, well, when we ran away, Harry... had something like that happen." He looked apologetically at Harry. "Harry had something like that happen once before. He stopped responding to me and seemed to be gasping for air. I had to lead him to a park, and only there did he somehow become himself again."

Neville seemed unsure whether he had done Harry a favour by revealing this. Harry wasn't even sure himself.

Fortunately, he didn't have to dwell on that thought for long, as Madam Pomfrey turned to him and asked,

"Does Andromeda Tonks know?"

"Um, why?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"Well, I think it would be a good idea for you to, well, speak to a Phrēntrist," Pomfrey said, her voice full of concern.

Harry would have loved nothing more than to scream at them all that he wasn't crazy and didn't need a Phrēntrist, but the Calming Draught still seemed to be working, ensuring he remained calm.

"Andromeda and I... we've already arranged for me to go to a Phrēntrist," he said, and the words tasted like ash on his tongue. "She recommended a specific one to me."

"Good," Professor McGonagall said curtly, and Madam Pomfrey also nodded in relief. "Poppy, if there's nothing else here, I think I need to have a word with three Slytherins," McGonagall continued, her voice now its usual sharp and determined self. "Keep me informed if there are any developments." Madam Pomfrey nodded, and McGonagall said her goodbyes with one last, scrutinising look at Harry and Neville before she swept out of the Hospital Wing, her cloak billowing behind her.

"I'd like to keep you here a little longer, just to be safe," Madam Pomfrey said, leading Harry to the bed that had become eerily familiar to him. "It's almost your own, isn't it?" she added with a mix of a joke and a wistful sigh. "Try not to make a habit of showing up here regularly, Potter."

"I'll do my best," Harry said, even though he knew it was a lie. Trouble seemed to find him, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

Neville remained quietly at Harry's side throughout the afternoon, reading a Herbology book and occasionally handing him a glass of water without Harry having to ask. His calm, unobtrusive presence was a silent comfort in the sterile white of the Hospital Wing until he was sent out by Madam Pomfrey just in time for dinner.

 

The day after Harry’s, well, whatever that had been, the four of them finally met up in their secret hideout. Hermione and Ron had also briefly visited Harry in the Hospital Wing the day before, after they had heard he had been attacked. Ron, of course, had been beside himself with rage at the Slytherins, demonising all of them at once without a second thought. However, Harry and, to his relief, Neville kept his panic attack a secret from Ron and Hermione. He didn't want to worry them even more; they were already concerned enough that Harry had been attacked. Ron and Hermione had already made some initial preparations on Saturday without Harry and Neville, and now the four of them could finally talk in detail about the plan Hermione had concocted.

"Alright then," Hermione said, and her voice echoed softly off the damp tiles of the abandoned girls’ loo. She spread the thick, black leather-bound book out on the edge of one of the dusty sinks. "I have the solution."

She leafed to a page showing a complicated drawing of a bubbling cauldron and a long list of sinister-looking ingredients. "Polyjuice Potion," she read out solemnly.

Harry stared at her, uncomprehending. "Poly-what?"

"Polyjuice Potion, Harry," Hermione explained with a teacher's zeal. "It's incredibly complicated and we're not meant to learn about it until sixth year. But if it's brewed correctly, it can turn you into an exact copy of someone else for an hour. You just have to have something from the person you want to turn into. A hair, for example."

Harry's eyes widened. "You mean we could turn into Slytherins?"

"Exactly!" said Ron, excited. "Brilliant, isn't it? We'll just mingle with them, and Malfoy will tell us everything!"

"But the potion is way above our level," Neville quietly interjected, leaning over the book, his face worried. "Just look at the ingredients. Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed… we might be able to get most of that, but this…" He tapped a line. "Shredded skin of a Boomslang? And a horn of a Bicorn? Where on earth are we supposed to get those?"

"From Snape's personal stores cupboard," Hermione said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Ron stared at her with his mouth open. "Hermione! Have you gone mad? Break into Snape's office?"

"We have to, Ron!" she retorted, her cheeks reddening slightly. "Someone just has to distract him, and then we can get everything we need."

Ron shook his head in disbelief, then grinned broadly.

"By Merlin's beard, Hermione. I don't even recognise you. Who are you and what have you done with our friend?"

"I can distract him," Neville said suddenly, and all three of them stared at him. "I mean…" he continued uncertainly, nervously tugging at his robes, "something always goes wrong for me in Potions anyway. It's bound to. And then Snape will put me down again or something." His voice grew softer and softer, as if his courage were already failing him.

Harry placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey," he said gently, but firmly. "Stop putting yourself down. You're not a bad student, Neville."

Neville looked up, and in his eyes was an expression of gratitude that warmed Harry's heart. "Thanks, Harry."

"Anytime," Harry said, giving his shoulder a slight squeeze. They were more than just friends; they were godbrothers. A family.

Ron watched the two of them with a strange, almost wistful expression. "Wow, you two," he said softly. "I mean, you really are like brothers should be. Not like mine." He seemed lost in his own thoughts for a moment before he caught himself and looked at Hermione.

"Alright then. We'll do it. But where are we going to brew the stuff? The book says it takes a whole month."

"Right here," Hermione said, looking around the abandoned loo. "Myrtle moans all the time, but she won't give us away. Nobody ever comes here."

 

On Sunday evening, Harry finally found time to read in the book again. He desperately wanted to find a page to learn a little more about what his mother had found out about their shared origins. Neville had convinced him to do so. So, in the evening, he read in his bed, the curtains drawn, in the quiet of his Gryffindor dormitory, an entry his mother had written in her book.

---

I’ve already told you about Sev’s apology and how truly sorry he was. Sev noticed how much I wanted to find out more about my origins, and he suggested we travel to Paris to find out more about my adoption. I had gone through my adoptive parents' records and found that I had been born in Paris.

When I told Mary about the trip, she suggested something brilliant. She was already working as a Healer at the time and was looking after old Lady Rosier. Mary said it would surely be no problem for us to stay at the Rosier family home in Paris. That way, we had a place to stay and could look for answers undisturbed.

You were just over a year old at the time; your birthday had only been a week ago. It was your first time abroad, my darling. I kept it a secret from your Dad, because I knew he would have wanted you to spend your first holiday at the Potters' summer residence in Marbella. But I had to do what felt right, and that was to get closer to the truth about my origins.

When Sev saw you for the first time, he said you bore a, as he put it, "unfortunately" strong resemblance to your Dad. He wished for my sake that you had my hair, not just my eyes. It broke my heart not to be able to tell him that this had happened because of your blood adoption. I would have loved to tell him everything, but it wasn't the right time yet.

In Paris, the three of us began our search for answers. We found that the orphanage where I had been left no longer existed. But we did find records stating that I had been left under the name Gaunt, which made sense, as I am the Lady of that house. We assumed that Riddle had used his old family name as a cover to go into hiding, for whatever reasons. We didn't find out anything more.

We returned to England without telling James or anyone else about it. The trip was a secret between the three of us. I hope one day, when you read these lines, you will understand why I made these decisions.

---

The days in November grew quieter, and to Harry's great relief, the accusations against him lessened. Perhaps it was because there had been no further attacks, or perhaps the students had simply found a new, juicier rumour to whisper about.

Harry had found out from Fred and George that Pucey had been banned from playing Quidditch for the entire season. At the news, that sick feeling had crept back into Harry's stomach; he had fully expected the Slytherins to blame him for that too. But to his astonishment, they kept quiet, only shooting him dark glances when they thought he wouldn't notice. Probably, Harry suspected, they were simply too scared of the consequences that would befall them should they attack a Gryffindor again.

Otherwise, Remus had replied to his letter. He knew the Chamber of Secrets only as an old legend, a ghost story people told each other in the halls of Hogwarts. He had neither known that it had been opened once before, nor had he heard about the recent attacks. Remus warned Harry urgently to be careful. If what the legends said was even remotely true, then whatever lurked in the Chamber was extremely dangerous. However, Harry had kept from Remus that he was being accused by the students of being behind the Chamber's opening, or that he could apparently hear the monster. Harry was now absolutely certain that it was the monster whose icy, hissing voice he heard in the castle walls.

Their routine now consisted of secretly preparing everything for the Polyjuice Potion, studying for school, and advancing Harry and Neville's research into his grandfather. He had arranged to meet Neville in the library after their Friday Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. Harry had been let out of class early because he had cleverly scheduled his check-up with Madam Pomfrey to miss most of Lockhart's self-absorbed blathering. Harry was infinitely glad about it; the less of Lockhart, the better. Madam Pomfrey was satisfied with his progress and said he could definitely stop taking the nutrient potions after Christmas.

Harry was happy that he wouldn't have to take the potions for much longer. Not much of his past was visible because of it. Sure, the scars on his back were still there, but the cream in the summer had helped so well that they were barely visible, just like fine, silvery lines on his skin. Feeling reasonably happy, Harry made his way to the library, where he was supposed to meet Neville. He found him in their usual corner, deep in the back rows, where the shelves smelled of old parchment and sweet dust. Neville was sitting at the table, but instead of staring into one of the heavy books as usual, he was looking with empty eyes at the wall opposite. He was as white as a sheet, and his hands were trembling slightly as they rested on the tabletop.

"Neville?" Harry asked anxiously, dropping into the chair opposite him. "Are you alright?"

Neville flinched as if Harry had pulled him out of a deep trance. He blinked a few times, as if he had to reorient himself.

"Oh, Harry," he said, his voice sounding shaky. "I... I didn't even hear you come in."

"What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost," Harry said, scrutinising his friend. Something was definitely not right.

"Nothing," Neville said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "Everything's fine." He tried to force a smile, but it was just a faint twitch of his lips. "Erm, shall we get started?"

Harry nodded slowly, though he didn't believe a word Neville said.

So far, they hadn't found out much about his grandfather, except that he had attended Hogwarts in the forties, had been in Slytherin, and was even Head Boy. They had Ron to thank for the last bit of information, as he had overheard one of their discussions and casually mentioned that he had read the name 'Tom Riddle' on an old trophy while polishing awards for Filch.

"I've been thinking," Harry said, to break the strange tension between them. "Maybe I should write to this Sev. My mother mentioned in the book that she talked to him about her origins."

For a moment, Neville seemed to be snapped out of his daze. "Yeah," he said thoughtfully. "That couldn't hurt."

They decided to call it a day. It was Friday, and the usual house party was coming up soon. They wanted to get to dinner early so Harry could do a bit of prep. Remus had been kind enough to send him new music every now and then over the past few months, and most of the Gryffindors had become enthusiastic fans of the Friday parties. It was a small but important bright spot in these tense times.

The next day, a cool, grey Saturday morning, Harry sat alone by the window in the Gryffindor Tower. He had a blank piece of parchment in front of him, a quill in one hand and an inkpot in the other. He had spent all night thinking about what he should write. How did you address someone you didn't know, who had seemingly known his mother better than anyone else?

He dipped the quill into the ink and began to write.

---

Dear Sev, or whatever your full name is,

 

I don't think we know each other, or maybe you only know me as a baby.

In any case, I found a book by my mother in which she wrote that the two of you were best friends.

I know you had a falling out, though not really why, but that you had reconciled. At least, that's what she wrote in the book.

She left me the book to answer any questions I might have. Unfortunately, I have more questions than this book could ever answer.

 

Anyway, she wrote that the three of you, with me, travelled to Paris to find out more about my mother's parents, my grandparents.

I wanted to ask if you could write to me about what you found out.

I know the orphanage no longer exists and you only found a few documents, but maybe you overlooked something.

I myself am currently conducting my own research, and perhaps information from your time there could help me.

 

Regards,

HJABP

---

It was the first time he had signed with his real initials. Haedus James Arcturus Black-Potter. It felt strange, but also somehow right. As Harry looked at the letter, he felt a pang of hope. He carefully rolled up the parchment, sealed it, and went to Hedwig in the Owlery. He desperately hoped she would reach Sev. He desperately hoped Sev was still alive. Neville had assured him that he certainly was, as his name had never appeared among the many casualties of the war. Without watching where Hedwig flew, he went back down the stairs of the Owlery. He had done what he could. Now he could only wait.

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading!
I'm curious to hear your thoughts on this chapter, especially about poor Harry. 😃

We're still relatively close to canon for now, but that will change after Chapter 13. You might even hate me for what I have planned!

It's back to Harry's perspective, who won the Quidditch match but at what cost? And then another attack... who would have thought it would hit poor Colin Creevey? 😏

Harry has another panic attack here, and Neville is a witness once again, just like in the first book. It's clear that Harry really needs a therapist. Also, Ron needs to work on his view of Slytherin, or there will be problems in the future.

As always, I'm looking forward to your comments and thoughts!

Chapter 13: Chapter Twelve: The Language of Snakes

Summary:

When tensions rise between Harry and his best friend Ron, Harry tries to find a solution to his problems. Luckily, the newly announced Duelling Club offers a perfect distraction. But during the event, something is suddenly revealed that was meant to stay hidden.

Notes:

Welcome back! I hope you enjoy Chapter 12.

Please be aware that Harry is a traumatized child, and this chapter contains a scene where he experiences a minor panic attack after a secret is revealed.
As always, please read with care.

The first Monday of December dawned with a cold, damp wind whipping against the high turret windows of the Gryffindor common room. Professor McGonagall came in shortly before breakfast, her lips pressed into a thin line, a long roll of parchment in her hand.

"All those who intend to spend the Christmas holidays at Hogwarts, please sign this list," she announced in her usual stern voice, pinning the list to the notice board.

Ron and Hermione immediately stood up and signed with determined expressions. Harry and Neville remained seated.

After Professor McGonagall had left the common room, Ron turned to Harry with a look of incredulous dismay.

"What's this about then?" he asked, his voice louder than intended. "We agreed we were staying here for Christmas! Even Hermione's staying, and her parents were going to take her skiing in Innsbruck!" He looked at Hermione as if he couldn't believe it. "Wherever that Innsbruck is."

"In Austria," Neville said quietly, before Hermione could answer.

Ron stared at him. "Where by merlins name do you know Innsbruck from?"

"It's not far from Nurmengard," Neville replied with a shrug.

"Nurmengard?" Harry asked, desperately hoping the conversation would now be diverted from his absence at Christmas.

"Isn't that the prison where Grindelwald..." Hermione began, but Ron interrupted her with an impatient wave of his hand.

"Yeah, right, but don't get sidetracked! We still have to ask Harry why the bloody hell he thinks it's better not to be here for Christmas! I mean, where are you even going? Not to the Dursleys, for sure," Ron said angrily.

At the name "Dursleys," Harry flinched involuntarily. He tried to find the right words, an explanation that Ron would understand without having to reveal the entire, complicated truth.

"Um... well, it's like this," he began haltingly. "Andromeda, she... well, she invited me to come to her place for Christmas. Because... well, because of my bones. She wants to regrow the remaining ones over the holidays."

Ron was visibly not satisfied with this explanation.

"Malfoy's staying here for Christmas! Lavender heard him complaining about having to spend Yule here," Ron said, his voice dripping with contempt. "This is our chance!"

"Yule?" Hermione asked, confused.

"It's basically Christmas," Harry was able to say, to everyone's astonishment. He knew it from Neville, who, like every year, was invited to one of the balls.

"Christmas for dark wizards," Ron sneered.

"That's not true at all!" Neville retorted angrily. "Yule is an old tradition that has nothing to do with either dark or light magic!"

"Whatever," Ron said, glaring furiously at Harry. "Harry can go to some Yule nonsense if he thinks he's better than his friends!"

That hit home. Harry felt the flush of red rush to his face.

"That's not true at all!" he yelled, his voice trembling with anger and hurt.

"Ron!" Hermione now intervened, trying to smooth things over. "Harry isn't here for Christmas because it's necessary. He needs to heal. Do you think this is fun for him?"

"Yeah, do you think this is fun for me?" Harry now yelled at Ron, and all the pent-up frustration of the past weeks broke out of him. "Do you even know how uncomfortable this is?"

Ron seemed to feel cornered. He stared at Harry with a mixture of anger and wounded pride.

"Oh, you can all get lost!" he finally said, turning on his heel and storming through the common room door towards the Great Hall for breakfast.

Before Hermione could follow him, she turned back to Harry.

"I'm sorry about how he reacted," she said softly.

"It's okay," Harry replied, even though it was anything but okay. "I expected it. That's why I waited so long. I guess it was the wrong choice."

Neville, who had been sitting in silence the entire time, put a hand on his shoulder.

"No matter when you told him, Harry," he said in a calm, firm voice, "it probably would have ended this way."

Harry nodded, though it made his heart heavy.

"I hope he calms down again."

"You know Ron," Neville said, squeezing his shoulder lightly. "He'll be fine."

Let's hope so , Harry thought, feeling a cold knot form in his stomach.

