Chapter Text
1. A Solid Stag, A Shattered Slytherin, and One Very Tired Boy
In Which Harry Is Cold, Done, and Unknowingly Heroic
The argument had been exhausting in that particular Gryffindor way that left Harry wondering if friendship was, in fact, a grand social prank. Ron had been yelling. Hermione had been yelling back -- but more academically, which somehow made it worse -- and Harry had reached the spiritual limit of his tolerance somewhere between “You’re just jealous of the Firebolt!” and “It’s a cat, Ron, not a murderer!”
Scabbers. The Firebolt. Crookshanks. The Unholy Trinity.
He could already feel the headache blooming behind his eyes.
So he’d left.
With a muttered, “I’m going out,” that none of them acknowledged, Harry had shoved on his cloak and slipped from the common room like a boy escaping a sentence. It wasn’t bravery. It was survival.
He made his way to Hagrid’s hut, which had always been a kind of unofficial embassy of peace. The inside smelled like damp wool and burnt sugar -- Hagrid had attempted rock cakes again — and there was something oddly comforting about watching a half-giant try to convince a teacup-sized Kneazle that it was definitely meant to have antlers.
Hagrid hadn’t questioned why Harry had turned up. Or if he had, he’d been too busy trying to untangle himself from the enchanted tinsel he’d strung around his bedposts. He’d merely offered Harry a lumpy cushion, a dangerously hard biscuit, and a rambling story about how Kneazles could smell fear but preferred marmalade.
It had been… peaceful.
But the guilt of sneaking out, even for something as emotionally justified as escaping Ron and Hermione, had started to gnaw at Harry as the sky turned from dusk to full dark. Hagrid, thankfully, had been too distracted to notice, or perhaps to care, that Harry had slipped out of the castle bounds without permission. Harry considered himself lucky for that small mercy; a lecture from Hagrid, however well-meaning, was the last thing he needed.
The cold hit him the moment he stepped outside — sharp and immediate, slicing through the remnants of warmth like a Severing Charm. His breath fogged in front of him, curling in lazy spirals as he trudged up the slope towards the castle, boots crunching through frost-laced grass.
He didn’t want to go back.
Not yet.
Not to the common room. Not to Round Seventy-Three of the Crookshanks Trials. He just wanted quiet. A moment to think. To breathe . To be someone who wasn’t always in the middle of things.
The grounds were mostly deserted. The lake was still, its surface dark and glossy like spilt ink. The trees of the Forbidden Forest stood like ancient watchers, tall and shadowed, their skeletal branches curled into the sky. Everything felt frozen in place -- calm and bitter and vast.
And then everything changed.
The air turned wrong.
Not just cold --but hollow. Like the warmth had been sucked from the world. Harry stumbled, breath catching, a jolt of instinct shooting through him. His fingers were on his wand before he even understood why.
And then he saw them.
Two tall figures, gliding from the tree line with a silence that felt heavier than sound. Shadows stretched around them, bending as if afraid. Their cloaks billowed without wind. They moved with the unnatural grace of something that didn’t walk so much as slip through reality.
Dementors.
The cold deepened. His lungs felt tight. His thoughts turned sluggish, heavy with old grief. Screams echoed faintly in his skull— his mother’s voice, a flash of green light, a crib. Panic threatened to drag him under.
And then he saw the third shape.
There- just at the edge of the forest. A figure collapsed on the ground, limbs askew in the frost. Harry couldn’t make out their face. Just a school cloak and dark hair. A student. Alone. Too close to the Dementors.
Too still.
Harry’s heart thundered. He didn’t know who it was, but it didn’t matter. They were in danger. He couldn’t just stand there. He wouldn’t.
He tried to think — tried to recall a happy memory, anything powerful enough to summon the warmth he needed.
Flying. His first broom. Ron’s laughter. Hermione’s hugs—
But it was all distant. Dull. He was too cold. Too tired.
He couldn’t reach joy.
But something else rose instead.
Something fiercer.
Not happiness. But defiance.
Anger. Protectiveness. A violent refusal to let this happen. Not while he had a wand in his hand and breath in his lungs and magic in his veins.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”
It was less spell than instinct, less memory than need. The magic tore through him, raw and brilliant, and burst from his wand in a torrent of silver light.
