I Write Fanfic

Masterlist of the seven fanfictions I’m currently writing. Will be updated as progress is made!!

To see my published fanfictions, go here to my AO3

Green fics are being actively worked on while orange fics are touched less consistently. Blue are actively being published and are a priority.

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So he decided to take just the smallest chance.

“You may not trust me, Harry. But I trust you.”

In that moment, Harry broke.

The worst part was that he was almost certain that Dumbledore wasn't even trying. In fact, he was confident that Dumbledore was being genuine, and that was precisely the problem. Harry expects lies and deceit. He expects animosity. He expects distrust. And when he's met with none of that, he has no defense, just like with Tonks.

He had remained professional. Detached, even. Anything to separate himself from any and all vulnerability. And yet, the man before him was just being earnest. And Harry Potter was beginning to think that he would never learn how to handle that.

He flinched when Dumbledore said he trusted him. His face flickered and held several different emotions at once. Confusion, worry, even a hint of disgust in some attempt at protecting himself.

"I don't see how you can."

If not for Dumbledore's honesty, he never would have gotten such unfiltered, impulsive truth from the boy.

Dumbledore did not flinch in return. His face remained still as the boy in front of him broke. But he did not break in pieces, no. In layers. Harry was not fragile, not by any means. But there were cracks along his surface now, and Dumbledore could see both burning pain and blinding hope in every single one.

The headmaster set his teacup down gently. There were no more riddles. No masks. Just a man speaking plainly to someone who deserved plain truths.

“Because I see what you’ve done, and I see, at least part, of what it cost you.” There was no edge to his words. No flattery. Just a quiet acknowledgment, offered as an olive branch he did not expect Harry to take. “I trust you, not because it is convenient, and not because you’ve earned it in a way I can quantify. I trust you because I have watched you. And though there is much I do not know, I recognize the choices you’ve made and how you have wielded the power you possess.”

Another gentle pause. His eyes flickered to his abandoned teacup. In a softer voice, he added, “I do not expect your trust in return.”

The boy was still.

A hand had been extended. Harry Potter had no idea what to do with it.

Harry knew he was a fool for feeling such stomach-churning conflict at something as simple as being trusted. It should have been a simple thing. But it just wasn't. Not anymore. Not for him.

"I want to." He said slowly, hesitantly, as he looked down at the schedule he still clutched in his hands. His face was red, and for the first time in a long time, he looked like a boy. A fifteen-year-old boy. Just a child. "But everything is a risk."

-----

-----

“D-Do you remember when you tried to sneak into Bag End through the window?” Bilbo asked, his voice coming softer than he thought it would.

Frodo’s eyes cut over to him from where he leaned against the wall near the fireplace. He only raised an eyebrow in response, almost trying to gauge whether or not the other was serious or not. And when he was, he only sighed. “I do. And you beat me with a bug swatter until I crawled back out.”

He cracked a small smile. It wasn’t his best moment. But it was one of his earliest memories with Frodo. “Why did you get me a present?” He asked, tilting his head. “Back on my thirty-third?”

The other shifted at the question. He looked just as uncertain. Uncomfortable. His face went pink as he thought on the day. “I- well.” He thought a while longer before shaking his head. “It was a milestone. Figured I might as well.”

“You didn’t get Adelard or anyone else a gift for their milestone.”

The younger glared at him. His eyes demanded the subject be dropped. But the atmosphere was so soft and warm. Crackling hearth and cozy tea wrapped everything in a haze that he simply wasn’t prepared for. The questions also weren’t something he was prepared for. And Bilbo was asking them with such a nervous tenderness.

“Because you were an orphan, too.” He finally said, arms dropping from their defensive cross. “Literally the only other orphan in the Shire. And no one else understood. But then … then you started asking me to do your groceries and so I-” He scoffed, looking away. He wanted to be angrier. He wanted to hate the man. “I thought that if I did the right thing, whatever it was, but if I figured it out and I did it, then,” Frodo stared at the man with something desperate in his eyes. As if begging to not be made to say it. But he’d already come this far. And he might not get another chance to say it again. “I thought it would make you like me enough to take me in.”

“Frodo.” The hobbit whispered, throat constricting as something heavy came over his face. Some pressure within himself was building to the surface. “You … you didn’t, I-I already liked you.”