---

The conflict with Ron gave Harry pause for thought. All week, his thoughts revolved around the one agonizing question: What would happen if he told Ron the truth? Ever since he had signed the letter to Sev with his real initials, he had been thinking more and more about who he really was. For a long time, he had been content to simply be Harry. Haedus had been someone else to him, a name from a book, a ghost from the past. But the more he researched, the more time he spent alone with his thoughts, the more he realized that he was Haedus. Haedus was something he could be, an identity beyond the boy who lived. Harry was the boy who grew up with the Dursleys, the freak in the cupboard under the stairs. But Haedus was not. Haedus was...

"Potter!"

Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice tore him from his thoughts. He was in Transfiguration and hadn't even noticed that she had already spoken to him several times.

"I would be most grateful if you would do us the honour of participating in the lesson."

"Sorry, Professor," Harry mumbled, feeling the flush of red rise to his face. He tried to focus on the lesson as best he could. But the thought of Haedus Black wouldn't leave him.

The fact that Harry had been caught seemed to amuse Ron, who sat diagonally opposite him. A small, gleeful grin flashed across his face, and he nudged Seamus, who sat next to him, lightly with his elbow. Probably, Harry thought bitterly, he was happy that his supposedly perfect friend was also getting into trouble, especially since they were a little at odds with each other.

"Since Mr. Potter apparently has more important things on his mind," Professor McGonagall continued in a cutting voice, and her stern eyes now bored into Ron, who immediately stopped grinning. "Please show us, Mr. Weasley, that you have been paying attention, since it amuses you so much that Mr. Potter was distracted. Demonstrate the Vera Verto spell."

On each desk stood a small cage with many small white mice. Ron, whose rat Scabbers had disappeared since the summer, had been given one by Professor McGonagall to place on his desk. She looked at him expectantly. Ron swallowed. He took his wand in his hand, which was still crudely mended with spellotape. He took a deep breath, tapped the mouse three times, and said in a firm voice:

"Vera Verto! "

A shower of sparks shot from the tip of his wand, but it was not silver and clear, but rather a murky, coughing green. The mouse squeaked, twitched, and began to transform. But not into an elegant water goblet. Instead, a small, furry shot glass now sat on Ron's desk. It still had the mouse's twitching nose, its long whiskers, and a tiny, curled tail that whipped excitedly back and forth.

A suppressed giggle ran through the class. Seamus held his hand over his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing. Harry also chuckled. He couldn't help himself. The sight was simply too funny.

Professor McGonagall sighed and rubbed her temples.

"Mr. Weasley," she said in a voice that trembled with suppressed irritation, "I suggest you have that wand checked immediately. I could not find any fault with your performance." Then she continued with the lesson as if nothing had happened.

---

On Wednesday morning, they had a double period of Potions, and the air between Harry and Ron was still frosty. They desperately needed more ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion, which was bubbling away secretly in Moaning Myrtle's toilet. Since Ron was still angry with Harry, he quickly swapped with Seamus, who was otherwise Neville's usual Potions partner. So Harry and Neville worked together on the Hair-Raising Potion. They were supposed to provide a distraction, and they did—if almost unintentionally.

Neville, who was visibly nervous, forgot to turn down the heat under their cauldron when he threw in a handful of dried rat tails. The reaction was instantaneous and violent.

The liquid in the cauldron began to bubble wildly, hissing and splashing in all directions. Green drops flew through the air, hitting not only the dead rats on their desk, which now got such thick, fluffy fur as if they had suddenly turned into guinea pigs, but also Neville was hit. His dark blonde hair began to grow at an alarming speed, falling in thick strands over his eyes and reaching his shoulders within seconds. Dean, who was sitting at the next table, was also hit and suddenly had a bushy afro that looked as if he had stuck his finger in a power socket. Luckily for Harry, he seemed to have been spared, although he was pretty sure he had caught at least one drop too.

The chaos cost Gryffindor twenty points, but amidst Snape's fury and the general confusion, a perfect opportunity presented itself for Hermione. Harry saw how Neville almost collapsed under Snape's attention. His face was pale, and he was trembling as he chewed on his lips. Snape, his voice as cold as the winter air outside the windows, stormed over to Harry and Neville. He circled their cauldron, his black robe fluttering around his ankles, and his nose twitched contemptuously as he inspected the thick fur on the desk.

"A masterful demonstration of your incompetence, Longbottom," Snape hissed with deadly calm. "If your mind would only grow as fast as that embarrassing mop of hair, you might have become a moderately gifted Hufflepuff. But as it is..."

Harry saw Neville hold his breath in fear, almost chewing his lips until they bled. He had to do something, and quickly.

"It was my fault, Sir!" Harry blurted out hastily. "Um, I... I told him to throw in the rat tails."

Harry hoped that by drawing attention to himself, he would give Hermione enough time to steal the ingredients. He saw her, invisible to Snape, who was completely preoccupied, sneak towards the door of his office.

Meanwhile, Snape's eyes were fixed on Harry. A sneering smile, thin and cold, settled on his Potions Master's lips.

"So much honour? Potter, you never disappoint when it comes to being the centre of attention. But you lie just as poorly as your father, and that's saying something. It was obviously Longbottom's own inability that caused this disaster." Snape looked at Neville. Harry had to distract Snape longer, as Hermione had not yet returned. However, Harry also saw that Ron seemed amused that Snape was now on his case.

"I'm not lying," Harry said, and his voice was firmer than he thought possible. "Neville didn't do anything. Maybe he's more gifted than you think." He hoped he wouldn't regret this display of cheek.

Snape's lips curled into a thin, ominous line.

"If Longbottom were to do nothing , I would be grateful. Instead, I have to contend with your unbearable arrogance, which you have obviously inherited from your father, Potter." His voice was a low, dangerous hiss. "Five points from Gryffindor for Longbottom's breathtaking incompetence in following a simple instruction. And another fifteen points for your uninvited interference and your brazen presumption in contradicting me."

A quiet, gleeful snicker ran through the Slytherin rows. In that moment, Harry saw Hermione unnoticedly scurry back to her seat, her face innocent as if she had been there the whole time. It was worth it , Harry thought grimly. He also noticed how Ron's initial grin gave way to a sullen look, now directed at Snape. At least they were united again in their hatred of Snape.

"Thomas, Longbottom, remove your hairy problems from my classroom and seek out Madam Pomfrey," Snape said with a contemptuous snort. "Potter, you stay here. You will clean up this mess." Dean Thomas grabbed the still visibly intimidated Neville by the arm, and the two of them, with their wildly growing hair, disappeared towards the hospital wing. Harry hoped Pomfrey could help his godbrother. He thought about how the Calming Draught had helped him. Surely Pomfrey would give Neville one too, at least he hoped so.

Harry arrived late for lunch, his hands smelling of cauldron cleaner and burnt rat tails. He was glad to see Dean and especially Neville sitting at the Gryffindor table with their normal haircuts again. They were already eating. Harry sat down next to Neville, took the Nutritious Potion that had appeared as if by magic next to his plate, and asked, before even taking the first bite of his sandwich,

"Everything okay, Nev?"

Neville, who had a huge mouthful of pumpkin pasty, just nodded and mumbled an almost incomprehensible,

"Mmh, yeah, thanks, Harry."

His eyes looked strangely glassy, and he moved with a calm serenity that was completely unlike him. Madam Pomfrey must have really given him a Calming Draught , Harry thought, but was glad that his friend seemed to be better now. At that moment, Hermione leaned over the table.

"It worked," she whispered, her eyes sparkling triumphantly. "I have everything we need."

---

On Thursday evening, a new announcement hung on the large notice board in front of the Great Hall. In swirling, golden script that was so over-the-top it could only have come from one person, the opening of a Duelling Club was announced. Harry read the poster with a mixture of amusement and disgust.

“Gilderoy Lockhart,

Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award,

will share his considerable duelling experience with you!”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. As if. He had absolutely no desire to spend another minute longer than necessary with this pompous rooster. His incompetence had already earned him a boneless arm; who knew what he would get up to next.

"Harry! Harry, did you see that?" a suddenly excited voice called out behind him. It was Elijah, who came running towards him with his robes billowing, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm. "A Duelling Club! Isn't that fantastic? I mean, to be able to really duel, with real spells and all! Not that I like Lockhart, don't get me wrong, the man is an absolute braggert, but the thought of being able to prove yourself against other wizards, that's just insane, isn't it?"

It occurred to Harry that Elijah’s dark, curly hair had grown longer over the past few months. It now fell in messy strands across his face, and all at once, Harry recognised a startling resemblance to Jo. Not just the amber eyes and the similar facial features, no, the hair too. Except that Elijah was at least a head taller.

"Tell me," Harry said, eyeing him thoughtfully, "now that your hair is so long, you look even more like Jo."

Elijah groaned, running an annoyed hand through his curls.

"Not you too! I hear that all the time lately. Sarah won't stop with it. I'd love to have it cut short again, but there's no hairdresser or anything here, is there? Do you know where there might be one?"

That's right, Harry thought. There wasn't one. He'd never needed one either, at least not as far as he could remember. A vivid memory flashed through his mind, from a time when he was barely four or five years old. Aunt Petunia had dragged him into the kitchen one evening, her thin mouth a furious slit. She was sick of that untamed, raven-black bird's nest on his head. Without a moment's hesitation, she had grabbed the big kitchen scissors and started to trim his hair. Harry had cried, not just from fear, but from shame, as his deep black strands fell silently onto the tiled floor. "Stop making such a fuss!" she had screamed at him in an icy voice. She dragged him into his cupboard, and sobbing, missing his hair, Harry fell asleep. The worst part, however, was that the next morning his hair had grown back just as it had been before. It had returned to its old form overnight. When Aunt Petunia noticed, she turned chalk-white, and the look in her eyes was a mixture of sheer horror and furious rage. Harry knew exactly what that meant. The next day he got nothing to eat and had to spend another whole day in the cupboard under the stairs to think about his transgression. He didn't know then what he had done wrong; today he knows it was because he was just a freak. Luckily, Vernon hadn't found out about it back then, otherwise...

But before Harry could think about it further, Elijah's voice tore him from his thoughts.

"So, Harry, do you know where I might be able to get my hair cut here?"

"Uh, to be honest, no. But maybe you could go to one at home during the holidays," he suggested.

"Can't," Elijah said, and his cheerful expression darkened. "I'm staying here for the holidays. My parents are invited to some relatives in the USA." He sighed. "And Sarah is going home. It's going to be dead boring." He looked at Harry. "You're gone too, aren't you?"

Harry nodded. And then an idea came to him. A very good one, in his eyes.

"Hey, don't be sad about spending Christmas here," he said with a mysterious grin. "I have an idea. I'll tell you about it at the Duelling Club at the latest."

Elijah's eyes widened.

"Really? You're coming to the Duelling Club?"

"Yes," Harry said, although the thought of it made him feel sick again. "I didn't want to, but it's the perfect opportunity to solve several problems at once," Harry said, leaving the overly enthusiastic Ravenclaw behind in front of the Great Hall, who was still calling after him, "What problems?"

Happy to have found a solution to his problem, Harry made his way up to the Gryffindor Tower. On the way there, he ran into Fred and George.

"Your hair always looks good," Harry said to the two redheads, who were just in the process of hiding a Dungbomb in a niche.

"Thanks, Harrykins," Fred said with a wide grin.

"Can't say the same for yours, though," George added, playfully ruffling Harry's hair, which only made it more unruly.

"Where and when do you get your hair cut?" Harry asked curiously.

"Mum used to do it," Fred explained.

"But now we cut each other's," George continued. "If you like, we can give you a new haircut too," Fred then added again.

"We know the right spell," George finished, as usual.

"No, thanks," Harry said, amused; he had a sneaking suspicion that the twins would certainly give him a crazy haircut plus an unsuitable colour.

"Or would you rather Percy cut your hair?" Fred asked with feigned seriousness.

"He does cut Ron's, after all, when we're here," George said, sounding as if Ron didn't really benefit from Percy's haircutting skills.

Harry also thankfully declined that.

"I'm happy with my hair," he said. Then he remembered Elijah again. "Can you do me a favour? Elijah, the first-year from Ravenclaw, is staying here over Christmas and is a bit sad about it. Maybe you can cheer him up a bit during the holidays?"

"The one who looks like Jo?" Fred asked.

"Yeah," Harry said.

"Perfect!" George exclaimed. "We've already got a good idea of what we can do with them both."

Harry just shook his head, thanked the two of them, and walked on. As he went, Fred and George called after him,

"If you change your mind, Harry, you're welcome to come to us and get a new haircut! We've had enough of that black bird's nest on top of your head!"

Harry had to smile. But on the way to Gryffindor Tower, a strange memory suddenly came back to him. Apart from his aunt having almost shaved his head bald once when he was a child, he had never had another haircut. His hair always grew back overnight exactly as it had been before. He had always had that one, messy hairstyle. Never another one.

Luckily, before he was caught in one of his dark thought spirals again, he was intercepted by Neville at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

"Hey, Nev, got any plans for next Thursday evening?" Harry asked with a mischievous grin.

"Don't tell me you're going to that Duelling Club as well?" Neville replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe," Harry said. "Maybe." It had been a good evening.

---

On Friday evening, at the now-traditional Gryffindor party, loud rock music blared from Harry's gramophone. The common room was filled with laughter, the smell of Butterbeer, and the unmistakable scent of Fred and George's latest experiments from the kitchens. Neville had put on his favourite Queen record, and as he stood by the gramophone making sure the good music didn't stop, Harry's eyes scanned the room for Ron. He finally found him on the spiral staircase leading to the boys' dormitories, a little away from the hustle and bustle, using the steps as a seat. This is my chance, Harry thought. He so hoped their silly argument would finally be over. He made his way through the dancing crowd, grabbed two bottles of Butterbeer from a table the twins had once again generously stocked from the kitchen supplies, and went over to Ron.

"Hey," Harry said, sitting down next to him.

Ron flinched but didn't look at him.

"Hey."

"Look, Ron," Harry began, finding it harder than he'd thought. "I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner."

Ron was silent for a moment, then he turned his head and looked at Harry. His ears were slightly red.

"No," he said quietly. " I'm sorry. I was an idiot. As if your healing isn't more important than some stupid plan we had."

"Hermione's words?" Harry asked jokingly, trying to lighten the tense mood.

A small smile flickered across Ron's face.

"Yeah, Hermione's words. But she's right. I really messed up."

"It's alright," Harry said, nudging him lightly with his elbow. He handed him one of the Butterbeer bottles, which Ron accepted gratefully.

"But now we can forget about the Malfoy thing anyway," Ron said with a sigh. "With you not being here, and Neville not either..."

"I might have an idea," Harry said mysteriously. "Do you fancy coming to Lockhart's Duelling Club next week?"

Ron stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

"You want to go there ? Voluntarily?"

"Not really," Harry admitted. "But a chance has presented itself. And I'd be happy if you came along."

Ron thought for a moment, then grinned.

"Alright then. But if Lockhart messes up again, I'll hold it against you forever."

"You can," Harry said, infinitely glad that he and Ron had made up. Relieved, he clinked his bottle against Ron's. The two took a deep gulp, and the sweet, frothy Butterbeer seemed to wash away the last bit of tension between them. In that moment, Neville changed the record. The first, unmistakable piano chords of "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen filled the room, and a wide, infectious grin spread across Neville's face.

"That's my song!" he yelled over the music, jumping up as if he'd been stung by a tarantula. He threw his arms in the air and began to dance with an energy that was completely unlike the usually shy Neville.

 

"Don't stop me now!

Don't stop me,

'Cause I'm having a good time, having a good time!"

 

His enthusiasm was infectious. He pulled Harry and Ron with him into the middle of the room, where a small dance floor had already formed. Ron, who was a bit stiff at first, let himself be carried away by the music, and soon the whole common room was dancing. The air vibrated with laughter and pure joy.

"Tell me, Harry!" Ron bellowed into his ear, to be heard over the loud music. "How exactly is Lockhart's Duelling Club supposed to help with our plan?"

"Not the club!" Harry yelled back, laughing. "But someone we meet there might be the solution to our problem!"

 

"I'm a shooting star leaping through the sky like a tiger!

Defying the laws of gravity!"

 

Just then, Katie Bell fired a spell at the ceiling. Instead of clouds, a sea of sparkling, golden glitter now rained down, dancing in the warm light of the fireplace. Harry was already worrying about how they were going to clean it all up again, but then Oliver Wood came by with a large punch bowl.

"Don't worry, Potter!" he yelled. "I know a spell that'll make it all disappear in a flash!"

"Thanks!" Harry yelled back, relieved.

Ron was just about to ask something when an older Gryffindor climbed onto a table, raised his glass, and shouted, "To Colin! May he be with us again soon!" The crowd joined in with a loud "To Colin!" A small pang went through Harry's heart. He still blamed himself, even though Ron, Hermione, and especially Neville had assured him it wasn't his fault.