It wasn’t a mist. Not a flicker. Not a wisp of failed hope.
It was a stag.
Huge. Radiant. Magnificent.
It erupted from the tip of his wand in a blaze of moonlight, its antlers gleaming, hooves crashing against the frozen ground. The force of it knocked the shadows away like a tidal wave.
The Dementor nearest to the fallen student shrieked — a sound like tearing cloth in a grave -- and was flung backwards, its cloak disintegrating into rags of shadow. The other one hesitated. The stag charged, antlers lowered, fury made form, and it too fled, vanishing into the blackness of the forest without a sound.
The stag returned to Harry’s side, breath steaming, muscles rippling with silver strength.
And only then, only when the threat was gone and the darkness receded, did Harry remember the figure lying crumpled in the frost.
In Which Harry Rambles and Nott Regrets His Entire Worldview
The stag didn’t vanish.
It stood like a guardian carved from starlight, solid and glowing, its hooves steaming softly against the frost. It watched the forest with calm defiance, like it would wait forever if Harry asked it to.
But Harry wasn’t looking at the stag anymore.
He was kneeling beside the boy on the ground, brushing the frost off his cloak and trying very hard not to panic now that his adrenaline was fading.
Dark hair. Long limbs. Pale face twisted in something close to semi-unconscious discomfort.
A Slytherin.
Harry recognised him after a moment - - he’d seen him before, mostly in Potions, always quiet and still, like part of the furniture. Nott. Theodore Nott. One of the ones who never made trouble, but also never spoke unless absolutely necessary. He’d probably insulted Harry in his head a dozen times. That was fine.
He didn’t look like he could insult anyone now.
Harry’s hand hovered awkwardly before settling on his shoulder. “Nott?” he tried, voice low. “You’re not allowed to be dead, alright? I’ve used up my trauma quota for the week.”
Still no response.
Harry frowned and shook him very lightly, just enough to rattle the frost off his sleeve.
“Come on,” he coaxed, not quite pleading. “Don’t make me explain this to Professor McGonagall. Or worse, Snape. You know he’ll take this as proof I tried to duel you with anti-Slytherin intent.”
That did it.
Nott stirred with a faint groan. His eyes cracked open slowly, unfocused and confused, like he’d just been woken from a nightmare and wasn’t sure what realm he’d landed in.
Harry grinned. A bit crooked. Mostly relieved. “There you are.”
Nott blinked. Then blinked again.
And then his gaze slid past Harry.
To the stag.
The glowing, antlered, still-there Patronus standing over them like it was waiting to be given a title and an estate.
Nott froze.
His entire face changed. Awareness struck like lightning, clean and blinding.
“That’s…” His voice was hoarse. Unsteady. “That’s corporeal.”
He said it with the quiet reverence of someone encountering a sacred artefact, or possibly their new religion. He reached out with a shaking hand, brushing the stag’s flank. His fingers made contact.
It was solid. Coarse, but warm with magic. Not mist. Not dream. Real.
Nott jerked his hand back like it had burned him.
Harry followed his gaze. “Oh, yeah,” he said, as if he were discussing the weather. “Weird, right? I didn’t think it’d work at all, let alone… that. It hasn’t gone away. Is it supposed to stay? It’s been standing there like it’s judging my life choices. Which is fair. Honestly, I would too.”
Nott didn’t respond.
Which was probably wise, because Harry was still talking.
“I didn’t even have a happy memory,” Harry continued, baffled but pleased. “Like, I tried, but all I got was flying and then some warm cake feelings about Hagrid, and it wasn’t really enough, and then I saw you on the ground and— well—I just got really angry. Not at you, obviously. You’ve never done anything except look like you’re quietly plotting my death in Potions.”
He paused.
“…No offence.”
Nott continued to stare.
The stag shifted its weight slightly. The air glittered.
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway. I just yelled the spell and boom. There it was. Massive. Glowy. Bit smug, to be honest. Definitely stag-shaped. I have no idea why it’s a stag, either. I think I’d prefer something less antler-heavy, but I suppose I don’t get to choose?”
He gave a helpless little shrug, still kneeling in the frost like he hadn’t just rewritten magical theory by accident.
And Theo?
Theo was having a crisis.
Because no.
No, this was not acceptable.