He sighed, swallowing. “Well, I know that, now. Really, I knew that since … that night. When I watched you break a guy’s nose for talking badly about me.” He cracked a small smile. “That was when I knew I wanted to stay with you. No one else.”

“If you’d asked, I would have said yes.”

“You didn’t act like it.”

Bilbo cracked a small, mournful smile. There were a lot of things he regretted. But not being there for his younger cousin was one of the biggest. Despite his own problems, Frodo was right. He was quite literally the only other orphan in the Shire. He should have reached out. Been there. Said something. He should have recognized the signs of rebellion and the mischief as the signs of a child who was hurting more than most people could imagine. He should have seen himself in Frodo. But he didn’t. He just didn’t.

“There were a lot of things I should have done differently.”

-----

“Language.” Draco half-muttered, nearly making Harry roll his eyes at the way Draco sounded exactly like Remus.

He gave the girl a small smile. “I’m sure we can figure it out.” He encouraged, looking over to the door. “What’s the riddle?”

The doorknocker slowly came to life, which wasn’t what Harry had expected. For some reason, he thought it was the door who spoke the riddle. Furthering his surprise, the voice the knocker spoke in was somewhat eerie though melodic.

“What lies between order and chaos, yet belongs to neither? Not silence, nor sound, nor thought, nor action.”

Draco’s eyes slowly squinted as his head tilted forward, looking down at the knocker with the most insulted expression Harry had ever seen him wear. “And what could that possibly mean?”

Harry gave a small snort of laughter. “Fuck if I know.”

“Language!”

“You’ve said bad words before.” He muttered to his fellow prefect.

“Privately.” He whispered back before letting out a huff and returning to the riddle. His features flickered in their positioning on his face, somehow growing more and more offended and exasperated. “I- i- uh,” he gave a vague hand motion as if to hurry himself along and think faster, “not silence or sound, not thought or action. Nothing, it’s nothing.”

But Harry only frowned. “It’s got to be something. There’s far better riddles to get to ‘nothing’ as the answer.”

“Fine,” he thought another second, sighing, “potential … inertia … suspense?”

Between all his huffing and puffing and sighing, Harry wondered if Draco was getting close to breaking some sort of record for exasperated dramatics. But yet again, something about it also held a grace. As if it weren’t, in fact, overdramatic. As if the outrage was completely justified. As if, perhaps, Harry was the crazy one for not feeling just as exasperated as him.

“I tried those.” The Ravenclaw girl mumbled.

Harry looked down with a sympathetic smile, trying not to seem too amused by the situation as she seemed clearly upset. “And what else did you try, lovey?”

“Stalemate and equilibrium.”

“Good answers.” Though it was undercut by Draco murmuring, “Not good enough, apparently.” Though the ire was directed at the knocker and not the girl.

Really, Harry agreed. They were pretty solid answers.

The Sphinx in the third task last year really cemented for Harry that he wasn’t good at riddles. He could figure people out, he could read subtext, he could work his way through a conversation or a fight just the same. But a riddle wasn’t nearly as solid. It wasn’t real. Wasn’t observable or malleable. He couldn’t touch it and he couldn’t change it. Really, it was a lucky guess no doubt brought on by the rune for luck in his shoe. So he didn’t even bother trying to answer the riddle.

“Instinct!” Draco suddenly shouted.

They all stared at the knocker, waiting.

No response.

A quick shift of his legs told Harry that the blond just barely held back from kicking the door.

Frankly, he wished he did.

“I can’t do this.” The girl’s breathing began to pick up. “I-I just … I don’t think I’m smart enough for Ravenclaw.”

“Lovey, no.” Harry held onto the wall and gently squatted to her level. Face tightened immediately. He dropped to his knees. Pain shot through his thigh and he took a deep breath to try and hold back any reaction. Squatting was a mistake. A big mistake. Knees were fine. He just had to breathe through the pain. “Between you and me, the door’s a pretentious git.” He then leaned in and whispered, “Thankfully, Malfoy’s an even bigger one.”

“I heard that!”

The girl broke into a wide smile, giggling.

“Do you have any other idea what it might be?” He gently asked, trying to shift as casually as possible on his knees to relieve some of the pain. He briefly wondered if ‘doubt’ could make for a good answer, but decided to wait for her to try again.