 

"I'm a rocket ship on my way to Mars on a collision course!

I am a satellite, I'm out of control!

I'm a sex machine ready to reload like an atom bomb,

About to… whoa-oh, whoa-oh, oh, explode!"

 

As if on cue, Fred and George lit their Firecrackers at that exact moment. With a loud bang , tiny, sparkling rockets shot through the room and exploded in a shower of golden stars that rained down on the dancing crowd.

"So, Harry!" Ron tried again. "Who are we supposed to meet there?"

But Harry just shrugged and grinned mysteriously. "You'll see." He grabbed Ron's hand. "Come on, let's go dance with the others!" And then, like most of the room, he sang along loudly:

 

"Don't stop me, don't stop me, don't stop me!

Hey-hey-hey!"

 

It was definitely a great Friday party, Harry thought. One that he would surely remember for a long time. Maybe it was even the best one yet. On the dance floor, they finally found Hermione and Neville too. The four of them danced, laughed, and sang, and for a moment, Harry could forget all his worries. He hoped the party would go on forever, because this was the best Gryffindor party so far. They all celebrated as if it were their last party.

 

"Don't stop me now,

'Cause I'm having a good time,

Don't stop me now,

Yes, I'm havin' a good time, I don't wanna stop at all!"

---

About a week later, the time had come. Lockhart's Duelling Club was on, and Harry made his way to the Great Hall with Hermione, Ron, and Neville. They were not the only students who came, of course. The younger years, in particular, seemed to have a great deal of interest in such a duelling club. Be it to prove themselves or simply to learn something new. The older years probably already knew enough spells to hold their own in a duel. Or perhaps the students taking their OWLs and NEWTs were too busy with studying to want to spend their precious free time with a braggart like Lockhart.

When Harry and his friends entered the Great Hall, he was quite taken aback. The four long house tables where they usually ate had been pushed against the walls, creating a huge, open space in the middle of the room. In their place now stood a long, golden podium that stretched from one end of the hall to the other and was covered with a velvety, crimson carpet. Thousands of candles floated above the podium, casting a warm, flickering light on the scene.

"Wow," said Ron, his eyes shining. "This is for duelling." Neville just nodded in agreement. This was all new for Hermione and him, Harry thought. They didn't know about big duels, and if they did, it was only from the ones Hermione had read about in thick history books, like the legendary duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

The hall gradually filled up, with students from the lower three years from all four houses streaming in. A few fourth-years were also seen here and there. When Harry had asked the twins if they also fancied the Duelling Club, they had almost laughed at him. When so many students were gathered in the Great Hall, they had the perfect opportunity to try out their latest pranks. So, the two of them were out, Harry thought, and couldn't help but grin.

Then they came. Malfoy, with his usual entourage of Crabbe and Goyle, trotted in as if the whole hall belonged to him. They were followed by Pansy Parkinson and another rather burly-looking girl with short, dark hair. Harry gave a little shudder. He had completely forgotten that Malfoy might also come. More Slytherins came after them. Nott, if Harry remembered the name of the slim, brown-haired boy correctly, and another boy, dark-skinned and also a Slytherin, whose name Harry didn't know. He was really bad at remembering names, even though they were all in the same year and sometimes shared classes. Also with the latter group was Daphne Greengrass, whom Harry now knew thanks to Neville's party. And the last of the Slytherin girls was also part of Greengrass's and Nott's group. What was her name again? Davis, right, Tracey Davis.

While Ron was explaining the most important rules of famous historical wizarding duels to Hermione again, Harry kept an eye out for Elijah. He wanted to meet him here and suggest to Ron and Hermione that with his help, they could pull off their plan.

And there he was. Harry found Elijah standing by the wall with Sarah, and to his surprise, Jo was with them too. Unlike Elijah, the Slytherin boy had his dark, curly hair tied up in a messy knot and was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. It seemed that Sarah and Elijah were discussing something with him; at least, Jo was looking visibly annoyed. When Elijah briefly glanced at Harry, Harry waved at him. Why did I wave at him? Harry immediately thought, feeling a bit silly. How stupid was that? Whatever the case, Elijah had seen him and seemed to be apologising to Jo and Sarah, presumably saying he was going to go to Harry. At any rate, Elijah made his way over to the four of them.

When he arrived, Harry seized the opportunity.

"Right, Ron," he began, casting a quick glance at the approaching Ravenclaw, "the reason I wanted to come here today is so you can get to know Elijah a bit better. Elijah's staying here over the holidays and, well... um, I thought, since Neville and I... well, um, since we won't be here, he could help with our project. Besides, our dear little Elijah would be spending Christmas here all by himself." Harry grinned on the last sentence and ruffled the first-year's hair, a gesture he'd picked up from Fred and George when they were talking to younger students. Not that Harry looked noticeably bigger or older than Elijah—no, despite the potion and the now more balanced diet, Harry was still the smallest of the second-years, but he just felt older.

Elijah, for his part, didn't seem to like having his hair ruffled at all, as he looked at Harry with his amber eyes a little angrily.

"Can you keep a secret?" Ron asked him directly, putting his arm around the first-year who was a head shorter than him.

"You bet I can!" Elijah launched into his usual, breathless manner. "Once, my mum tried to surprise my dad with a surprise party, and I knew about it for weeks, and I didn't say anything, not a single word, even though it was so hard, and then..." He kept talking and talking, seeming to be talking Ron and Hermione's ears off.

"Do you think this is a good idea, Harry?" Neville whispered to him while Elijah's stream of chatter continued in the background. "Letting Elijah in on the Polyjuice Potion and all that? What if he..." They turned away from the other three to talk undisturbed.

"Well, um, not really," Harry admitted honestly. "But to be honest, Nev, he's the only option, and he practically came on a silver platter. He's alone here, he's curious, and he's not... well, he's not a Slytherin. He can help us without us having to worry." He looked around. "Besides, where's Lockhart? I mean, if he doesn't show up soon, I might as well leave. It'd probably be better than having to put up with this much longer."

Hardly had Harry complained when, as if out of nowhere, a loud fanfare sounded, echoing through the Great Hall and bringing the students' conversations to a halt. Then, with a loud bang , a small, pink puff of smoke exploded on the golden podium. And out of the smoke stepped he. Gilderoy Lockhart, never one to pass up an embarrassing entrance. He was wearing a robe of a hideous forget-me-not blue that glittered in the candlelight with every move. Harry genuinely couldn't understand what the crowd saw in him. At any rate, the conceited teacher seemed to have his fan club at Hogwarts too, because suddenly a group of younger girls pushed right to the edge of the podium and stared at their idol with dreamy eyes. What if I'd grown up in the wizarding world? Harry thought, and a shudder ran down his spine. Would I have had to put on such performances too?

Lockhart greeted the crowd with a beaming smile that was so wide it almost looked painful.

"Allow me to welcome you all!" he cried, his voice echoing from the stone walls. "I see you have come in large numbers to learn the fine art of duelling from me, Gilderoy Lockhart!" He wasn't alone. "For this evening, of course, I have brought some energetic support," Lockhart announced grandly. "From none other than our universally beloved Potions Master, Professor Snape!"

"Not really beloved by all ," Ron commented so loudly that the Gryffindors around them broke out in suppressed giggles.

Snape entered the stage from the side, his black robes billowing dramatically behind him. His face was a mask of pure contempt. But luckily, no one else seemed to hear, because Snape was greeted by his Slytherin students. Jo, in particular, cheered loudly for his Head of House from his casual position against the wall, with his arms crossed.

Harry wondered, if he had listened to the Hat back then, would he also be cheering for Snape now, like some Slytherins?

Lockhart asked the students to get into pairs to find a duelling partner. Ron immediately grabbed Harry's arm, probably to get ahead of Neville, who then teamed up with Hermione. Without any proper instructions, without any agreements or anything else, Lockhart told the students to duel now.

"Wands at the ready!" he called out cheerfully. Harry was quite amazed and thought this would certainly descend into chaos. Snape also seemed anything but thrilled with the idea; he crossed his arms over his chest, and his expression became, if possible, even more grim.

In any case, Harry was right. Pure chaos broke out. Wild spells flew criss-cross through the Great Hall, ricocheting off the walls and hitting unlucky students who went screaming to the floor. Neville and Hermione seemed to have agreed to only practise jinxs but a stray curse from a Hufflepuff boy hit Neville in the leg and made him tap-dance uncontrollably.

Ron, who looked at Harry, also gave a short bow. Oh, is that how it's done? Harry thought, returned the gesture, and while aiming his wand at Harry, shouted:

"Flipendo! "

Harry didn't know whether it was due to Ron's broken wand or the Gaunt ring, but in any case, it wasn't Harry who fell backwards, but Ron.

"Lovely Shield Charm, Potter!" Lockhart called out enthusiastically. So it must have been the ring after all, even though it hadn't really warmed up.

But the chaos didn't stop, it seemed to multiply with every second. Red, green, and blue flashes of light streaked through the hall, accompanied by loud popping sounds, the smell of burnt hair, and the occasional, shrill scream of a student whose nose had suddenly swollen into a snout.

"An excellent start!" Lockhart called out, his voice sounding a little forced as he tried to shout over the noise. "But perhaps we should all calm down now!" Nobody listened to him. At the edge of the podium stood Professor Snape, arms crossed, a barely perceptible, but all the more malicious, smile playing on his thin lips. He seemed to be visibly enjoying the spectacle. After what felt like an eternity, during which two more students with gigantic, furry ears ran off towards the hospital wing, the crowd slowly quieted down.

"Very good, very good, my dear students," Lockhart said, clapping his hands to get the last bit of attention. "But I think we would all benefit a little more if you saw a proper show duel, wouldn't you, Severus?"

Lockhart was already standing on the stage in an overly dramatic pose, his hand on his hip. With a barely suppressed sigh and a look that spoke volumes, Snape also ascended the steps to the podium.

"Not to worry," Lockhart whispered conspiratorially to the crowd, "I shall, of course, spare your beloved Potions Master."

But as soon as Lockhart had turned to Snape with an elegant bow, a flash of red light shot from Snape's wand. " Expelliarmus! " Snape called out, his voice as sharp as a whip-crack. Lockhart was caught unprepared, his wand flew from his hand, and he himself was thrown off his feet with such force that he sailed through the air in a high arc and landed with a dull thump on the crimson carpet.

For a brief, glorious moment, there was absolute silence. Then Lockhart picked himself up again, his perfect smile a little askew.

"An excellent idea to demonstrate the Disarming Charm to the students, Professor Snape," he said, dusting himself off. "But I had, of course, expected it. I only let the spell through for entertainment and to let the students learn something. I would have blocked it otherwise, of course."

Snape merely raised an eyebrow.

"Of course," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"How about two students come forward now and show us what they've learned?" Lockhart suggested, as if to quickly distract from his own embarrassment. "Potter, Weasley, how about the two of you? Please come up here and demonstrate what you've learned."

But before either of them could take a single step towards the podium, Snape said in his usual cold, drawling voice:

"Weasley? With that wand of his, any duellist would end up in the hospital wing immediately. And Potter..." Harry glared at Snape. He was expecting one of his usual, derogatory remarks, always directed at his competence. "...has proven himself enough. How about one of my own protégés instead?" Snape paused briefly, and his gaze swept over the rows of Slytherins. Jo, who was still leaning against the wall, involuntarily straightened up, but Snape seemed not to notice him at all. "Malfoy, perhaps?"

Had Jo really thought he was Snape's protégé? Harry thought, and almost had to shake his head with pity. Everyone knew how much Malfoy was in their Potions teacher's good graces. Absolutely everyone.

"Very good! Protégé against protégé!" Lockhart exclaimed enthusiastically. "Neville, would you be so kind as to come up?"

Harry and Neville both stared at him in astonishment. Neville? Lockhart's protégé?

"Longbottom?" Snape said, and his voice was a low, dangerous hiss. "I don't know, Gilderoy, but I'd rather not have to explain to the Malfoys that their child has to visit St Mungo's over Yule because of a botched hex." He spoke Lockhart's first name as if it caused him nausea.

"But, but, Severus," Lockhart countered with an arrogant smile. "I'm quite sure our good Neville can handle it." He draped an arm around Neville's shoulder, who had nervously stepped forward, whispered something in his ear, then gave him a pat on the back that slid suspiciously far down. Harry wasn't sure he had seen that correctly.

At any rate, Neville and Malfoy bowed to each other, their movements stiff and awkward. Harry felt a knot form in his stomach. He was worried about Neville. Malfoy was spiteful and underhanded, everyone knew that. But then they began to duel, and to Harry's utter disbelief, he saw Neville conjure one Shield Charm after another. He was incredibly good at it, purely defensive, but he blocked every single curse Malfoy threw at him. He didn't cast any spells of his own, but he fended off Malfoy's attacks with a precision and elegance that Harry would never have thought him capable of. Malfoy was visibly furious. His face turned red with anger that he couldn't land a single hex on Neville. He seemed to change his tactic. With an enraged shout, he called out: "Serpensortia!"

A loud bang, and from the tip of Malfoy's wand shot a long, black snake. It landed with a dull slap on the podium and hissed furiously. Immediately, panic broke out among the students. Screams echoed through the Great Hall, and everyone recoiled in horror. And then Harry heard it. Not just the hissing, but words. Clear, distinct words.

"~What's this? Where am I? Leave me alone!~"

The snake seemed just as confused and annoyed as the students around it. It hissed over and over again about how cold it was and where it was. Harry tried to calm the irritated snake.

"~It's alright, my little one,~" he said softly, barely audible in the general commotion. "~Nobody will hurt you.~"

But the snake didn't seem to listen to him, it wouldn't be soothed. It only stopped at Harry's words and looked around confusedly as if it had never heard anyone speak before. Harry tried to calm the snake again and again, but just before he reached it, it lunged upwards. Lockhart seemed to want to banish it, but the snake wouldn't be banished.

Angrily, the snake warned the Hufflepuff student Justin Finch-Fletchley, who was standing directly in front of it, that it would bite him, through its hissing.

"~We won't hurt you, Justin won't hurt you, don't be afraid, my little one,~" Harry said again and again. He hoped the snake would listen to him this time. And it did. As if it were waiting for Harry's permission, for him to give it the okay to bite Justin. But before Harry could calm it down again, the snake dissolved. Snape had apparently been able to banish it.

"What... What... was that, Potter?" a frightened Justin asked. And Ernie also seemed to look at Harry in a daze. No, everyone looked at Harry as if he had done something wrong, no, as if he were someone else. A slight panic rose in Harry.

"If I didn't know better, Potter just set a snake on Justin," said Ernie Macmillan, who had protectively stepped in front of the pale Justin. Harry didn't know what to say. He looked at Snape, but he also seemed to be staring at him, surprised, calculating, Harry couldn't tell. He noticed his breathing quicken. He had to get out of here, now. There was that feeling again, like in Gringotts, like with Pucey. But this time he could move. The only question was, for how long.

Harry bolted out of the Great Hall, the stares of the other students burning like hot coals on his back. A many-voiced, accusatory murmur followed him, a cacophony he didn't really perceive. He stumbled through the corridors, having to lean against the cold stone wall to keep from toppling over. But he couldn’t hold himself and slowly slid to the floor, his back scraping against the rough stones. Was no one there to help him? Harry thought in despair. It became harder and harder for him to catch his breath, his mouth grew drier and drier. But then he felt a hand holding his, firm and warm.

“Harry, calm down,” a familiar voice said, and it was Neville’s.

“Nev,” Harry said, relieved, and he thought he was grinning, but wasn’t sure. Neville seemed to say something to someone nearby, who then briefly disappeared and returned.

“Here, have a drink,” Neville said, holding a cup of water out to him. Harry drank greedily. The cold water helped. Slowly, gulp by gulp, he could perceive where he was and who was with him again. It was Neville, Ron, and Hermione. Luckily, it was the three of them. “Thanks,” Harry said, still a bit drained from whatever had just happened.

“Blimey, Harry, what was that all about?” Ron asked then, and his voice was a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Um, what?” Harry asked, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain his panic attacks to Ron as well.

“With Justin, of course! Why did you set the snake on him?”

“What?” Harry asked, bewildered. Had no one noticed how he had tried to calm the snake? “I... I mean, I told the snake... um, I told it that no one would hurt it,” Harry stammered, not knowing what Ron was getting at.

“Harry, no one heard that,” Hermione said worriedly.

“What? But? I mean, um, I told the snake to calm down. I mean, it was confused about where it was and it was cold, and after Lockhart... I mean, it wanted to go for Justin because, well…” The words caught in Harry's throat. Had no one really understood what the snake had said? Wasn't that something wizards could do? Talk to snakes?

“Harry, you… you spoke to the snake,” Neville said quietly, his hand still holding Harry’s. Had he?