This was not normal.
Harry Potter was not supposed to be like this.
Every Slytherin knew it. It was a point of cultural pride. They didn’t believe the tales. They laughed at them. The basilisk incident? Dramatic Gryffindor nonsense. The Philosopher’s Stone? Fabricated. Potter’s survival as a baby? A mystery at best. At worst, a fluke someone else had orchestrated while Potter took credit like a golden mascot of chaos.
Nott had written essays in his head dismantling every supposed “feat” Potter had survived. He’d scoffed at first-years who whispered about prophecies. He’d mentally filed Potter under “emotionally unstable with broom-related luck.”
He had never — never — considered the possibility that any of it might have even a whiff of truth.
But now he’d seen the stag.
He’d touched it.
It had been real. Magic made solid. Radiant. Alive.
And it had come from Potter.
From Potter, who was now fussing over him with a look of concern like Theo had done something impressive by not dying on the spot.
Which, to be fair, he nearly had.
The worst part?
Potter didn’t even seem to realise what he’d done.
He was still rambling, trying to help Theo sit up, muttering things like “Sorry if I grabbed your shoulder too hard, I wasn’t sure where your arm ended under all that cloak” and “Please don’t faint again, I’ve had a week.”
Theo let him fuss over him because he needed the time.
To breathe.
To think.
To pretend his spine hadn’t just liquefied under the weight of raw, ancient magic being casually wielded three inches to his left.
Because the Patronus was still there.
It hadn’t faded. Hadn’t flickered. Hadn’t taken the cosmic hint to dissolve politely after banishing literal soul-eating creatures.
No. It stood, hooves steaming softly against the frost, antlers stretching high and impossibly regal in the gathering twilight, radiating light and warmth and -- Theo was certain — judgement.
Not even from Potter.
Just from itself.
Like the creature had formed with standards and was now mildly disappointed Theo wasn’t living up to them.
Which was absurd.
But also probably correct.
The magic in the air hadn’t settled.
It pressed gently against Theo’s skin like it was still considering whether or not to peel him open and look at his intentions. His fingers tingled from where he’d touched it. The world felt off-axis. Not dangerous -- but different.
Altered.
And Potter? Potter looked pleased. And tired. And entirely unaware that he had just committed an act of magic most adult wizards could only fantasise about during mid-life crises.
“It really hasn’t gone away,” he was murmuring now, glancing back at the stag. “Do they usually stay like this? I feel like it’s showing off. Should I name it?”
“Don’t,” Theo said, before he could stop himself.
Potter looked back, startled. “You sure? He looks like a ‘Milo’.”
Theo inhaled sharply and stared straight ahead, determined not to speak again for the rest of his natural life.
Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.
None of this was supposed to happen.
Harry Potter was supposed to be unimpressive. A name. A face. A myth inflated by Dumbledore’s talent for distraction and the Gryffindor habit of turning any hallway incident into an epic tale of survival.
Potter’s grades were passable at best, his social judgement nonexistent, and his reputation mostly built on chaos and improperly supervised field trips.
He wasn’t dangerous.
He wasn’t real.
But this?
This stag-- this enormous, glowing declaration of power that hadn’t been summoned so much as unleashed — this was something different.
This was something undeniable.
And that meant Theo had a problem.
He’d always had… thoughts.
Not plans. Not really. Just treasonous little whispers that curled through his head during long, silent evenings in the Slytherin dorms, when no one was looking and his father’s voice wasn’t echoing through his mind like a hex left to rot.
Ideas.
Nothing actionable. Nothing he’d write down or say out loud. Just the occasional inconvenient yearning for different. For more.
A future that wasn’t sewn together with pureblood expectations and stitched tight with ancestral spite. Something that didn’t reek of old parchment and old blood and dinner tables set with silencing spells instead of conversation.
But those dreams had always been theoretical.
Distant.
Filed away in the mental drawer labelled “Maybe Later (Once You Somehow Accumulate Power and/or Miracles).”
Because rebellion — real rebellion — wasn’t made of feelings. It needed leverage. Prestige. Something undeniable to stand behind when the old bloodlines bared their teeth and tried to bite.
Something that didn’t flinch.
And now…
Now here stood Potter.