“I- … maybe. I dunno.” She shrugged. Still frustrated, but calmer. “I thought maybe … breath?”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “Breath?”

“Well yea, like … like baited breath, maybe? It’s not silence or sound. Not thought or action. But it’s sort of between. It’s something. But not a thing. It just … well it just is.”

He grinned at her. “That’s a really good ans-”

“Enter.”

All three stared at the door as it swung open.

There was a moment’s pause. Disbelief, almost.

Draco stared a moment longer before rapidly blinking and once more addressing the knocker, this time with an accusingly pointed finger. “I- w-, hold on! How was that right?!”

“Any answer can be correct, if reasoned well.”

Draco almost definitely would have kicked the door if not for the girl grabbing her bag and running inside as the door began to shut.

“Thank you!” She called, waving.

Harry looked up to the blond who still stood there, jaw dropped. “You alright?”

“All I had to do was explain myself.” He took a deep breath as if trying to calm himself. It didn’t work. “I’m going to hex the door.”

-----

Of course, it was all marred by the fact that it was forced labor for the Dursleys. Though, Draco didn’t know that. So, maybe, it could be good enough.

Draco's eyes lit up. "Gardening? What did you grow?"

Harry found himself caught off guard by the enthusiasm in Draco's voice. It was nice. Unexpected, but nice. It tinged his cheeks pink to think that’s how he must have sounded to the blond only moments ago.

"Mostly flowers." Harry’s smile was tense, leaning more heavily on his cane as they resumed their patrol at a slower pace. "Petunias, roses, hydrangeas. Some vegetables too; tomatoes, shallots, potatoes." He paused, his smile turning a bit awkward. “I didn’t really like it.” He felt as though he were disappointing Draco.

He did.

“Oh.” Disappointment. “Not very fun, then?”

“More that I didn’t want to. If it were my choice, I might actually like it. But when I was a kid I only did it cause my aunt and uncle made me.”

The blond let out a snort at the idea. “How can they make you?” To him, that typically meant either bribery or threat of no dessert. So he had naturally assumed the statement had been an exaggeration.

But Harry, of all things, laughed at the question. “I’m sure you can imagine.”

Frankly, it was one of his best acting performances. Joyful laugh, wide smile, standing a bit straighter. He’d never put on such a show. Because he very nearly said too much. Had Draco found out about what the Dursleys used to do to him … he didn’t even want to think about it.

He was already a Siren who was far too fucked up in far too many ways. He didn’t want Draco knowing all the other things wrong with him that had been cemented in him long before they’d ever met.

It was a wound he just couldn’t open back up. Not when he was already bleeding out.

The next few rounds of the game were fine. Draco’s favorite food was roasted pheasant with a blackberry glaze, Harry’s favorite hunt were eels, Draco’s favorite season was autumn, Harry’s was spring, Draco’s favorite book was quite proudly ‘East of Egar’ and he can’t wait for the next book in the series, and Harry actually does read potions treaties.

“How is your family so rich?” Harry would finally ask. The twelfth question of the game. “Your family is in the wine business, right?”

“We are.” He spoke with a small, though very proud smile. “‘Superior Red’ is our label. I’ve already started getting involved in the family business.” He rolled his shoulders back and stood taller. “Quite good at it, too.”

Harry smiled, finding the response cute, somehow. “Maybe I’ll try it, one day.”

“I could get you a bottle.” He shrugged. “Not until we’re sixteen. But I could.”

Harry’s steps faltered slightly, momentarily shocked by the offer. Part of him couldn’t believe that Draco would actually offer to do that for him. The blond spoke as if the gesture were normal. Friendly, even. Not a big deal. Casual. And yet, for some strange reason that Harry didn’t understand in the slightest, it meant a lot to him.

Had anyone ever just offered to get something for him? Just because he wants it. Certainly, not all of his friends were well-off enough.

Was this Draco trying to share a part of himself?

Was it marketing?

Of course, he didn’t say that. Instead, he tried to just play it cool. “Already got my birthday present picked out, then?”

He cracked a smile. “Sure. For your birthday.”

-----

The blond raised an eyebrow, looking to the boy beside him. “A game?”