“I didn’t know you were a Parselmouth,” Ron said, and his voice was a strange mix of awe and horror.

“A what?” Harry asked, completely bewildered.

“A Parselmouth, Harry,” Hermione explained, and her voice sounded as if she were quoting from a textbook. “Someone who is able to speak to snakes.”

“A rare gift,” Neville added. “At least in Europe. In Asia it’s a very…”

“Rare? More like a dark gift!” Ron interrupted him, and his initial awe had given way to a deep-seated fear. “Blimey, Harry, what are people going to think? Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth. And, well, he was a dark wizard.”

When Ron mentioned Salazar Slytherin, it dawned on Harry. Slytherin. The ability to speak to snakes must be a Slytherin gift. He was the heir. And that’s why he could speak to snakes. His mother could too. She had written it in her book, and Sev, her best friend, had warned her to keep it a secret. And now he had revealed it to the whole school. Again, panic crept up on him, cold and suffocating. But Neville seemed to notice. He squeezed Harry's hand tighter and once again handed him the cup of water.

“That wasn’t your first time, was it?” Neville asked him quietly, as Harry took a shaky sip. “Your first time speaking to snakes?”

Harry shook his head.

“I… um… I once let a boa constrictor go after my cousin,” Harry stammered.

“Cool,” Ron said, but was immediately silenced by a sharp look from Hermione.

“In the summer, at the museum,” Neville murmured to himself. “It sounded just the same. That means, that must have been Parselscript.”

“What?” Hermione asked.

“In the summer, there was a stone tablet, and Harry read what was on it. And it sounded just like it did just now.”

“I sounded different?” Harry asked, bewildered.

“Different?” Ron repeated incredulously. “Harry, you were hissing like a snake.”

“I mean, to me it sounded like I was speaking normal English with the snake,” Harry said, slowly straightening up again.

“Are you alright now?” Hermione asked, still slightly worried, as Harry got to his feet.

“Yeah, I think so. Let’s get out of here before anyone else shows up. Who knows what they’re thinking of me now,” Harry said sadly. And he was worried about what would happen now. How would the students react to his newly revealed ability? He retreated to the boys' dormitory. Without another word to the others, he closed the curtains of his bed. Disappointed in himself, he tried to fall asleep. He was the freak. Who could speak to snakes? The Dursleys had always known. He was the freak.

---

The next day it didn't take long for the rumour to spread like wildfire throughout the castle: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was a Parselmouth. And the conviction that he had set the snake on Justin solidified. In their eyes he was the Heir of Slytherin, a dark wizard responsible for the attacks. Harry tried his best to avoid everyone. The corridors, usually filled with loud student laughter and chatter, fell silent when he appeared. Conversations died down, and he felt the countless stares that pricked his back like needles.

At every turn, he was accompanied by at least Neville, if not also Ron and Hermione. They didn't leave him alone, probably also for fear that he might have another one of his panic attacks. Perhaps Neville had told them, and if so, it wasn't so bad anymore. There were worse things. He had to listen to the rumors of what a dark wizard he was, and endure other, even worse accusations. He could only have defeated You-Know-Who because he was the darkest of all dark wizards. Harry tried not to listen, but the attacks hurt, not physically, but psychologically. He was the freak of Hogwarts, who spoke the language of snakes.

Besides, a lot of students naturally avoided him, probably for fear that Harry might do whatever to them. He just had to survive this one day, because tomorrow, Saturday, everyone who wasn't staying at Hogwarts over Christmas was going back to their families, and for Harry, that meant going to Andromeda Tonks.

It was Friday afternoon when he heard the voice again. Cold and hissing, it crept from the walls, directly into his head.

"~…so hungry… so long… time to kill…~"

"Oh no," Harry said in horror, his hand flying to his scar.

"What is it?" asked Neville, who was with him on their way to the library to do their usual research.

Harry ran, without answering, and Neville followed close on his heels. He had to stop them. He had to find out who was behind it. But he was too late.

Just before the library, Harry saw it. Nearly Headless Nick was floating motionless in the air, his body pearlescent white and translucent. But even worse than that, behind him stood Justin. Justin Finch-Fletchley. The boy he had wanted to help yesterday and whom the whole world now believed he had set the snake on. Luckily, no one saw Harry. He was about to leave again; the motto was not to draw attention to himself. But then, to his dismay, he heard Peeves.

"ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK!" shrieked the poltergeist, floating upside down in the air. "NO MORTAL AND NO GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTACK!"

"Shush, Peeves!" Harry tried to say, but it was too late. When Peeves saw Harry, his malevolent little eyes narrowed.

"POTTER!" he screamed, and his voice echoed through the entire corridor. "IT WAS POTTER! POTTER CAUGHT RED-HANDED!"

Harry wanted to run, but at that moment, Professor McGonagall turned the corner, her face a mask of anger and concern.

"What is going on here? What is all this commotion?"

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! 😃
Wow, first the fight with Ron—at least their friendship isn't destroyed—and then the reveal of Harry's ability to speak Parseltongue.
Poor Harry.
It's a good thing he has Neville on his side; I love how he cared for him when Harry was on the edge.
Also, it seems Harry is up to something with all those questions and thoughts about hairstyles...
Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter, because after the next one, you might just hate me—we're going to go hard off-canon!🫣

As always, I am eager to read your thoughts and comments on this.

Chapter 14: Chapter Thirteen: A Trapped Snake

Summary:

An unexpected meeting with the Headmaster ends with Harry's world turned upside down. A shocking decision forces him to confront his deepest fears.

Notes:

Welcome back to Chapter 13.

Please be aware that this chapter contains scenes of an abusive situation and physical violence. I have marked the more descriptive parts of the violence with ###. You can skip the sections between these markers if you wish.

Please read with care.

Professor McGonagall led them through the corridors with swift, determined strides. Her lips were pressed into a thin, disapproving line, and her tartan shawl bounced with each of her brisk steps. Harry and Neville followed her in silence, an invisible bond of fear and uncertainty stretching between them. What exactly was going to happen now?

Harry noticed how the other students they passed stared at them. Conversations fell silent as they went by, only to resume once they were out of earshot, a quiet, accusatory murmur that Harry felt like pinpricks on the back of his neck. He lowered his head and stared at the stone tiles, counting each of his steps to avoid having to meet anyone's gaze.

When they arrived in front of the stone gargoyle that blocked the way to Dumbledore's office, Harry knew it. A knot of ice formed in his stomach. Everyone thought he had done it. He was responsible.

“Lemon sherbet,” Professor McGonagall said in a sharp, clear voice, and the gargoyle sprang aside to reveal a winding stone staircase. She led them up the stairs. At the top, in front of the polished oak door with the griffin knocker, she stopped.

“Potter, you will go in alone,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. “Neville, you wait here.”

Neville looked at Harry with large, worried eyes. “It’s okay. I'll wait here for you, Harry,” he said softly, but with a firmness in his voice that surprised Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry whispered back, infinitely grateful to his godbrother in that moment. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, he pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the Headmaster’s office.

Harry appeared to be alone in the office. He let his gaze wander around the Headmaster’s circular room. It was a fascinating, but also intimidating, place. On the walls hung countless portraits of old wizards and witches who stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and stern disapproval. On the shelves that towered up to the ceiling, there were strange, silvery instruments that hummed quietly and emitted small clouds of smoke. Harry had no idea what they were for. It seemed to him as if the portraits were staring at him as if a monster stood before them, but he was probably mistaken, for he heard one say, “Don't be afraid, lad, nothing will happen to you.”

Then another portrait's voice said, “Why are they always afraid when they have to go to the Headmaster?”

Yet another portrait replied, “Perhaps because we, as Headmasters, convey that very feeling of intimidation?”

So these must also be former Headmasters, Harry thought. He couldn't listen to their conversation any further. Their babbling made him too nervous. Then Harry's gaze fell on the Sorting Hat, which was lying on a shelf. Cautiously, Harry asked the Sorting Hat if it had made the right decision back then.

“A difficult decision,” the Hat’s voice rasped. “Very difficult. But it was the right one for the moment, wasn't it?” Was it? Harry wasn't sure. “You are just as much a Gryffindor as Slytherin will lead you to true greatness,” the Hat continued. To Harry, this sounded confusing. But the Hat looked into everyone and saw what was hidden, at least Harry assumed so.

“Um, what, what did you see in me, did you...” But before Harry could finish his question, the Hat began to speak just as cryptically as before.

“I always see who someone was, is, and will be; that is how I make my decision.”

“So you didn't make a mistake?” Harry whispered.

“The Hat does not make mistakes,” it retorted gruffly. “The decision was the right one at the time, you shouldn't worry about it. Just as the future decisions will be the right ones.”

Harry wasn't sure if that was supposed to comfort him. He turned away from the Hat and walked deeper into the office. From an adjoining room, hidden behind a heavy curtain, he heard muffled voices. It was Professor Snape and Dumbledore.

“I'm telling you, Albus, you are mistaken,” Snape’s voice hissed. “I don't believe he is using the boy. She could do it too, after all.”

“We shall see, Severus,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “However, if he does use the boy, it is all the more important to shield him from him.”

“Albus, I believe you are making a mistake,” Snape insisted.

A soft sigh was heard. “Perhaps,” Dumbledore said, and his voice sounded infinitely tired. “No one is infallible. That goes for all of us.”

“Even you?” Snape asked, and there was a barely hidden barb in his voice.

“Especially me,” Dumbledore answered softly. “I have already had to learn that painfully. One can only learn from one's mistakes.”

Then Harry heard something being thrown into a fireplace, which might have been Floo powder, followed by the familiar roar of the flames as they carried a person away, and it seemed that Snape had disappeared. Shortly after, Dumbledore emerged from the adjoining room.

“Harry, my boy. Good that you are here,” he said with a gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Just wait a moment, I'll be right with you. I just have something else to attend to.” He went over to the portraits on the wall and began to converse with them quietly.

Meanwhile, Harry continued to look around the office. His gaze fell on a sickly-looking bird perched on a golden stand next to the desk. It was large and scarlet, but its feathers were dull and ruffled, and it made a quiet, choking sound. Harry approached worriedly.

“Are you all right?” he whispered. The moment he reached out to touch the bird, it suddenly burst into flames.

A soft cry escaped Harry. He stumbled back, convinced he had done something terrible. But before panic could completely overwhelm him, Dumbledore was back with him.

“Professor, Sir, I...” he began to apologise, but Dumbledore placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” he said gently. “Fawkes is just a little dramatic. It's a shame you have to meet him on one of his burning days. He's usually such an elegant and empathetic bird.”

And then Harry saw it. From the pile of grey ash on the floor of the cage, a tiny, crumpled head peeked out. A small chick, naked and ugly, but unmistakably alive. Relieved, Harry grinned at the reborn Fawkes.

“Take a seat, Harry,” Dumbledore said, gesturing to the chair opposite him at his desk. Harry obeyed, still unsure of what was going to happen to him. Dumbledore offered him a bowl of lemon drops. But Harry declined the apparently reassuring gesture.

“A shame,” Dumbledore said. “I only learned of the cheering quality of sweets in adulthood. My mother was never for sweets,” he said, a little wistfully. It seemed Dumbledore hadn't had a good childhood either, Harry thought, remembering how Dudley always got sweets while he was left out while looking to the ground.

Then Harry asked cautiously, without looking up:

“Professor, do you believe I’m the Heir?”

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, and when he answered, his voice was gentle.

“Do you believe it, Harry?”

Harry had to think. He didn't believe it. He knew it. Even if he didn't really know who was responsible for the attacks. He, Ron, Hermione, and Neville had a suspicion, but so far they couldn't prove that Malfoy was trying to pin the blame on Harry.

But instead of answering that, Harry simply said to Dumbledore:

“It wasn't me. I mean, not with the attacks or the message.”

“Harry, I believe you are not responsible for that,” Dumbledore said back. A little relieved, Harry was able to look up for the first time. He looked into Dumbledore's kindly, blue eyes, which sparkled at him over the rim of his half-moon spectacles.

Immediately, Harry noticed his invisible Black ring on his left ring finger begin to vibrate, radiating a strange warmth. What's happening here? he wondered, feeling a slight headache coming on, that familiar, stinging throb he only usually felt when his scar hurt. Instantly, thoughts of Slytherin, of the Heir, shot through his head. But they weren't his own thoughts. It felt like someone was rummaging through his mind, as if someone was looking for this information. Why would I look for that? I know I am the Heir of Slytherin. I am a Parselmouth, like Salazar Slytherin. I have the ring. Ragnok wanted to give it to me. Rings. Rings and their abilities. The Slytherin ring has no ability. But the others. The Gaunt ring can protect against curses. Gaunt and Slytherin. The ring on his finger vibrated more strongly, radiating more warmth. Someone wanted to force their way into his thoughts. Someone wanted to find out that he was the Heir. Dumbledore…

Harry tried to resist. Get out of my head! Get out of my head! he screamed inwardly again and again. He felt something building up inside him, as if an invisible energy was about to explode. And it did.

Suddenly, the oppressive feeling was gone. And the ring stopped vibrating too. Harry was still sitting in Dumbledore's office; had he been here the whole time? Opposite him sat Dumbledore, and he looked worried, but also a little horrified.

“I am sorry, Harry,” Dumbledore said, and his voice sounded strangely distant. “It is only for your own good.”

Harry didn't understand. For his own good? What did he mean by that?

“I assume that he is using you, Harry,” Dumbledore continued, and his eyes seemed to look right through Harry. “That is why I am sorry for what must happen now.”

With a barely perceptible flick of Dumbledore's hand, Harry's wand flew out of the inner pocket of his robe and landed with a soft clatter on the polished desk.

“My wand!” Harry cried, shocked and completely overwhelmed.

“It is only for your own good,” Dumbledore repeated softly, but his words now sounded hollow and menacing. Harry didn't understand. Why had Dumbledore taken his wand? At that moment, the office door opened. Harry saw Hagrid walk past Neville, who was still waiting outside, and enter the office. Harry's gaze shot to Neville in a panic, a silent question, a desperate cry for help. Something terrible was happening here, and he didn't understand what.

“Ah, Hagrid,” Dumbledore said. “Please accompany Harry home. So that he is safe there.”

Home? Harry thought, and an icy shudder ran down his spine. What does Dumbledore mean by home? The Dursleys? He couldn't go back to the Dursleys. Not now. Not ever again. Harry felt Hagrid's giant, gentle hand close around his arm. The gamekeeper muttered something reassuring, but the words didn't reach Harry.

“Harry, just calm down,” Dumbledore said, the usual gentleness in his voice giving way to a deep, concerned tone. “Hagrid is only taking you back to your relatives so that he cannot use you. So that Voldemort cannot reach you. The Blood Protection charms will prevent it. I reshaped them myself that they even protect you from them as well. Believe me please.”

So it was true. Hagrid was to take him to the Dursleys. Panic, pure and unadulterated, rose in Harry. He had to tell them. Dumbledore's re-work won't work because they are not his blood relatives at all.

“Sir, Dumbledore, Sir, you don't understand!” he pleaded, his voice barely more than a croak. “The Dursleys, they aren't my relatives, Sir! Please, listen to me! The Blood Protection won't work, my mother, she was adopted!”

But it was no use. Dumbledore only looked at him with an expression of deep regret.

“Harry, believe me,” he said gently, “he is using you. Voldemort does not want you to leave the school. He needs you here. These are lies he wants you to believe. It is only for your own good.”

Could these be lies? Harry had been to Gringotts himself and seen the results of the test. He felt the rings when he put them on. These couldn't be lies; Dumbledore must be mistaken. Harry pleaded again, trying to struggle, but Hagrid's grip was relentless. He had to reach Neville. Maybe he was still outside the door, maybe he could hear him.

“NEVILLE!” Harry screamed as loudly as he could, his voice cracking with desperation. “NEVILLE, THEY'RE TAKING ME AWAY! TO THE DURSLEYS! YOU HAVE TO TELL REMUS OR ANDROMEDA! PLEASE, HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME!”

As he screamed the last 'Help me', he was already in the fireplace, with Hagrid still holding him tight. Immediately, green flames enveloped them, and they came out with a jolt in another fireplace.

Harry instantly recognised the fireplace stuffed with cat knick-knacks and smelling of cabbage. Mrs Figg. Why are we at Mrs Figg's? the thought shot through his head, but Hagrid gave him no time to think. He dragged him on, through the tiny living room, past an old woman who looked as if she were made of dust and cobwebs.

“Pardon, Arabella,” Hagrid rumbled to her, pulling a still-fiercely-struggling Harry out of the house.

Why does Hagrid know Mrs Figg? It all makes no sense. Perhaps, with a last flicker of hope, he could still convince Hagrid.

“Hagrid, please, stop! Please!” pleaded Harry as they left Mrs Figg’s house, heading towards Privet Drive. “Dumbledore doesn't know what he's doing! I can't go to the Dursleys'! The Blood Protections won't work, because the Dursleys aren't my relatives! Please, Hagrid, Dumbledore is mistaken!”