Shivering slightly. Snow in his hair. Coat askew. Muttering about whether his Patronus “looked like a Bernard instead of Milo” and if Madam Pomfrey kept ginger biscuits.
Theo stared at him like he was trying to solve an unspeakable riddle.
Because what Potter had done wasn’t potential.
It wasn’t promise.
It was power — raw and ridiculous and rooted so deep in instinct it barely qualified as trained magic at all. It was ancient, feral, untaught. Like something from a story that got edited out for being too unsettling.
And the worst part?
He didn’t even seem to realise.
Potter had no clue what he was. None.
Which was… frustrating.
Deeply, painfully, personally frustrating.
Theo pressed his hands together, fingers curled under his sleeves like he could hold the pieces of his mind together through sheer posture.
Because if Potter was going to walk around radiating enough magical pressure to intimidate the very concept of sadness, someone needed to make sure he didn’t trip over a stair and accidentally unmake the fourth dimension.
He wasn’t going to say anything.
Obviously.
He wasn’t going to be weird about it.
He was simply going to observe. Closely. Continuously. Unblinkingly, if necessary.
He’d keep track. Offer suggestions — subtly. Nudge him away from disasters. Improve things. Quietly. Like a helpful shadow with a five-year plan and a deep fear of wasted potential.
And eventually, when Potter finally noticed what he was — when he caught up to the fact that he had the magical output of a small constellation — he’d already be ready.
He’d be competent. Sharp. Unstoppable.
Shaped for it.
Perfected.
And if Theo’s father despised him for it?
Good.
Let him.
Because if there was any magic worth betting everything on — worth turning your back on centuries of decaying dogma and ancestral curses and the entire crumbling skeleton of Pureblood society—
…it was this.
It was him.
And Theo would make sure the world saw it properly.
One quiet, ruthless correction at a time.
“Come on,” Potter said quietly beside him, rising to his feet with the stiff, awkward grace of someone who hadn’t yet realised they were heroic. He extended a hand, fingers slightly curled in offering, as if it were no great thing at all. “Let’s get you up. You still look like you’re five minutes away from collapsing dramatically again, and I’d rather not have to do the whole Patronus-and-catch routine twice in one night.”
Theo didn’t move. Not at first.
He stared at the hand. At the fingers that had gripped a wand tightly enough to shape silver from grief. At the faint tremor still in them, evidence of effort --not weakness, no, just strain from holding so much raw power in a body that had never been taught what to do with it.
And then, slowly, deliberately, Theo reached out.
Their palms met. And the moment they touched, Theo felt it.
Still warm.
Still buzzing.
Still… resonant.
Not like electricity. No, that would be too simple, too Muggle a concept. It was more like pressing his hand to a leyline that had gone and grown a pulse. Magic still clung to Potter’s skin, stubborn and defiant, humming through the touch with the fierce tenacity of something not quite finished. It didn’t sting, didn’t burn — but it held weight . Like a secret that hadn’t decided if it wanted to be told.
Theo’s breath caught in his throat. The night was cold. The air was sharp. But Harry Potter’s fingers — ridiculous, reckless Potter — were incandescent.
And Theo, against all logic, all sense, all carefully curated detachment, curled his own fingers around them.
Just to be sure the spark hadn’t been imagined.
(He hadn’t. It wasn’t.)
In Which Theo Is Absolutely NOT Okay
They began the slow walk back to the castle, snow crunching beneath their boots. The stag — still present, still blindingly regal — paced at Potter’s other side, glowing like a full moon and radiating enough protective energy to make the snow melt in delicate puffs where it stepped.
Potter had gone quiet for about eight steps. Then:
“I hope he’s not following us because he thinks we’re still in danger,” he said, mostly to himself. “I mean, we’re fine now. Mostly. Not bleeding or anything. Unless you count emotionally. And I think you’d have to be trained for that.”
Theo, who was not fine, said nothing. His brain was too busy sounding internal alarms, most of which were labelled things like ‘DO NOT FORM ATTACHMENTS TO INCARNATE POWER IN THE FORM OF BOY WITH TERRIBLE HAIR’ and ‘STOP LOOKING AT HIS HANDS’.
The stag offered no commentary. It moved like it had existed since the dawn of time and had been personally inconvenienced by having to materialise for a thirteen-year-old.