“Yes. You know, things that people play to have fun. You know what fun is, right?”

“Sod off.” He rolled his eyes.

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Draco sighed, arms crossing. “What game?”

Harry sort of liked the way the blond said the word as if it were beneath him. He liked the posh. He liked the attitude. Something definitely had to be wrong with him.

“It’s a muggle game; Twenty Questions.”

“A muggle game?”

Harry tossed his head back and laughed at how Draco only seemed to progress in his snobbishness. “It won’t hurt you.”

The blond only stood straighter. “Fine. How is this game played?”

“One of us asks a question and the other has to answer. And we just go back and forth until we’ve hit twenty questions.”

“No winner?”

“Nope. And everything said stays between us.”

That raised Draco’s eyebrow. A game not of winners and losers, but of trust. He seemed to pick up an unspoken understanding of the other’s intentions, and agreed. “I’ll go first. Which subject is your least favorite?”

Light. Simple. The sort of start he was hoping for. “Divinations. I hate it. I don’t get it. At least with History of Magic I’m dealing with things that are … certain.” The blond seemed satisfied with his answer. “What’s your favorite subject?” He countered.

“I quite enjoy herbology.” He confessed. It wasn’t the answer Harry expected. “There's something … quaint, about working with living things that respond to proper care." He wore a small smile. It wasn’t satisfied or prideful like it usually was. It was fond, of all things. “When I inherit the manor, I think I may start a garden.”

“Gardening?” Harry grinned, something genuinely surprised and almost shocked in his tone. He wasn’t sure if it were the gardening itself or the fact that Draco had simply offered the information that shocked him. But he was momentarily stunned. He wondered if the blond had any idea what he was revealing about himself.

Draco Malfoy, gardening. Not spying, making potions, doing dark wizard things, or hosting galas in high society … he wants a garden.

“That’s …” Cute, sweet, quaint, charming, nice. There were a lot of words in Harry’s mind as he tried to find the right one. But they all seemed either too much or too little. Too implicative or too casual. “I think you’d be good at it.”

Something tight in Draco’s features seemed to relax at this. They were giving and taking. Probing and offering. They were trying their damndest to be normal. So he offered something a bit more. It was accepted. He wasn’t judged or laughed at or called a girl for liking Herbology. Not that he thought Harry would say that. But if he had, he wouldn’t be the first.

“Do you have any hobbies?”

Yet again, Draco’s words surprised Harry and left him uncertain of how to respond.

Surely, he has hobbies.

Right?

“Well, I like swimming.” He began, uncertain, mind racing to come up with other things. “I play Quidditch.” Though they both already knew that. Harry swallowed, his face turning red as he stared down at the floor. Surely, he did other things, right? He could say something about making jewelry, but he really only did that once with his countercharm and the bracelets he made everyone. He was interested in clothes, but didn’t do much tailoring or accessorizing besides making sure his clothes fit and occasionally switching out his earrings. “I collect things from the bottom of the Great Lake.” But Draco had also already known that, and he wasn’t sure it was necessarily a hobby. His shoulders slumped. “I don’t think I have hobbies.”

“Nothing in particular you do in your leisure?”

He only shrugged. “I study.”

And plan, and scheme, and worry, and doubt, and break down, and break rules.

Not exactly hobbies.

But Draco only made a face. “You don’t sing?” He asked with a raised eyebrow. He knew what Harry said in his radio interview about not singing. But surely, it couldn’t be the case. And when Harry shook his head, he only fell to further disbelief. “You’re a Siren and you don’t sing?”

“That’s two questions, you only get one.”

He scoffed. “Well that isn’t very agreeable to conversation.”

“This isn’t a conversation, it’s a game.” He reminded.

“Then pause the game and have the conversation!” He said as if the solution were obvious.

As they turned the corner, Harry was going to explain that that wasn’t in the spirit of the game, when they heard sniffling.

-----

Ron stood up. He looked some mix of disgusted and horrified. “The hell are you on about?"

“They all work for Dumbledore. Gathering intelligence, going on little missions, all of it.” He let out a small sigh. “It’s actually pretty damn impressive. But,” he glanced back to Fred, “well, that’s the issue. Our family is involved, and we’re graduating this year.” He gave a small shrug. “They wanted Fred and I to join.” Having said that, he felt awkward about it. As if it were a betrayal to their little group. “We were going to talk to everyone about it, but … it’s been hard for us all to get any privacy.”