“Now, don't yeh be talkin' a load o' rubbish, Harry,” Hagrid said, and although his voice was gentle, his grip was unrelenting. “Dumbledore's nev'r wrong, yeh know. It's jus' fer yer own good. An' when all this is over, we'll be back fer yeh.” Could Hagrid be right, and Dumbledore was never wrong? No, Harry was certain that everything he had learned over the summer was true. Dumbledore must be mistaken, not him.

Harry shook his head, tears of despair welling in his eyes as Hagrid dragged him further along the unnervingly tidy pavement of Privet Drive. “Please, Hagrid. Please don't take me to the Dursleys'.” But all his pleading was useless. They had already reached the immaculately clean door of Number Four. Hagrid knocked loudly, and the door was thrown open by a red-nosed, moustached Vernon Dursley. His face darkened instantly as he saw Hagrid and Harry.

He immediately tried to slam the door shut again, but Hagrid braced himself against it with his entire bulk. With a loud crack, the wood splintered, and the door was left hanging crookedly on its hinges. Vernon stared furiously at the two of them.

“What's this? What's he doing here?” he hissed, pointing a trembling finger at Harry. “When he didn't come back in the summer, we'd hoped we'd got rid of him for good!”

“Dumbledore wants Harry 'ere instead o' at school,” Hagrid rumbled in a booming voice.

“So, so! Have they finally kicked him out of that asylum for freaks! It's about time! But why should we take him back then?” Vernon asked, his small piggy eyes gleaming with hatred.

“'Cause Dumbledore wants it, an' that's all there is to it,” Hagrid said, his voice dropping slightly but no less firm.

“And what if we don't want to, hmm? We don't care what some old, bearded man wants from us! Nobody asks what we want!”

“Look ’ere, Dursley,” Hagrid said now, his voice gettin’ dangerously low. “Harry's stayin’ here. An’ when all this is over, we'll be back fer ‘im. Understan’?” He raised his pink umbrella, pressing the tip threateningly against Vernon's fat belly.

Vernon seemed to accept. He took a step back, his face a mask of suppressed rage. “Right, right! But you'd better take him back, or else!” He grabbed Harry by the arm, his fingers boring into Harry's flesh like a pair of clamps. Harry looked back at Hagrid once more, searching for help, but he had already turned around and was on his way back to Mrs Figg’s. He only saw him disappear through the broken door, which was hanging half off its hinges.

“What d’you think you’re doin’ showin’ up here again, eh, boy?” Vernon snarled, and the word ‘boy’ hit Harry like a physical blow. “Too much for yer own kind, are yeh? And look what's happened to the door!” he bellowed, pointing at the splintered wood. “Who’s supposed to fix that? Me! And who’ve I got to thank for it? You! What are the neighbours going to think? Get in, we’ll talk later.” And with a brutal shove, Vernon pushed Harry into the cupboard under the stairs.

The door slammed shut with a final bang, and darkness swallowed him. Harry looked around. They hadn't taken anything out. His hand-painted sign with the words 'Harry’s Room' still hung crookedly from a nail. The broken plastic soldiers that Dudley had thrown away years ago lay scattered in a corner. The old, far too small mattress was still there too.

Huddled, his legs pulled to his chest and clutching his knees, he sat there. How could this have happened? How had he ended up back here? He wasn't supposed to be here. He should be at Hogwarts. But no. Malfoy had done it, Harry thought bitterly. Malfoy had managed to convince everyone that Harry was behind the attacks and had him thrown out of school. And he had helped him by desperately wanting to stop the snake that had threatened Justin. He had to stop the snake, he couldn't have just stood by and watched.

But why did he have to talk to it? Why could he talk to the snake? Was it like Dumbledore thought, that Voldemort was using him, that he was controlling him and everything he thought was just a trick by Voldemort? No, he’d seen the test, Ragnok had given him the ring. He can talk to snakes because he is the true Heir. Or. Or was it all just a figment of his imagination in the end? And figments of the imagination are only for freaks. And that’s what he was, a freak. And he was now back where a freak belonged. Freaks belong in the cupboard. He had learned that early on. That’s why he was here.

Harry didn't know how long he had been here. How long he had been locked in the cupboard. He couldn't see much through the thin air slits in the door. He heard Petunia's shrill, panicked voice seep through the wood. “What d’you mean he’s back? What does that bearded monstrosity think he's doin', just dumpin' the boy back here?”

Vernon's deep, rumbling voice tried to soothe her, but it sounded more like the growl of an angry bear. "I didn't want him, Petunia, but I had no choice! Did you see what that giant did to our door? If I hadn't taken the boy back, who knows what he would have done to me ! He threatened me!"

Petunia didn't seem happy that Harry was back either. Harry didn't want to be here either, he thought, pressing his forehead against his knees. He would rather be at Hogwarts now, with Neville. Packing to go to Andromeda’s with the Hogwarts Express tomorrow. But he was here. Here, where he least wanted to be.

Why do I have to be Harry? The thought was a quiet, desperate whisper in his head. Why can't I be Haedus? Haedus Black, not Potter. Haedus wouldn't have to return here. Haedus wouldn't have to be protected by some Blood Protection that didn't work in the end anyway, because these weren't his real relatives. If Sirius weren't a wanted murderer, Haedus would be spending time with him now. Preparing for Christmas, no, for Yule. Definitely for Yule. After all, the Blacks were an old, noble family, Harry thought, remembering Kreacher's words. Harry would much rather be Haedus now and not Harry. Not the freak who talks to snakes. Not the freak Voldemort couldn't kill. Not the freak who is locked in a cupboard like a trapped snake.

To Harry's luck, the Dursleys didn't seem to care much about him at first. From his cupboard, Harry heard Vernon cursing as he tried to repair the door. And Petunia seemed to be ignoring him too. They left him in the cupboard without a word. Harry was used to this. It was better than being punished for the door, Harry thought.

Harry wasn't sure if it was evening, but from the darkness of his cupboard, he heard Petunia saying goodbye to Vernon.

“We're going to the Polkiss', Vernon. You stay here so that the freak doesn't get up to anything,” she said in her shrill voice. A grumpy grunt was Vernon's answer. “I've left you some food to warm up in the kitchen.” Then Harry heard her and Dudley leave the house.

An eternity seemed to pass, in which Harry only heard the monotonous flicker of the television from the living room. Then he heard a rattling sound at his cupboard door. The door opened with a loud creak, and the gigantic form of Uncle Vernon filled the doorway. Harry tried not to look at him. He saw how crudely the door had been repaired with two rough wooden beams. Harry didn't know what Vernon wanted from him, but he saw that he was swaying slightly and the smell of stale beer hit him—a smell that often meant nothing good.

“Go on, boy,” Vernon grunted. “Go to the loo or something, and then get to the kitchen. I'm hungry.”

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He had been needing to go for a while, but he was now too big to simply do it in his trousers in the cupboard, as he had as a child. So he hurried to the loo before going to the kitchen.

Harry saw what Petunia had prepared for Vernon: a greasy pasty and some wrinkled peas. He was hungry too, a gnawing, hollow pain in his stomach. But he knew that he would have to go without food for a longer period now. He knew the game. He would manage. He had survived on scraps for long enough. And Hagrid had said they would pick him up again. The only question was when. Harry clung to the hope that Neville had managed to reach Remus or Andromeda and they would get him out of here at any moment.

Vernon's words tore him from his hopeful thoughts back to the cold reality.

"Go on, warm it up for me!" the drunk man grunted from the sofa, where he was watching television. Intimidated, Harry obeyed and warmed up the food for the walrus-like man.

Harry worked hard at it, but Vernon didn't seem to like it. He loudly complained to Harry, demanding to know if he'd learnt anything at all at that school in the last eighteen months, that the food tasted like rubbish, and then drank another bottle of beer. Harry would have loved to tell him that he hadn't cooked it at all, but had merely warmed up Petunia's dinner as he'd been told. But contradicting Vernon never led to anything good, so Harry remained silent and bore the hatred that came rolling off him in waves. Harry was sure the neighbours would hear Vernon complaining through the open window, he was that loud.

“Go on, clean the kitchen!” ordered Vernon and burped loudly. “And then bring me another beer.” Harry obeyed, his movements small and cautious. He tried not to irritate Vernon any further, terrified of what might come next. He was helpless. His wand and all his things were at Hogwarts. He was still only wearing his school uniform; he'd left his robes in the cupboard, along with his tie.

“Hurry up, boy, I'm waiting!” grunted Vernon from the sofa. On the television, a news anchor spoke with a serious face about rising unemployment. “…over 2.9 million, and for the first time the mark of 10% was exceeded in the southwest of England…”

Vernon let out a contemptuous snort. “You see that, boy? That's all people like your parents. Unemployed good-for-nothings! Living at the expense of decent, hard-working people. Spongers, the whole lot of 'em!”

Something snapped inside Harry. “That's not true!” he said, louder than he meant to. “My parents worked! My father was an Auror!”

Vernon slowly turned his head, his small eyes narrowing into slits. “What did you say, boy?” he hissed. “An 'Auror'? That's no proper, hard-working profession! You… you wizards are all good-for-nothings living off society! And that means off me too!”

Harry couldn't take it any longer. The rage that had been building inside him erupted. “They weren't good-for-nothings!” he yelled, his voice trembling. “They were heroes! And you… you're just a mean, fat bully!”

He knew he would regret it. He knew it the moment the words left his lips. Vernon slowly stood up, his face turning a deep purple, a vein throbbing in his temple. “What did you just say?” he growled, and his voice was a low, dangerous rumble.

Harry backed away, but the kitchen counter was behind him. There was no escape. “Oh yes you did,” said Vernon and slowly came towards him. “You ungrateful little freak. We took you in, gave you a roof over your head, and this is the thanks we get?”

The words hit Harry like a physical blow. “Took me in?” The fury that had already been simmering in his stomach erupted with a single, uncontrollable scream. How could Vernon say such a thing? He thought of the endless nights in the cupboard under the stairs, the painful welts on his back. This wasn't a home, it wasn't kindness. It was a prison. And just like the precious porcelain plates that Vernon had received for his services at Grunnings and which stood proudly on the wall, something shattered inside Harry. With a deafening bang, the porcelain splintered into a thousand pieces, just like his pent-up anger that finally burst.

Vernon froze. His purple face darkened even further.

“That… that was you,” he wheezed, his eyes blazing with fury. “You and your freakish gift.” He took a deep breath. “You'll regret that, boy. I swear it.”

###

He grabbed Harry by the arm, his fingers digging into Harry's flesh like a pair of vices, and dragged him across the room. Harry struggled, he thrashed, and tried to break free, but it was no use. Vernon was like a mountain of flesh and rage. He pressed Harry’s stomach over the hard edge of the sofa, his face pushed into the scratchy upholstery. Harry heard the ominous sound of Vernon pulling his belt from its loops. A cold shudder ran down his spine. He knew what was coming next.

“I’m sorry!” Harry screamed, his voice muffled by the cushions. “I’m really sorry!”

“Too late for apologies, boy!” Vernon bellowed, his voice a hoarse, drunken growl. “You’ve got to learn your place!”

Harry felt Vernon pull his shirt up, exposing his back. Then came the first strike. A burning, lashing pain as the cold metal buckle of the belt hit his skin. Harry cried out, a shrill, desperate sound. The old, faded scars seemed to come alive under the new pain, burning like fire.

“Stop your blubbering!” Vernon roared. “You've only got yourself to blame!”

Again and again, the buckle landed on his back, a relentless, painful rhythm. Harry pleaded, he sobbed, but it was no use. He hoped the neighbours would hear something through the open windows, his screaming, Vernon’s angry roars, anything. Harry hoped someone would come to his aid, if only to be rescued. Rescued from all of it.

When Vernon seemed to have had enough, he grabbed Harry by the collar and dragged the sobbing boy into the hallway. Harry struggled, his legs dangling helplessly in the air, but it was futile. Vernon ripped open the cupboard door.

“This is where you belong!” he roared. But as he went to fling Harry, who was twisting with the strength of desperation, inside, Harry broke free.

For a split second, he was free, but his momentum carried him forward uncontrollably. His head hit the hard door frame with a bone-shattering thud. A blinding white pain exploded behind his eyes, followed by a dull, echoing sound in his skull.

###

He collapsed to the floor, unable to stay on his feet. The world began to spin. The contours of Uncle Vernon, who towered over him like a shapeless, angry shadow, blurred. The makeshift repaired front door became a dark, distorted blot. The burning pain on his back faded, replaced by a strange, heavy numbness that spread from the back of his head and seemed to engulf his whole body. He couldn't feel anything anymore. And before everything sank into impenetrable blackness, the last thing he heard wasn't Uncle Vernon's angry wheezing, but a high-pitched, wailing sound that seemed to come from far away and was getting closer and closer. But before he could be sure it was really sirens, this too died away. Only emptiness remained.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! 😃

Uff, what an ending. I hope you don't hate me now for what happened to Harry, but for the sake of the story, this was crucial. Believe me. And you might also hate me for this, but the next few chapters will be about what has been happening with Sirius and Remus since the summer. This is also important, as I mentioned before that we have multiple plot lines that will eventually cross over.

For clarification, Dumbledore doesn't know that Lily was adopted, so he thinks the blood wards will protect Harry. After learning what happened to Harry as a child, he thought he could re-work the blood wards to prevent his relatives from hurting him. As we now know, it failed because they are not blood relatives (it would have worked if Lily was blood-adopted, but that is not a Muggle thing). So the only thing we can hope for now is that the sirens Harry heard were because some neighbors heard the escalation through the open window, and that Neville was able to inform either Remus or Andromeda. But we will see. 🫤

As always, I am eager to read your thoughts and comments on this.

Chapter 15: Chapter Fourteen: A Summer in France

Summary:

Sirius Black finds himself at the old summer residence of his family in the south of France, where he unexpectedly encounters an old friend. After a tense confrontation, the two have a chance to talk, catching up, reflecting on the past, and deciding on a plan to finally clear Sirius's name.

Notes:

Welcome back!

After the last intense chapter, this one is a bit more light-hearted as we follow Sirius and Remus through their summer.
However, the past still follows them, so as always, please read with care.

“Finished with my woman ’cause

She couldn't help me with my mind

People think I’m insane because

I am frowning all the time”

The music blared from the speakers of an old, enchanted record player, filling the sun-drenched room. Sirius stomped barefoot across the cool flagstones in time with the beat, his arms outstretched as if he wanted to embrace the whole world. It was a miracle that he had even found his old Black Sabbath record here, intact in a dusty box, as if it had been waiting for him all these years. He danced, not elegantly, but wildly and boisterously, a desperate, liberating movement that was meant to drive away the shadows of Azkaban for a fleeting moment.

He was in the guest room he had so often visited as a child and teenager when he had fled with Uncle Alphard from the madness of his terrible relatives. It wasn't as if no relatives lived here. In the old summer residence of the Blacks, perfectly perched on a hill between the Pyrenees and the Mediterranean, Cassiopeia Black, Alphard's aunt, had lived for as long as Sirius could remember, which made her… well, whatever to him. The whole damned Black family tree had disgusted him even as a child, much to the displeasure of his mother, Walburga, which in turn was entirely to his liking. For if there was one thing Sirius couldn't stand, it was his mother.

When he had arrived here two days ago, he had met Cassiopeia Black, who had barely changed in the ten years he had been locked away. She looked astonishingly young for her almost eighty years, although Sirius was quite sure that she dyed her raven-black hair with a potion. In any case, Cassiopeia had told him in a dry, emotionless voice who all had died during his time in Azkaban. And one thing could be said about the Black family: a ripe old age, as some wizards beyond a hundred reached, did not seem to be in store for his family.

Family…

No sooner had Sirius thought of family than he was reminded of Harry again. His… his… well, his Pup. When he had seen him again for the first time in a while, the boy had looked so much like James, his best friend, his brother in all that mattered. But something hadn't been right. The pup had been noticeably small for his age, thin, almost skinny. And it seemed he had been right. The pup had his problems with food, had apparently had a difficult childhood, Neville had hinted at it. The pup had never been able to tell him directly, he had been in far too bad a state.

Oh, by Merlin’s beard, how often had Sirius hoped that the two, wherever they had been taken, were doing well. If it hadn't been for that stupid rat, then Harry might never have ended up with Petunia. Oh, how much he hated himself in that moment for having suggested to James and Lily to switch Secret-Keepers at the last second. If all that hadn't happened, then James and Lily might still be alive, and the pup would have grown up protected, just as he had wished for him, for his… for his… he couldn't finish the thought. Perhaps it was still the after-effects of Azkaban, but every happy thought was difficult to grasp. And the happiest thought of his life was when he was allowed to see the pup for the first time. When Lily had introduced him to him. The pup. His pup. James and Lily's son. And his pup.