“I wonder how long it’ll stay,” Potter continued. “Is there a timer? Does it get bored? Does it have somewhere to be?”
Theo glanced at the thing. Mistake. It turned its head slowly and looked directly at him.
He flinched so hard he nearly took them both down into the snow.
“I’m just saying,” Potter muttered, now vaguely defensive, “it’s been helpful. Lovely. Absolutely top marks. But I don’t need it following me home like I’ve picked up an enchanted goat.”
The stag continued to stare.
“…Right,” Harry said. Then raised his voice slightly, in the tone of someone trying to politely dismiss a persistent shop assistant. “You’ve done amazing work. Really. Thank you very, very much. You can… go now?”
The stag held still a moment longer, antlers catching the moonlight like an accusation.
Then, with a ripple like silk folding through air, it finally began to fade — softly, gently, until all that was left was a faint warmth and the impression that the world had just lost something watching over it.
Harry sighed. “There we go. That’s probably fine.”
Theo felt personally abandoned by the light.
They reached the castle in silence. Or rather, Theo was silent. Harry was still halfway between rambling and muttering, something about how biscuits probably counted as happy memories but he hadn’t tested it properly. Theo was almost impressed by how little breath he seemed to need to maintain this stream of low-grade chaos.
The Hospital Wing doors opened with a gust of warm air, and they stepped inside—
“Merlin’s left elbow,” Madam Pomfrey snapped, mid-paperwork, looking up. “Mr Potter, again?!”
Harry blinked, unfazed. “Hi. We got caught in the Forest. Small Dementor problem. Bit of a situation.”
There was a very long pause.
“A what?”
“Oh, it’s fine now,” Harry said brightly. “ Mostly fine. Nott fainted dramatically. I helped him with a glowing stag and almost made friends with Death. You know. Tuesday.”
Theo didn’t even have the strength to hiss at him.
Madam Pomfrey’s eyes narrowed with the ferocity of someone whose professional instincts had been offended on a molecular level.
“Sit. Sit— both of you. Merlin’s bones, I am going to have words with the Headmaster— what in the name of Mungo’s blessed trousers were you doing in the Forest with Dementors?!”
“We weren’t trying to be,” Harry said, shrugging helplessly. “It was more of a tragic stumble followed by spiritual revelations.”
Theo made a noise. It may have been internal screaming.
Madam Pomfrey was already in motion, wand glowing, muttering things under her breath that were probably classified in at least three Departments of the Ministry.
“Mr Nott, your magical levels are still fluctuating. Your aura’s frayed. No, you’re not going back to your dorm, don’t argue. Potter— sit still. I don’t care how heroic you think you are.”
Harry obeyed immediately. No backtalk. No dramatic protest.
And that— that was what undid Theo the most.
He sat quietly on the bed while she prodded and spelled him, his posture relaxed, almost resigned. He didn’t even twitch when she muttered something about overdrawn magical channels. Didn’t blink when she conjured a thick salve for his frostbitten fingertips. Just nodded.
Like it was normal.
Like it was familiar.
Like he was used to this.
The only time he spoke was to ask politely if Theo needed anything.
Theo, who could feel the pounding rhythm of his own racing mind beneath his skin, shook his head.
Madam Pomfrey gave Harry a glare that could’ve boiled potion, handed him a vial, and snapped, “Drink this. Sleep. Don’t speak to staircases. No spellwork until I check you again.”
Harry saluted her with the bottle. “Yes, Madam General.”
She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “insufferable little—” and waved him toward the door.
Harry turned to Theo before he left.
“You’ll be alright, Nott?” he asked, softer this time.
Theo nodded once, tightly.
Harry smiled. Small. Real. Devastating.
Then turned and walked out like nothing had happened.
Theo did not blink.
Did not move.
Did not acknowledge Madam Pomfrey’s final instructions, or her fussing with his blanket, or her muttering about “third years and magical heart attacks.”
He just stared at the door like it had opened into the void and Harry Potter had walked directly through it with his soul.
He wasn’t fine.
He was never going to be fine again.
Not while that boy walked around conjuring miracles like it was part of his bedtime routine.
Not while his hands were warm and his voice sounded like a secret meant just for you.
And especially not while he looked at you and asked if you were okay like it mattered.