Harry glanced at the table beside him, the Marauder’s Map open. Tonks and Dumbledore were on the move, but not heading towards them.

For some reason, Harry was almost glad to hear that Percy was now on Dumbledore's side instead of the Ministry's.

“Want you to join … to spy on us?” Seamus suggested, feeling a bit nervous to even present the idea. All this espionage and spy business didn’t make much sense to him. But at this point, that seemed like the natural conclusion.

Fred sighed from the back of the room. “They didn’t say that … explicitly.” There was a certain implication in his tone. A nervous one. Hesitant. “Barely implied it … but …”

“We think they’re hoping for it.” George finished.

The room was silent for a moment. The tangled web of loyalties and espionage was only growing more and more drastic. In some strange way, it almost felt natural. As if that one grand tragedy of physical and magical violence in the graveyard was always, inevitably, going to lead to this tension. This period where no one trusted anyone. Where everyone needed to know what would happen next before it actually happened. A chance to plan and anticipate the next burst of violence. Perhaps, war wasn't just fighting. It might not even be mostly fighting. Maybe war was much quieter. Maybe the real battles were for the control of information.

“Do you think you could handle it?” Harry asked, looking between them. “Or would you turn on us?”

“Oi!” Ron barked. “My brothers aren’t traitors.”

“I didn’t say they were.” He insisted. “But most of your family is on Dumbledore’s side, and Dumbledore isn’t in the position he is now because he’s a fool. He’s smart, and your family wants you safe. I don’t doubt they’re banking on the two of you becoming disillusioned with us and deciding it’s for the better that things are left to the adults. Just like those disillusioned Ministry workers you talked about. Or Tonks slowly realizing that Dumbledore isn’t so bad.” He glanced back down at the map. “She’s headed to his office with him as we speak.” His jaw clenched, some heat overcoming him as he realized all the moves that were being made without him knowing about it. He didn’t like that. He hated it. “So can you handle it, or will you betray us?” His eyes settled on Fred and George.

Fred and George exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them before Fred stepped away from the door, approaching the group with deliberate steps. He didn’t go very far, still within earshot of the door, just in case. But there was something about his face that was serious. Almost hardened.

"If we wanted to do what our parents thought best, we'd do homework instead of developing products for our joke shop.” Fred did his best to start light, but it couldn’t last. “Our family might be with Dumbledore … but we’ve been with you since the beginning. We’ve seen what the Ministry tried to cover up with Bertha Jorkins and everything Dumbledore let happen to you.”

“We've been talking about this for weeks.” George began. “We’ve decided our loyalties lie with you lot. We want to do this to bring back information. Mate, they’re watching Death Eater movements. Tracking Voldemort’s supporters in the Ministry better than the Ministry can.” He took a deep breath. “If we bring back just enough information to keep them satisfied … I think it’d be worth it.”

“As do I.” Fred confirmed.

Harry took a deep breath and felt the scar on his stomach twinge. The twins had always been loyal, but this was different. "I'm not asking you to spy on your family.” He clarified.

“We know.” Fred gave a nod. “We’re spying on Dumbledore and The Order.”

They sounded resolute. As if this were a done decision. Really, Harry couldn’t believe the initiative they had taken in thinking all this through. That’s when some part of him realized and finally accepted that he was far from the only competent person in the room and was far from the only person capable of making plans.

-----

“Then we don’t speak of it.”

Draco groaned out his sigh, hands covering his face as he completely gave up and lay back on the cool marble floor, staring up at those high ceilings. He felt like some small thing in a giant cavern. “I feel as though I’m constantly negotiating and renegotiating our terms, Potter. You can’t just change them at your convenience.”

“How lucky for you that we’re finally going to learn to talk about something other than war.” He snipped back. “And I’m hardly changing anything.” He grumbled as he dug his knuckles into the outer side of where the pain stabbed from. “Just … clarifying that we have no real reason left to manipulate and lie to each other. When this is over I don’t want us to have completely fucked our chances at ever actually being friends or … whatever.”

That caught Draco’s attention. “Friends?”