“I need someone to show me

The things in life that I can't find

I can't see the things that make

True happiness, I must be blind”

Suddenly, a sound cut through the loud music, a distant call that seemed to come from the courtyard of the old castle. Sirius froze mid-spin and listened. It certainly couldn't be a Muggle. To them, this over 700-year-old masonry was just a picturesque ruin, thanks to a defensive charm similar to the one at Hogwarts that made the stone summer residence of the Black family appear as a crumbling old ruin. No tourist ever got lost here. And yet, someone seemed to be out there. Granted, the residence now consisted only of the stone keep, a wall, and the courtyard—hardly comparable to the ancestral seat of the Blacks, Black Manor, which with its imposing four stories and massive grounds clearly overshadowed the summer residence and was last inhabited by his grandfather Arcturus.

Sirius noticed that the calls, which he now heard more clearly, sounded anything but French. Who could that be? And why hadn't Cassiopeia taken care of the intruder already? He himself could hardly do anything. He had no wand, and no one should know he was here; after all, he was a wanted criminal who had recently escaped from captivity, even if he was innocent.

But the voice… it sounded strangely familiar. Again, Sirius wondered why Cassiopeia hadn't done something to silence the source of the calling long ago. She was probably engrossed in one of her many dusty treatises again. One thing hadn't changed in over ten years: Cassiopeia was married to her research. She wrote entire tomes about genetic influences on the magical core of witches and wizards, a theory that was still considered newfangled nonsense in the wizarding world. That was one of the reasons why Sirius had been so interested in the ever-changing world of Muggles as a teenager—that and the unbridled joy of driving his miserable mother into a frenzy.

And then there was that calling again, louder this time, more impatient. Sirius cursed the fact that Cassiopeia had no house-elves here. She thought nothing of the creatures. "You can't trust them," she had once explained to him when he had visited as a ten-year-old. Back then, he had been accustomed to Kreacher, his parents' house-elf, who had always obeyed his father. Sirius didn't really like Kreacher, which was mutual. The old, grumpy house-elf was probably dead by now anyway, like all his owners. Although the death of one owner still pained Sirius. That of his brother, Regulus. He seemed to have had a special bond with Kreacher.

Since neither Cassiopeia nor one of the non-existent house-elves seemed to be taking care of the source of the calling, Sirius, for better or worse, had to go see for himself, even though he was helpless without a wand. But in an emergency, he thought, he could always transform into Padfoot. Or into Snuffles, as Harry and Neville had christened him. At the thought, Sirius had to smile. Snuffles was really not a suitable name for his Animagus form, which resembled a Grim more than a lap dog.

Sirius then went from his guest room on the first floor of the keep of the old country house towards the entrance gate. The good thing about the old walls was that due to the thick stones, the heat of the southern French summer often stayed outside.

Down in the small entrance hall hung portraits of the former permanent residents of the Black family's summer residence. While most family members only came here for the summer, one member of the family always seemed to take care of the upkeep of this country house.

Before Cassiopeia, it had been Elladora Black, also single and perhaps a little crazy, for it was she who had begun to behead house-elves when they got too old and display their heads in one of the fireplace rooms. Loneliness was probably also a little to blame for what drove his great-great-great-aunt. It was also rumoured that she spoke to the heads when no one was visiting. At least her portrait in the entrance hall could now talk to the other portraits, and as Sirius went down, Elladora was, as always, talking to Phoebe Black, the permanent resident before Elladora.

"It's about time someone dealt with the noise from outside," the portrait of Elladora said to Sirius as he arrived downstairs.

"Well, in my time, the house-elves would have taken care of a newcomer," Phoebe's portrait said in response to Elladora's remark, "but someone just had to scare away all the house-elves from ever setting foot here again by beheading them." Elladora's portrait didn't seem pleased with this remark and asked angrily,

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Sirius would have loved to silence the two portraits, but without a wand it was difficult, so he tried to ignore the quarrelling ladies and went to the wooden chestnut entrance gate and carefully opened it. When he then saw who was standing in the courtyard, Sirius didn't know whether he should be happy or whether he should run away, because their last meeting hadn't ended well.

In the sun-drenched courtyard stood none other than Remus Lupin. Moony. His Moony. Probably his last remaining friend. But when he had last met him a few days ago, he had not been able to convince him of his innocence. He had not been able to explain to him that Peter had been the Secret-Keeper; the sequence of events had been too hectic, and then the Dementors had also appeared. Dementors were the last thing Sirius could have used. They had already taken enough good memories from him. Just under two weeks ago, he had at least still had Neville's wand with which he could have confronted them, but when the Dementors had attacked, he had had to flee and had dropped it. It pained him to have left his sick pup behind; he had been the reason for his escape from Azkaban, the news that he had apparently not grown up protected, as had always been his hope.

And now he stood opposite a man he truly seemed not to recognise. He had grown older. Greyer. And some scars had been added. Ones that were immediately visible. Maybe some had also been added in places that he only showed to certain people. Who knew, Sirius thought. In any case, this man now once again held out his wand in his direction, but this time there seemed to be no stalemate.

"Don't you dare transform," Remus shouted, and his voice, though full of anger, trembled slightly. His clothes looked worn, wrinkled and frayed at the edges.

Sirius had no intention of doing so. In their last encounter, he had been able to quickly disappear into the bushes before Lupin's Stupor spell could hit him, but here? Here, at most, there was an escape inwards, and Sirius doubted that the old wooden door would withstand a Bombarda Maxima .

"Moony," Sirius began, and his voice was a hoarse, desperate croak. "Please, believe me. It wasn't me."

"Oh yeah? And why should I do that?" Remus retorted, and his voice echoed through the silent courtyard. "You were the Secret-Keeper! You betrayed them! Them and Harry! And... and me." The last word was a tortured accusation, as if Sirius had plunged a dagger into his heart.

"What happened, Sirius? What happened that night and the morning after? I want the truth!" Remus shouted, and his eyes sparkled with a mixture of rage and infinite pain. But before Sirius could answer, Remus's wand flew from his hand with a soft whizzing sound.

Cassiopeia stood behind him, her figure a dark, elegant shadow in the doorway. She had disarmed Remus with a casual flick of her hand.

"What is all this fuss about?" the old witch asked, her voice as cold and sharp as the north wind. "Do you want to attract the attention of Muggle hikers?" She held Remus's wand in one hand while pointing her own, a long, thin wand of ebony, at him with the other. By the way, Sirius knew she was exaggerating; numerous precautions had been taken around the castle to protect it, and a Muffliato charm ensured that noises would not leak out.

"You look old, my friend," Sirius could now retort to the disarmed Remus, as the tables had apparently turned in his favour, and a slight, mocking grin escaped him as he could now taunt Moony, whom he had known since his time at Hogwarts.

"Easy for you to say," Remus scoffed back, his eyes flashing defiantly. "Have you looked in a mirror lately? You look like someone having a mid-life crisis."

And it was true. When Sirius had seen himself for the first time since his escape in a reflection of water, he had seen what more than ten years, day in and day out, with Dementors did to a person, no matter how much they told themselves they were innocent. In the end, they just left you hollow. He truly looked older than his thirty-three years. Then there were his clothes. He had exchanged his grey rags from Azkaban for his old things that he had once stashed here in his box of junk, where the records were also. Now he wore clothes he had last worn at nineteen: his black jeans with a hole at the knee, an old Sex Pistols T-shirt, and one of his leather jackets, the latter of which was too warm for the current weather and thus remained in the wardrobe. At least they still fit him, which was probably thanks to the oh-so-caring provision in Azkaban.

"If it isn't young Mr. Lupin. I hardly recognised you," Cassiopeia said as she could better see whom she had just disarmed. "Won't you come in? I would offer tea, but we're in the south of France, and you are definitely not children anymore. So, would it be a wine or a Pastis?"

"Gladly," Lupin replied, and as he passed by, he said to Sirius, who stared at him in bewilderment: "Sirius, are you coming too?" How on earth had this conversation just turned around?

"Well, I haven't seen you in ages, my young man, I should say. How long has it been, ten, fifteen years?" Cassiopeia asked Moony as both walked through the entrance hall towards the dining room.

"Twelve. Twelve years," Lupin said, his voice sounding muffled.

Cassiopeia shook her head slightly.

"I remember when Sirius first brought you here. You were both just fifteen. I remember my niece Walburga saying how I dared to let her son and you spend a summer here, even if it was only two weeks. She was the only one who was bothered by it, she and my brother. Fortunately, Alphard didn't take after his father," she said wistfully in the end. "Oh, Alphard, you truly were my favourite nephew."

"Hey!" shouted Sirius, who now felt a little offended and simply followed the two because he didn't know what else to do.

"You're my favourite great-nephew, of course," Cassiopeia smirked wryly. Aside from her cool demeanour, she also had a dry sense of humour, something he had sorely missed in his mother.

Cassiopeia opened a bottle of rosé.

"I prefer something light in this weather," she said, pouring a glass for Remus. "Red can be a bit heavy." She placed the bottle on the table. "Sirius, if you want some, you know where the glasses are."

Sirius grumbled to himself. So this was it. A moment ago, Moony had stood in the courtyard with his wand drawn, ready to curse him, and now? Now his great-aunt and Remus seemed to be having a perfectly delightful time. Wine was definitely the wrong thing for this. To endure this, he needed something stronger. Since Firewhisky was nothing he could get his hands on quickly here, there was nothing for it but Pastis. Diluted with a little water, the milky-looking drink was just the thing. He remembered how he and Remus had once, on their first summer here, sneaked a bottle at night, assuming they could have a nice evening. But, being unknowing, they had not liked the aniseed spirit at all back then. Sirius downed a glass, prepared a second one and took it to the table, where he also emptied the second. Only this way could he bear the conversation between the two.

Remus had apparently been able to get his second Master's. Besides the one in Defence Against the Dark Arts, he also seemed to have one in History of Magic. It seemed as if everyone had been able to get on with their lives, except for him. Sirius lowered his head and rested it on his arms, which were also on the table, while Remus and Cassiopeia philosophised about some historical facts. Sirius had never liked History of Magic at Hogwarts, and if it hadn't been for Remus and later Lily, he and James would have surely failed, especially their O.W.L.s. Not that he had been a bad student, quite the opposite, but History had been tedious, and if Binns was still teaching, he felt sorry for all the students. He had asked Minnie, his favourite teacher from back then and also Head of House, when he and his friends were at Hogwarts, if she couldn't persuade Dumbledore to replace Binns. Minnie, by the way, hated being called that by Sirius, even though he had only jokingly called her that since their time in the Resistance. "To you, I'm still at least Miss McGonagall, though I'm also not averse to you continuing to call me Professor, Mr. Black, after all, you don't seem to have finished your schooling yet," she had said to him back then when he had first called her that. James had been unable to contain his laughter at how Minnie, even after their N.E.W.T.s, still managed to put him in his place, even if it didn't last long.

"I'll leave you two alone then," Cassiopeia said, when she and Remus had apparently finally finished their rambling about whoever's time. "I'm sure you have a lot to talk about."

"Thank you, Madam Black," Remus said, polite as ever, before she disappeared from the room. Then he turned to Sirius, his face now serious again. "Right, where were we?"

"Huh, what?" Sirius mumbled, who was pulled from his murky thoughts.

"Sirius, what happened on the night of the first of November?" Remus pressed, his voice now sharp and urgent again. "Sirius, I have to know. Did you kill Peter? Is Peter dead?"

"What? No! I mean, I wanted to, Remus, Moony, believe me, I wasn't the Secret-Keeper, please, believe me," Sirius pleaded, the desperation in his voice palpable. He hoped so desperately that his plea would reach Remus, but who could know? Remus was behaving so strangely today. Two weeks ago, he seemed to have believed not a word he said, and now he was sitting with him at a table, talking about the fateful night that had turned the life of his pup, his own, and perhaps Moony's life upside down.

"Sirius, is Peter alive or not? Did you kill him? I need your answer. Now!" Remus became more forceful, his voice lashing through the room. Sirius had used to love it when Remus was passionate about something, but this was truly unpleasant.

"Remus, believe me, Peter is alive!" Sirius shouted, his voice almost cracking. "I... I didn't kill him! He... he betrayed them! We had swapped! I... I followed him like a fool, wanted to get him myself, but... but he cut off his own finger! And vanished, after he had killed the Muggles, in the sewer, and left me behind! I... I was desperate, and then... then the Aurors came, and... and I was held responsible for everything! Ten years, Remus! Ten years!" Towards the end, Sirius also grew louder, his voice a hoarse, painful scream.

"That means... Peter is alive," Remus said, as if a worldview had just been exchanged for another for him. "No... no, no... oh, that's... that's..."

"What is it? Remus, talk to me!" Sirius said, grabbing him by the arm.

"I... I think I know where Peter has been hiding all these years," Remus said, his eyes wide with horror. A spark of hope immediately flared up in Sirius, not only because Remus now seemed to believe in his innocence, but also the option to prove it by finding Peter.

"What? Where? Let's go now!" Sirius cried, ready to jump up immediately.

"No, oh man, okay, firstly, you're as impulsive as ever," Remus said, rubbing his face wearily.

"I thought you used to like that about me," Sirius countered, almost defensively.

"Let me finish," Remus continued, ignoring Sirius's objection, his voice becoming quieter, almost conspiratorial. "Secondly, you're not going to like this, but Peter... Peter has been hiding with the Weasleys. He's apparently the pet of one of Molly's and Arthur's kids."

"Right, that's a bit creepy of Peter, but what can you expect from a rat? So, can we go or not?" Sirius asked again, impatient and full of drive.

"No! The problem is, Sirius," Remus said, looking at him intently, "Molly's kid... he's Harry's best friend."

"And?" Sirius didn't understand what the problem was there. They could just grab the rat. Molly would surely understand that her children were being protected from this traitor and murderer.

"I took Harry there after he was discharged from the hospital," Remus explained carefully, well aware that Sirius was about to explode. "I saw him. It was him. And Harry is with him."

"Is Harry feeling better?" Sirius asked, his voice filled with worry. Then the full weight of Remus's words seemed to hit him. "Wait, what? Hold on… Harry is in a house with Peter? Remus, we have to go now!" Sirius jumped up this time, his eyes sparkling with a mix of fury and panicked fear. His pup was in danger. Peter could do something to him.

"Sirius, stop, wait!" Remus cried, grabbing his arm to prevent him from storming out of the room. "You can't just go back to Britain! You're an escaped convict to them!"

"That won't stop me from helping Harry!" Sirius countered through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to make the same mistakes again!"

"Sirius, calm down!" Remus tried to soothe him. "Peter's been playing the pet all these years. Do you think he'd blow his cover now? He's probably more afraid of us than we are for Harry. We… we have to snatch him when he's not expecting it." Why did Remus always sound so reasonable? He had always been the sensible one, and in the last ten years, he seemed to have become even more mature.

"So what do you suggest?" Sirius said, visibly disappointed at not being able to rush to his pup's aid immediately. "Believe me, I don't want to have to hide here forever."

"When I visit Harry next time," Remus tried to explain, "then… then I'll snatch the rat, and we'll find out if he's Peter."

As Remus spoke about Harry again, Sirius had to ask him. "Harry… Harry's all right, isn't he? I mean…"

"Sirius, Harry's doing better than ever, all things considered, believe me," Remus assured him, placing a hand on his leg. "Andromeda is his personal Healer, and she's made sure he doesn't have to go back to Petunia and is looking after him. All of it… his childhood, it was…"

But Sirius didn't want him to finish. He looked at him and shook his head. He was glad that Harry seemed to be doing better now. Andromeda, his only cousin he liked, which was perhaps also because she, just like him, had been disowned by the family. But Neville had called him Lord Black and said that he was the Head of the Family after Arcturus's death. He had been so sure that his mother had disowned him.

"Harry's doing better, that's the main thing," Sirius said quietly. "Do you think… do you think I can see him soon? Do you think he wouldn't hate me? For letting him down? For me…" Sirius couldn't finish, he was too ashamed of having let Harry down through his actions on that night and thus also apparently having contributed to him growing up with Petunia, Lily's magic-hating sister.

"Sirius, as soon as we've sorted out this business with Peter and your name has been cleared, believe me, Harry would definitely like to get to know you," Remus said, and his words sounded reassuring in his ears. "He's an honest young wizard. He looks like James, but the heart… he has Lily's heart." Lily could forgive when apologies were sincere, but she could also be angry with those who didn't mean it.

"Tell me, how… how did you find me?" Sirius asked now, a little bewildered, as he realised it was Remus who had tracked him down again.

"There are still three days to go," Remus said, and a weary smile flitted across his face. "And the closer we get, the better my senses become. And believe me, you leave a trail."

"Mmm," Sirius grumbled, but he understood.

"Come on, I'll get you a glass. The rosé is really good, Cassiopeia was right about that. It makes a change."

Sirius couldn't say no. Even though he would have loved to have set off for Harry immediately, Remus was right. Somehow, in the end, he'd always been right. He had always been the sensible one, and he the impulsive one.

Remus stood up to get him a glass.

"You're looking after me so well," Sirius said quietly, as Remus poured him the cool rosé. "But who… who looked after you all those years, all the years I was locked away?"

Remus’s smile faded. He sat back down and stared into his glass.

"I managed just fine on my own," he said, but his voice sounded hollow.

Sirius didn't let it go.

"We had friends," he said, almost with dissatisfaction. "Friends who could have looked after you."

"You had friends, Sirius," Remus replied, and his voice was a soft, bitter whisper. "I only had James, Lily, Peter… and you."

The words hit Sirius like a blow. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't think of anything.

"What about the Longbottoms?" he asked finally, to break the painful silence. "Harry and Neville are friends." Neville hadn't really told him why his parents were in St Mungo's.

Remus's face darkened.

"After… after You-Know-Who disappeared, some of his most loyal followers went to find the Longbottoms. They thought Frank and Alice would know something"

Sirius stared at him in horror.

"They… they tortured them, Sirius," Remus continued, his voice trembling. "With the Cruciatus Curse. Bellatrix and her husband were there."

Bellatrix. The name tasted like bile on Sirius’s tongue.

"That's why," he said slowly, and the realisation hit him with full force, "my cousin was in Azkaban with me. I never saw her, but her laugh… her maniacal laugh… it was unmistakable." The thought made Sirius shudder. He didn't want to remember Azkaban, not the cold, the darkness, the endless screaming. Remus placed a hand on his shoulder, a quiet, comforting gesture.

Suddenly, as if he could no longer bear the rising memories, Sirius leapt to his feet.

"Look at you!" he said, trying to make his voice sound cheerful, though it was brittle. "You need a bath. New clothes. We've so much to talk about."

Remus looked at him, and in his eyes was an infinitely sad but also loving understanding.

"Oh, Padfoot," he sighed softly.

---

Remus spent the next three days at the old Black summer residence. He moved into one of the many available guest rooms which, as Sirius found, offered more than enough space. Remus seemed to be enjoying his time here, which immensely pleased Sirius. For him too, it was a kind of recovery after all the time in Azkaban. Not least, the knowledge that Harry was doing better and the prospect that Peter could soon be caught and his time as a falsely wanted criminal could finally come to an end also helped.

Remus and Sirius spent most of their time with Remus filling him in on the last few years. At any rate, after Remus believed he had lost all his friends due to Sirius's actions, as he called it—Sirius still blamed himself for it—Remus had tried to seek his fortune outside of Britain. The rules for wizards like him were stricter there than in other parts of Europe. Remus spent some time in Germany and the Netherlands to get a second Master's degree in History, in addition to his one in Defence Against the Dark Arts, as he had originally intended. Remus seemed never to have found anyone in all those years who could fill the void so painfully torn open by Sirius. At any rate, Sirius was glad that Remus didn't blame him for any of it and was still constantly trying to make Sirius see that he shouldn't regret his actions back then. "That would just make you more depressed," Remus said. Sirius didn't see himself as depressed, more as a realist, but whatever. That day, two things were happening. Firstly, the first full moon that the two of them would be together again as friends in years, and secondly, the national holiday of the country they were in.

"Oh, come on, Remus, let's go down to Thuir," Sirius begged Remus. "You haven't been there in ages, and I only whizzed through on my way here." Thuir was a small village on the edge of the hilly landscape where the Black summer residence was perched. Sirius was sure that on the occasion of the national holiday, the Muggles of the village would definitely be in a bit of a party mood, and he yearned so much to go out again. He'd had to do without it for eleven years.

"Are you mad?" Remus countered from the sofa, where he sat with a book in his hand, towards the front door where Sirius was standing in the doorway, trying to convince his Moony to go to the festival with him. "You know perfectly well what tonight is. I can't possibly go near people."

"We'll go at the right time, alright? And if we have to, we'll Apparate into the woods," Sirius tried to convince Remus again.

"Do you know exactly where you're Apparating us to? I don't really have a clue about the grounds here, and the little I got to know more than twelve years ago is like a faded memory. I don't really fancy Splinching. Have you forgotten the golden Three ' D ' s ?" Remus asked him. Of course, he hadn't forgotten it. Destination , Determination , and Deliberation . They had had it drilled into them so hard in their sixth year that Sirius knew his idea was foolish. Not because the distance was too great, but because they didn't really have their destination in mind.

"Right, but what if we go early enough?" Sirius tried again, his voice now sounding almost pleading. "We'll get something to drink, something to eat, mingle with the crowd for a bit, and then leave before it gets dark?" He hoped that a look as pleading as he could muster would convince Moony that they would, in the end, both attend the festivities.

And of course, Sirius had managed to convince Remus. It seemed he hadn't lost his power of persuasion in the eleven years he'd spent in Azkaban.

Thuir was a small town in the south of France that offered everything one needed for life. More than that, even. The southern French town's old quarter, built around an old Muggle church, offered small shops where one could not only get the essentials, but much more besides. There were pâtisseries, boulangeries, and charcuteries and other delicatessens of all kinds. Also a hairdresser's, a chemist's, a small spa, and a tattoo parlour. Maybe he should bring Remus here sometime, if all the shops weren't closed for the holiday, and they could get another matching tattoo , Sirius thought to himself. One that symbolised their reunion after eleven years. Sirius had quite a few tattoos, so another one wouldn't stand out. Remus's, on the other hand, were never immediately visible. Remus always tried to cover as much of his skin as possible, as he was ashamed of his scars, Sirius knew that. And even in warm weather like this, Remus wore long-sleeved things.

As they walked through the narrow streets of the old town and saw the old stone houses in their yellow, almost sandy colours, Sirius couldn't help but reminisce. How he and Remus, or he and Uncle Alphard, had spent time here. Sirius had never brought either James, who always spent his summers in Marbella, or Peter, whose parents never wanted him to spend time with Sirius, here. He'd be a bad influence on him. If only they had known that their son would one day become a dishonest traitor, then Sirius probably wouldn't have been such an enfant terrible in other people's eyes. Remus also seemed to recognise one or two of the shops.

In any case, they reached the Place de la République, where a few stalls had been set up where one could get something to eat and drink, and a small stage. While a Muggle band played cover songs on the stage, filling the square with French pop-rock music, Sirius and Remus went to one of the stalls. Sirius ordered something to drink from the young, brunette saleswoman in his best French.

„Bonjour Mademoiselle“, he said with a charming smile that made the young woman blush slightly. „Deux verres de Byrrh, s'il vous plaît. Pour célébrer cette belle journée.“

When Sirius came back with two glasses, each with a light red liquid floating in it with two ice cubes and a slice of lemon, he handed one of them to Remus.

"Here you go."

"I'd completely forgotten you speak fluent French," Remus said, taking a sip.

"Yeah, a curse, unfortunately, when you grow up in my family," Sirius replied a little wistfully, thinking of his mother's strict lessons as a child. "I don't know a single Black who doesn't speak French. It was part of every member of the family's upbringing."

In any case, the two of them drank the bittersweet aperitif that Sirius had ordered.

"Ahh, what's this?" Remus asked. "Not wine, is it?"

"Not really," Sirius answered. "That's Byrrh and it's from this region."

They finished their aperitif, before Sirius went again to get them some wine and a platter of cheese, sausage and ham, as well as two baguettes. They sat down at one of the many tables and listened to the music, while enjoying the southern French specialities on the square, which was richly decorated in the national colours on this late afternoon.

After they had finished eating, Sirius said to Remus:

"Come on, see that group of people dancing over there? Come on, let's join them." He didn't wait for a reply, but grabbed Remus's hand, a familiar, almost forgotten spark of his old recklessness in his eyes. He pulled him with him, into the swelling sea of laughing Muggles. He had missed it so much, this feeling of carefree freedom, of pure, undiluted joy.

 

„Mais trois nuits par semaine

C'est sa peau contre ma peau et je suis avec elle

Mais trois nuits par semaine mon dieu, qu'elle est belle“

 

To the sounds of a cheerful, French pop song, they danced, surrounded by strangers who didn't know them and didn't judge them. For a moment, they weren't the escaped convict and the scarred man. They were simply Padfoot and Moony, two old friends making up for lost time. Sirius grinned as he saw Remus giving himself up to the music, a side of him that he had sorely missed since Azkaban and had finally found again.

Song after song, the band played. When they struck up a new song, a driving guitar riff that made the crowd cheer, Sirius didn't know the song. It must have been released during his time in Azkaban. But the atmosphere was electric.

 

„J'ai trop saigné

sur les Gibson

J'ai trop rôdé dans les

Tobacco road

Y'a plus qu'les caisses

qui me résonnent

Et quand j'me casse, j'voyage

toujours en fraude“

 

The Muggles sang along as if it were an anthem, and it wasn't long before he and Remus were also swept up, their voices hoarse from laughing and the unaccustomed singing.

„Quand la musique est bonne!“, the singer bellowed into the microphone. „Bonne, bonne, bonne!“, the crowd screamed back, and Sirius and Remus bellowed along.

 

„Quand la musique donne!“

„Donne, donne, donne!“

 

It was an intoxication, a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, in which the darkness of the past had no power over them for a moment.

 

„Quand la musique sonne (sonne), sonne (sonne), sonne (sonne)

Quand elle guide mes pas (Quand elle guide mes pas)“

 

The sun was already a glowing, orange-red ball, slowly sinking behind the distant Pyrenees and painting the sky in dramatic colours. So the two of them had almost completely forgotten the time. It was Remus who noticed it with a startled gasp.

"Sirius, it's getting dark soon," he said, and the panic in his voice was unmistakable.

"Bollocks," Sirius hissed, realising he too had forgotten the approaching danger in the euphoria of the music. The carefree afternoon was over in a flash.

"We'll Apparate to the Château and go into the woods from there, then we'll make it in time."

The two of them left the festival, which was now glowing in the warm light of the fairy lights. With a pang of wistfulness, Sirius looked back.

"Next year," he said quietly, more to himself than to Remus. "Next year, we have to do this with Harry. He'll love it." Sirius clung to this thought, to the hope that they could soon nab Peter and prove his innocence. He wanted to see his pup again.

"I'm sure Harry would love that," Remus replied, his voice already sounding a little more strained. "You should know, he told me how much he loves Muggle music."

Sirius couldn't help but grin, despite the urgency of the situation. Harry's love of music didn't seem to have faded all these years. He still remembered how he'd always played all sorts of things for him as a baby. When someone picked him up and danced with him to the music, it had always soothed his pup.

Once they had reached a dark, narrow alleyway, they looked around.

"No Muggles in sight," Remus said, his eyes darting nervously about.

"Good," said Sirius. "Ready?" Remus nodded. With a loud crack , which echoed in the narrow alleyway, the two of them vanished from Thuir and reappeared a moment later, with the familiar, unpleasant lurch behind the navel, on the hill in front of the summer residence. From here, they could see the lights of Thuir twinkling in the distance. Sirius cast one last, longing look back. It really had been a good afternoon.

"Shall we?" Remus asked impatiently, his voice now noticeably hoarser.

"Right, let's go," said Sirius. "Just follow me." And the two of them disappeared onto the old hiking path, which snaked from the residence through the hilly landscape and vanished into the dark, shadowy wood.

They had tramped deeper into the heart of the woods, the air growing thick and still. Remus looked up, his face grim, as if he could feel the moon's light pulling at his very bones.

"I think it's better if you transform now," Remus said quietly, his voice taut with a familiar strain. Sirius didn't have to be told twice; a lifetime of experience told him that not being Padfoot right now would be a mistake he couldn't afford to make. It was for this very moment that he, James, and Peter had toiled for years as students, mastering the difficult Animagus transformation so their friend wouldn't be forced to face his curse alone.

Sirius's transformation was as swift as a whispered incantation, a stark contrast to the agony his friend was about to endure. In his canine form, the world was a riot of new sensations; every scent a story, every rustle of leaves a map. He saw, smelled, and heard like a real dog, yet his human mind remained stubbornly intact, a quiet anchor in the animal's body. It was this part of himself he had clung to in Azkaban, this very form that had offered him a silent refuge from the Dementors' soul-sapping despair.

Sirius watched as Remus, his hands trembling slightly, stripped off his worn clothes so they wouldn't be shredded in the coming change. He folded them with an almost heartbreaking care and tucked them into the hollow of a gnarled old oak. As Remus's frail body was revealed, Sirius saw the true cost of their time apart. Fresh, jagged scars crisscrossed his friend's skin, a grim chronicle of lonely moons spent without a pack to keep him in check.

Then, the last sliver of the sun vanished below the horizon, and the first rays of the full moon bathed Remus in a cold, silver light. Sirius had seen this a hundred times before, but it never failed to be a sight of pure, sickening horror. The Animagus transformation was an elegant, painless flick of the wrist. This was nothing like that. Sirius had to watch, helpless, as Remus’s body began to twist and contort. Bone after bone audibly snapped and rearranged themselves. His face stretched into a long, lupine snout, and coarse, matted fur sprouted all over his contorting form. A low, anguished growl tore from his throat as the man gave way to the beast.

When the transformation was finally complete, the beast that stood in Remus’s place was something far more terrifying than a mere wolf. Its face had a shorter snout, its body was leaner and more powerful, and its tail was different from any canine Sirius had ever seen. A werewolf now stood before Padfoot, and if he were in his human form, he would have been prey. The werewolf’s instinct was a primal, all-consuming urge to hunt and kill humans, yet it seemed to have no interest in other animals.

As if sensing they were alone in this forgotten corner of the woods, the creature’s predatory hunger seemed to quiet. The next thing the werewolf noticed was Padfoot, and it approached with a curious, almost cautious hesitation. Just like real animals, they sniffed each other, and in that moment, the werewolf seemed to recognise a long-lost friend. A low rumble of a purr, a sound that should have been impossible for such a beast, escaped its throat, and a moment later, the werewolf’s tail began to wag—a rare and joyous sight that made Sirius’s own heart leap.

Padfoot was happy, too. He knew that when Moony transformed alone, he was prone to hurting himself in a desperate effort to fight his instincts. But together, as a pack, they could endure it. And so, the two of them could roam the lonely woods together under the full moon, just as they had so often done before. Only back then, they were not two, but four: a wolf, a rat, a dog, and a stag. For James, of course, had also been able to transform into a stag. 

---

The first full moon they had spent together was over, and the two of them returned to the Château in the early hours of the morning, looking as though they had just staggered home from a wild party. Sirius helped Remus, his arm around his friend's shoulders, for after the transformation, Remus was always exhausted and his whole body ached.

It took a few days, but eventually, Remus was recovered.

Harry’s birthday was less than two weeks away, and as the three of them sat down for breakfast, two owls arrived. It was strange. Cassiopeia rarely received post, and when she did, it was usually only about her work.

Both owls landed on the table. One went to Cassiopeia, who seemed to have a magazine for her. Sirius had once glanced at it; it was filled with all sorts of bonkers theories. When Sirius had asked her why she read it—it didn’t suit her otherwise so scientific nature—Cassiopeia had said, with a dry, knowing smile, that it was one of the few ways to get her theories published in Britain. "The rest of the world is far more open to research on the magical core than our homeland," she’d explained. "What do you think is the reason I live here, hmmm?"

She took the magazine and, as always, left the table to read in peace. Sirius wondered if she laughed at half the theories in it, or if the isolation had finally started to gnaw at her sanity. He didn't know.

As Remus opened the letter, Remus said,

"That's a letter from Molly and she’s inviting me to Harry’s birthday."

Sirius looked up, a tiny spark of hope igniting within him.

"Do you think I could come along as Padfoot?" he asked.

"Have you gone mad, Sirius?" Remus asked. "What if someone sees you? Harry knows your Animagus form; he’ll probably think I found Snuffles and am getting him a new familiar. How am I supposed to explain that I’m taking you with me? And what about Neville?" Remus added, a snort of laughter escaping him at the name "Snuffles." He had found it exceedingly funny that Harry and Neville had christened Sirius's menacing Grim form such a fluffy name. When Sirius had first told him how he had met Harry and Neville on their escape, Remus had laughed for a full five minutes and still teased him about it now and then.

"Neville knows I’m innocent, that shouldn’t be a problem," Sirius said defensively.

"And what if Neville never told Harry?" Remus countered, his voice sharp. "You know what kids are like, Sirius. If they think a piece of information could somehow ruin their friendship, they’d rather keep quiet. Shall I remind you how hard it was for you to tell James the truth about..."

"Fine, I get it, you don't want me there," Sirius said, his voice flat with disappointment. "But at least let me help with the presents."