He didn’t miss the slyness in his tone. “Be realistic, Malfoy. I’m far too paranoid to date someone I don’t already know.”

Draco sat up, suddenly very engaged in the conversation as he fought to keep a handle on the smile that threatened to overtake him. “Are you propositioning me, Potter? I’ll have you know one does not simply date a pureblood.”

Harry grinned, tilting his head as he tried not to lose his composure. But he did. Something about the posh and refined side of Draco always had a way of making him smile. His head dropped, wild curls hanging about him as he laughed. It was deeper than it used to be. His head rose, and he looked at Draco with a genuine happiness that neither of them had seen on him in a long while. It was unburdened.

“I wouldn’t expect anything between us to be simple. Not for a while, at least.” He spoke with some resignation, but it wasn’t sad. He was happy. “But I mean it.” He insisted. “If we can’t trust each other, at least on some level, we’re only going to fuck ourselves.”

The blond visibly agreed, seeming to accept the logic laid out before him. “Right. Then, I suppose we’re … friendly.” He spoke with a small smile. Another part of him seemed to still be mulling things over. But whatever conclusion he came to was not without some level of remorse. With a hint of shame in his tone, Draco added, “Sorry for … earlier.”

Harry only shrugged. “I get it. Might be questionable if you were suddenly nice to my friends.”

-----

Gríma’s eyes widened in surprise as a grin stretched across his face. “I think you’re the first courtier I’ve ever met who doesn’t keep a drink in his office.”

“What?”

The advisor only looked at him as if it were obvious. “You haven’t offered me a drink.”

“Excuse me, Advisor Gríma, but you broke into my office, and now you demand I cater to you?” He scoffed, looking away before something bewildered came about him. “And why would I keep alcohol in my place of work?”

“Because you’re a courtier.”

Bilbo sighed, looking somewhat defeated by it. Despite the fact that he didn’t agree with it, he knew Gríma had a bit of a point with that. He supposed it was inevitable he would start getting people drunk to make them more pliant, just as he used to with the humans.

“Point taken.” He acquiesced.

“Perhaps you creatures aren’t as dull as they say.”

“Dull?”

“Yavanna worshippers.”

Bilbo smiled, barely containing his anger as his eyes flicked towards the plants in the room. “Nature can be deadly just as it is beautiful.”

“And hobbits exemplify this well.”

The hobbit frowned, taking a deep breath. “I know you know of hobbit involvement in the human wars. You wouldn’t have tried to steal my handwriting to piss off the nations of man, otherwise.”

Gríma sat up straight from his leaned position, seeming intrigued. “It was a cheap shot.” He admitted. “Not my best work. But I’m no fool. You knew nothing of Sauron’s identity until the wizard told you.”

“Obviously.” He smiled. “But you admit you also knew.”

A raised eyebrow. “Well played.”

“I think we’re both well aware of the actions of the other, so stop pretending there’s anything left about me to gauge. Just ask.”

A glare came into Gríma’s eyes as he stared down the other man. “How did you come upon the One Ring of Sauron?”

-----

But as they got closer to the classroom they would be meeting in, Harry would quickly freeze, suddenly not wanting to be seen.

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows, pausing by his side with a confused expression. “What is it?”

“Goyle.”

Harry stared at the boy, hard and long. The other didn't look at him.

Goyle was talking to Pansy, likely having walked her and Draco to the prefects meeting. The boy looked skinnier than normal. He wasn’t as bulky as he used to be. His hair was buzzed down. He seemed tired.

Harry was tired.

He almost felt like he should say something, but what was there to be said? He felt like he should apologize, but he wasn't sorry, and he wasn't the killer.

Was he supposed to feel bad?

Harry blinked. Hard. As if trying to wipe the boy from his vision.

Goyle didn't look much like his father. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. If it were better that Goyle be able to disassociate himself from his Death Eater father, or if it were all the worse for the graveyard to have wiped the shape of the man from the earth entirely.

Harry knew Goyle Snr was a Death Eater. Goyle Snr stabbed him. The man had to die. And yet, away from the action and the danger, entirely void of adrenaline, Harry wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel about the boy before him having lost his father.

Goyle’s father was dead. So was Harry’s.

Did Goyle blame him?