A few days later, true to their word, the two of them rattled down a dusty Spanish country road towards Granada on a stolen Muggle motorbike. The journey there felt infinitely freer for Sirius than his escape from Britain, where he had had to hide as a shaggy dog on a stinking ferry. Now he was in the driver's seat, the wind tugging at his hair, and he could ride with Remus to the border to cross it like a normal Muggle. A hastily Transfigured identity card, showing a grumpy-looking man named "Bob", was in his pocket; Remus had a real one thanks to his years in Europe.

Sirius had "organised" the motorbike, much to Remus’s loud protest. It was just left abandoned on a street corner, almost as if it had been waiting for them.

In a small, sleepy Spanish village whose name Sirius immediately forgot again, they found an unassuming bar. To Muggle eyes, it looked like a closed, run-down pub, but for them, it was the saving anchor—an entrance to the Spanish Floo Network. Unlike Muggles, who, as Remus had told him at the border, were working to abolish checks between their countries, the wizarding world was strictly regulated. Cross-border Floo Network travel was impossible, and most international travel was done via registered Portkeys, so the Ministry could monitor everything and everyone.

"Imagine that in our world," Remus had said as a grumpy Muggle customs officer took a fleeting look at their papers. "The Ministry voluntarily giving up control? The only way that's happening is if hell freezes over."

Sirius could only nod. The Ministry of Magic was anything but progressive. And then there was the pompous Wizengamot. A cold shiver ran down Sirius's spine at the thought. He knew he had a right to a seat as soon as he accepted the title of Lord, but he wasn't sure if he ever wanted it. All those years, he had hated being prepared to be the perfect heir. He had rebelled against it with all his might, had hoped that Arcturus, his grandfather, would finally pass him over after the death of his father Orion. But Cassiopeia had confirmed what Neville had told him. At Arcturus’s funeral, there had been a massive scandal when it was announced that not his uncle Cygnus, but he, Sirius, would be the next Lord Black. All his mother's efforts to banish him from the family had come to nothing. It wasn't she who had the say, but Arcturus. And the word of a Lord was law.

The bar was exactly as Sirius had imagined it: dark, cool, and smelling of spilt wine and dust. The floor was laid with cracked terracotta tiles, and faded posters of bullfights hung on the walls, where the matadors looked as if they might leap from the frames at any moment and begin an elegant dance. Only two other figures sat in the dim light: an old witch in the corner playing a game of Exploding Snap against herself with a deck of self-shuffling cards, and a grim-looking wizard at the counter, muttering quietly to himself as he polished a strange, astrolabe-like device.

Sirius and Remus approached the worn wooden counter. The bartender, a man with a face like an old road map, wiped a glass listlessly with a rag. He looked up briefly, his tired eyes appraising them, and waited. Sirius simply nodded towards the large, stone fireplace at the back. The bartender gave a barely perceptible shrug, as if to say, “Do as you like, but don't bother me while you're at it.” It was likely that his bar, being so close to the border, was a popular and tacitly tolerated entry point to the Spanish Floo Network.

Sirius walked over to the fireplace, reached into an earthenware pot standing on the mantelpiece next to it, and took out a handful of glittering, green powder. With a practiced flick, he threw it into the fireplace, which immediately roared to life with a loud whoosh in emerald-green flames. He then took a second handful, stepped into the flickering fire, and called out in a loud, clear voice into the sudden silence of the bar, “Zoco de las Mil Maravillas!”

A last look at Remus, then he let the powder fall. The world around him became a swirling, green vortex. Luckily, the correct fireplace spat him out a moment later. He landed, stumbling but upright, in a small, cool hall. Three artfully decorated fireplaces, which looked like Moorish gates, stood here to regulate the steady stream of arrivals and departures at this popular spot. The hall itself was old, very old. It was adorned from top to bottom with hand-painted tiles in the deepest greens and blues, forming intricate, geometric patterns. From the vaulted ceiling hung polished, golden stones that sparkled like a captured constellation, refracting the green light of the flames in a thousand directions.

Soon after Sirius had arrived, the fireplace beside him flared to life, and Remus stepped out of the flames, coughing and his face smeared with soot. Sirius, who could barely wait to dive into the bustle of the bazaar, immediately strode towards him.

"Here, let me get that soot off," said Sirius, clumsily patting his friend on the shoulder, which kicked up a small cloud of dust.

Remus shook his head, amused, drew his wand, and with a swift, practiced wave, the soot vanished as if by magic. He repeated the motion for Sirius.

"Thanks," Sirius said, a little sheepishly.

"We should get you a wand while we're here," Remus said then, putting his own away again. He was right. Without a wand, Sirius often felt helpless, almost naked, and was constantly reliant on his friend's help. His own had been snapped in half by Barty Crouch himself, back when he was arrested. The memory of it was like a bitter taste on his tongue.

They stepped through the tall archways that separated the quiet arrivals hall from the bustling alleys of the bazaar.

"Welcome to the Bazaar of a Thousand Wonders," Sirius said with a broad grin as the narrow, crowded, and seemingly endless alley opened up before them. It was a feast for the senses. To the left and right, vendors had spread out their wares on colourful cloths and wobbly tables. Everywhere, silver and gold cauldrons, bowls, and all sorts of other metal objects gleamed in the light of the floating lanterns. Much like Diagon Alley or the Place Cachée in Paris, the place was hidden from the curious eyes of Muggles.

"We should head to the bank first, to exchange some money," Sirius said, pushing his way through the crowd.

"What money?" Remus asked, bewildered, following close on his heels. "I was already wondering why you said we should come here of all places to get Harry's presents."

"Don't worry," Sirius replied, winking at him. "When Uncle Alphard left me his money, I stashed a part of it in the summer residence. What do you think I came here for? To be nursed by Cassiopeia?" He snorted contemptuously. "Honestly. She's busy with her dusty papers day and night, and if you ask me, maybe a bit addled in the head. You should know, some of her theories are truly barmy. In any case, this was always a retreat for me from my family…" He paused briefly, and a pensive expression flitted across his face. "Ironically, within my family. But with the part that wasn't, well, so ideologically narrow-minded."

They found the bank, Camara Profunda , in a narrow, shady side street. There was no magnificent portal like at Gringotts, just a simple entrance carved into the rock that led into the darkness. Inside, it was cool and almost completely dark. The air smelled of damp earth and cold stone. The only light came from glowing mosses that grew in the rock crevices, giving off an eerie, green glow. Instead of Goblins, creatures that Sirius knew as Malismos sat behind roughly hewn stone counters. They were distantly related to Goblins, but uglier and more ill-tempered. Long, greasy hair covered their entire bodies and hung in shaggy strands over their faces, from which small, maliciously twinkling eyes peered out. They hated the light and were known for their surly nature.

Sirius, pulling a small pouch with a handful of Galleons and a few French Bezants from his pocket, pushed it across the counter to one of the Malismos. The creature grunted, counted the money with its long, clawed fingers, and pushed back a pile of strangely shaped golden coins. The local currency, Mar-al-Avedi. Without another word, they turned and left the gloomy bank as quickly as possible.

Now that they had money, they strolled through the alleys for a while, past stalls offering flying carpets, self-stirring cauldrons, and singing flowers. Finally, they found what they were looking for: a small, cluttered shop for antique and second-hand wands. Perfect for getting an unregistered wand for Sirius.

The merchant was a shadowy figure, concealed under a dark robe with a hood pulled low over his face, which almost completely obscured his appearance. He seemed to be neither a Spaniard nor a Moor.

"I am looking for a wand," Sirius said cautiously as they entered the shop.

The figure under the hood turned to them.

"Englishmen," the seller noted in an unmistakably Nordic accent. "Extend your hand."

Puzzled, Sirius did as he was told. The seller took his hand, and as he did, Sirius saw that the man's arms were tattooed from top to bottom with intricate blue runes. The man's fingers were cold and felt like old leather. He ran his thumb over Sirius's palm lines, his eyes under the hood seeming to gaze into the distance. Then he nodded. "I know."

He let go of Sirius's hand and disappeared for a moment into the back of his shop. Sirius gave Remus a confused look, but the latter just shrugged. When the man returned, he handed Sirius an old, gnarled wand of dark oak, decorated with similar runes that also adorned the seller's arms. "The core," the man said, "is from the wing of a fairy."

Sirius saw Remus trying to suppress a laugh. A fairy wing? That didn't exactly sound like a powerful core. But as Sirius took the wand in his hand, it happened. A shower of golden sparks shot from the tip, interspersed with tiny, glittering particles that looked like fairy dust. The wand hummed in his hand; a warm, familiar energy flowed through him. It had accepted him.

"A thousand years old," the seller said, his voice now a soft, ominous whisper. "This is the right wand for the father of the One. Mordred's story will repeat itself."

Sirius didn't know what the seller meant by that, but he felt the wand's power in his hand. He placed seven Mar-al-Avedis on the counter and left the shop with a still-grinning Remus.

When they were back in the bustle of the alley, surrounded by the loud haggling of merchants and the scent of exotic spices, Sirius nudged Remus in the side with his elbow.

"Stop grinning," he said, though he himself was trying to suppress a laugh. "Yes, I know. Fairy wing. Very funny."

"No, that's not it," Remus countered, his grin growing wider. "It's what the merchant said that amuses me, Sirius."

Sirius tried to recall the seller's exact words. Something about Mordred. The name rang a faint bell in the back of his mind. Mordred... that was some well-known historical figure, Sirius was sure of that. Hadn't he read about him in one of the Muggle books about the Arthurian legend and Merlin? Or had Binns mentioned him in his mind-numbingly boring class? Oh, if only he'd paid better attention. But for that, he had Remus, and Remus was, after all, the history expert.

"What did he mean about Mordred's story repeating itself?" Sirius asked as they walked past a stall where tiny, winged keys were buzzing around in a cage. "And who the devil was Mordred anyway?"

Remus's expression suddenly turned serious.

"Mordred is a historical figure on whom the writings disagree," he explained in the thoughtful voice of a scholar. "But what they all agree on is that he is closely connected to Merlin and the Arthurian legend." He paused and scrutinised the wand in Sirius's hand with a careful look. "Sirius, if I didn't know it sounded completely absurd, I'd say you just got Merlin's old wand."

"Pardon?" Sirius said, completely taken aback, and stopped in the middle of the alley, so a witch with a tower of wobbly cauldrons just managed to swerve around him.

"Well," Remus continued, ignoring the indignant shriek of the witch, "the old scriptures say that Merlin's wand was made of oak, decorated with runes, just like this one. And fairy wings were at the time... well, a popular core."

Sirius stared at the wand in disbelief. He, Sirius Black, now held the wand of Merlin the Great in his hand? What did that mean?

At that moment, Remus burst into loud laughter.

"Or," he snorted, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye, "or you've fallen for a first-class merchant's trick. This is probably just one of many simple replicas. In the 15th century, there was a veritable wave of wandmakers who imitated Merlin's wand just to boost their business. You see, 400 years after his death, there was a real renaissance of Merlin's time. The Order of Merlin was even founded back then."

"You're a walking history book, truly," Sirius said, annoyed, and walked on to hide his embarrassment.

"Maybe so," Remus replied, following him with a laugh. "And you're still a fool who falls for the simplest merchant tricks."

Still grumbling quietly that Remus had pulled his leg about the supposed Merlin's wand, they ambled on through the alleys.

"Alright then, Professor of History," Sirius said at last. "What are we actually going to get my Pup?"

Remus's smile softened.

"I promised him I'd sort out a way for him to take his Muggle music to Hogwarts," he said. "Just like Lily did back then. Do you remember her enchanted record player that she always lugged into the Gryffindor common room?"

"Really?" Sirius asked, his eyes lighting up.

"Yeah, honestly."

"I know just the place to find something!" Sirius shouted, all his previous annoyance vanished in an instant. With a sudden, childish enthusiasm, he grabbed Remus's hand and pulled him along behind him. "Come on, Moony, hurry up!"

He dragged Remus through the crowds, skilfully dodging a flying carpet that was flying too low and leaping over a stack of cushions that seemed to be changing their shape on their own. It felt just like old times, Sirius thought happily. Free at last. They came to a halt in front of a shop that didn't seem to fit the bazaar's exotic, Moorish ambience at all. Outside, enchanted posters of magical bands hung, on which the musicians moved wildly and played their instruments silently. Below them were boxes of records whose covers showed magical creatures and strange symbols.

Inside, the shop was dim and smelled of old dust and vinyl. Countless records hung from the ceiling on thin, invisible threads, slowly rotating in the light of floating candles. In a slightly more disorganised section at the back of the shop, they discovered what they were looking for: a small section for Muggle records. Sirius immediately threw himself at it like a starving dog at a piece of meat.

As Sirius rummaged enthusiastically through the records, Remus's gaze fell on a small, unassuming suitcase that was sitting on a stack of other cases. It was made of brown leather, and as Remus opened it, a gramophone's horn sprang out as if by magic.

"It's perfect," Remus murmured. "Small and portable."

"Moony, look!" Sirius shouted from the other end of the section, holding up a record. It was an album by the Rolling Stones. "Perfect!" He tossed it to Remus, who caught it deftly.

"Harry loves David Bowie," Remus said as he examined the gramophone more closely.

"Of course he does!" Sirius replied proudly. "Lily and I used to play him their records all the time when he was a baby. Wait, I saw the album here somewhere." He rummaged on and shortly afterwards triumphantly pulled out another record. "Here!" He handed it to Remus.

Sirius paid for the records and the gramophone, and once they had both stowed them in a large bag, they stopped in front of the shop.

"May I?" Sirius asked, pulling out his new, old wand.

"Of course," Remus said, taking a step back.

Sirius aimed the oak wand at their shopping bag, muttered a Shrinking Charm familiar to him since his school days, and with an elegant flourish and a soft pop , the bag shrank to the size of a matchbox. It felt so incredibly good, Sirius thought, to have a wand of his own again.

Before they set off for home, they took the opportunity to stock up on some new clothes. Remus, ever the pragmatist, chose things that seemed a bit old-fashioned in Sirius's eyes: plain shirts, a tweed jacket, and several pairs of corduroy trousers. Sirius, on the other hand, preferred to stock up on new jeans, casual shirts, and a brand-new, black leather jacket.

After their trip to Granada, the two friends spent their time at the Black summer residence a bit more quietly. For one thing, the weather had become unbearably hot—at least for Sirius and Remus. Cassiopeia just told them not to be so dramatic, that it was a perfectly normal summer for the south of France. For another, Remus had somehow managed to get his hands on a copy of the Daily Prophet. He had thrown it wordlessly onto the breakfast table one morning.

"We need to be careful, Sirius," Remus had said in a worried voice, pointing at the front page. A blurry, black-and-white photograph showed a dark figure moving through an alleyway. Below it, in thick letters, was the headline:

"MASS MURDERER BLACK SIGHTED IN SPAIN?"

"Wouldn't want anyone to find out where you've really gone to ground." So they had no choice but to wait out the remaining days of July until they could put their plan into action.

On Harry's birthday, they went over the plan once more. Remus would take the presents to Harry and then nab the rat, so they could finally prove Sirius's innocence.

Remus was already standing by the fireplace in the drawing room, the shrunken presents in his pocket, ready to leave.

"Right then," he said. "I'll be off."

"Be safe, Moony," Sirius said seriously.

They said their goodbyes, and Remus was just about to step into the fireplace when something important occurred to Sirius.

"Wait!" he called out and ran off, back to his room. He rummaged through his old box and pulled out one last record. He ran back to the drawing room, just as Remus was about to take a pinch of Floo powder. "Here," Sirius panted, pressing the record into Remus's hand. "Give him this one, too. Trust me, Harry will love Black Sabbath."

Remus took the record, which had a sinister picture on its dark cover, and shook his head with a chuckle. He tucked it in with the other presents.

"Will do, Padfoot." Sirius watched him as he finally turned to the fireplace.

"Nab him, Moony," Sirius said quietly but urgently. "And come back safe. I can't lose anyone else." Remus stopped and turned back. A gentle, almost melancholy smile flitted across his face.

"Oh, are you worried? After all this time? Don't worry, Peter shouldn't be a problem, and besides, you're forgetting my..."

"Fine, just come back safe, okay?" Sirius interrupted him quickly, almost annoyed. But he wasn't for long. As the green flames swallowed Remus, a grim determination spread through him. Today wasn't just the day his pup had his birthday. Today was the day they would finally get the better of the rat.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! 😃

I hope you still don't hate me for what I did to Harry, but as I mentioned last time, it was crucial for the development of the story. For the next few chapters, we'll be following Sirius and Remus, and I'm really curious to hear what you think of their friendship so far.

For your information, the two French songs played at the festivities were "Trois nuits par semaine" by the French band Indochine and "Quand la musique est bonne" by Jean-Jacques Goldman.

As always, I am eager to read your thoughts and comments on this chapter.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Children of Prophecies