Only Harry, Padma, Ianthe, and Lucius Malfoy knew what really happened. But what story was fed to the Death Eaters? He didn't know what Lucius said. He didn't know what Goyle was told. He didn't know if it was his right to know.

What Harry did know was that the normal human response was to feel bad. To feel some level of guilt despite not being to blame. He was supposed to feel awful. And yet, he didn’t.

Harry felt bad, because he hardly felt anything, and he knew that wasn’t a good thing.

He was just tired.

Harry would stare on even after Goyle left. Frozen in place.

“Really, it’s nothing to worry about. I knew since Crouch that the Death Eaters were planning something. I figured the maze was where I would be the most alone, but … I wasn’t expecting a graveyard.”

Internally, he cursed himself for letting that out. He wasn’t even entirely sure how Tonks got that out of him, or how the topic had come up.

“Why not tell the Aurors, or a professor?”

He kept his tone casual as he countered, “Why’d no one go looking for Bertha Jorkins until after she’d been missing for weeks?”

Tonks stiffened, having not expected such a question in response. “Bertha Jorkins is a grown wo-”

“Was.” He corrected, still managing to hold back any harshness in his voice. Some part of his mind flashed with memories of angering Draco in Diagon Alley, scaring Blaise in a broom closet. Riling up emotions was a quick way to get someone’s true thoughts and feelings. But knowing that wasn’t the same as having a counter to it. So if Tonks wanted to get him to open up, he would. “A flighty but reliable woman suddenly has constant memory issues, and no one tells her to go to St. Mungo’s. Then she goes on vacation and is gone far longer than she scheduled for, isn’t answering any correspondences, and no one thinks to look for her until weeks after.” He raised an eyebrow and made a face as if he couldn’t comprehend how ridiculous it was. Something about telling all of this to someone actually part of the institution he was angry at made him feel better. But nothing would ever take away the bitterness. The wrathful disgust he felt at knowing that the decision to ignore an obviously afflicted woman led to Voldemort finding and tormenting her for the very information that brought him to the Crouches. To his spy in Hogwarts. To Harry. To Padma. “I read the papers, Tonks. Everyone dismissed her absence as forgetfulness, but if her memory was so bad that it was reasonable to assume she might forget to return to work or even to return to the country, that makes it even more horrible that no one sent her to get help at St. Mungo’s.”

He knew it was a sore spot for the Ministry. Everyone in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, where Bertha Jorkins had worked, had been questioned about it in the aftermath of Voldemort’s return and Crouch Snr’s testimonies.

“I know, Potter.” Even though she wasn’t directly involved in that matter, Tonks looked down to the floor as they walked. “I couldn’t believe it, either. But that doesn’t mean telling the Ministry or the Aurors about problems won’t help.” There was something in her voice as if trying to appeal to him. But at this point, with how many times he had been burned, with how long he’s been in this, there was nothing left to appeal to. No shred of sympathy or support for the institution that had completely fucked him over.

“Sirius asked for a truth serum. Because he wasn’t given one, I was raised by my aunt and uncle, instead of him.” He shrugged, giving up. “They denied him a truth serum in a criminal trial. And for what?” Harry almost wanted to laugh. The calm in his voice gave way not to anger, but to exhaustion. That seemed to be one of the only things he felt nowadays. “My aunt and uncle were horrible fucking people, Tonks.”

“I know.”

Harry paled, his inhale almost choking him. Her response had come fast. Too fast. As if she’d known he would go there. As if she knew what was coming. “What?”

“I know.”

Fear spiked through him, and his fists clenched. His thigh spasmed. Sharp inhale. A hand scrambled to pull out his cane as the rest of him froze in place. His wide eyes darted ahead as if he expected Vernon Dursley to come around the hall, face red in anger, belt in hand.

Or maybe the wooden spoon.

Maybe just his bare hand.

Why was he still afraid of that stupid man?

“The Aurors had … an inquiry, on you.”

He met her small, almost embarrassed voice with something hollow. “An inquiry?”

“A small one.” She clarified. “We pulled records on the Potters, looked at your school transcript, and sent someone to ask around.” Tonks kept her eyes on the ground. She described the situation as if she wasn’t directly involved but still said ‘we.’ Still claimed blame. Whether from her own actions or not. “Tom at The Leaky Cauldron wouldn’t speak a word about you. Even tried to claim he’d never seen you before.” She swallowed. “Other patrons mentioned you first arrived with … handprints.”

“I shouldn’t have told you to hurt them.”

“Neville,” Harry began, tone firm, “don’t.”

“I shouldn’t have.” He sounded despondent. Distant.

“You’d just found out Crouch Jr. had killed himself. Don’t you dare try to blame yourself for what I did.”

“I just shouldn’t have.” His fists clenched, the thousand-yard stare in his eyes rapidly shortened and focused in. “I should have hurt them, myself.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “You might still get the chance.”

“Harry!” Hermione rebuked, but Ron interrupted before she could continue.

“You will.”

The room went silent. All eyes fell to Ron, and Ron’s eyes were on the floor.

Harry took a slow breath, and Neville asked in the softest tone, “Do you see it?”

The redhead only stared down at the floor, and in that moment, they all knew he was seeing something. Seeing or feeling some notion of the future that gave him the confidence to confirm Harry’s words.

Harry wished he hadn’t.

This wouldn’t be a quiet year.

“I should have killed Goyle before he had the chance to kill you.”

“What?” Harry whipped his head around to look at Padma, jaw dropped. He almost felt betrayed that she could even say that. That she could regret having not killed someone.

“I should have killed him. I shouldn’t have listened to you.”

His brow furrowed, and he shook his head, tension flooding his body. “Y- no. No, Padma.” He tried to sound firm, but he felt as though his tone was hollow. “You can’t say that. Ever. You can’t mean it.” He insisted. “If I hadn’t died, I’d still have a Horcrux in me.”

“What about next time?”

Harry blinked as he turned. It was Dean who had spoken. “W- I-”

“If your life is in danger again. If any of our lives are in danger … are we going to have to kill people?”

“No.” Harry spoke firmly. “It won’t come to that.” He looked to Ron for confirmation, but the boy was only staring at the ground.

“We aren’t going to have a quiet year until Voldemort is dead, Harry.” Dean reminded. “We just aren’t. That’s not how it works … not for us.”

Harry nodded, head slow-moving as he regarded the other. “Do you think you could do it?” He swallowed. “Can you take someone’s daughter, someone’s father, someone’s friend, and make a corpse of them? Do you honestly think you could do that, Dean?” His breathing picked up. Some heavy feeling numbed over his face. “Because doing that to a basilisk was hell. It was only a snake, and it screamed when I killed it.” His jaw clenched as his bottom lip fought not to tremble. Both anger and sadness churned within him until he couldn’t tell the difference. “I didn’t even kill those lycanthropes or Death Eaters, and I feel sick. I hear their screams, I hear them begging for death. So I don’t want to hear shit about killing people from any of you until you actually understand what the hell that means!” His fists clenched. “There’s no undoing it once you’ve done it.”

-----

"You make me honest because I make you honest. And yet, we’re both supposed to be liars." Harry reminded, that half-smirk widening into a smile. “I fear we're shit at this … at least, with each other.”

The blond sighed, eyes closing with a dawning realization. “Which is why we have our deal.”

Information in exchange for one question answered honestly.

“There you go.” The curly-haired boy grinned. “See where extortion gets you, Malfoy?” He teased, that playfulness slipping back into his tone so quickly that he could see the way the blond was struck with the unspoken question of whether or not the darkness and intimacy had even been real. If it was all just some manipulation to prove a point. But a heaviness still in Harry’s eyes told him it had all been the truth. “So. What will you do now that you have nothing to bring back to your father in exchange for the cloak?”

The implied ‘how can I help’ was not lost on Draco. Not after all the times Harry had helped him before. Especially not after Harry had given him the lie to cover his own hide after he accidentally revealed a Horcrux to the boy. Those greyish-blue eyes closed with a sigh. “What are you proposing?”

“I assume our plan worked, and you’re a spy.”

The blond scoffed. “You’re insane if you think I’m answering that.” He knew they both knew his answer. But he couldn’t say it, just as he couldn’t say his father’s ulterior motives for his being a spy, even though neither would make a difference to Harry.

-----

oh holy shit I don't know how I never saw this!!

-----

Their next class was NEWTs level Transfigurations. Once again, they were the only fifth-years in the room. As they entered, Hermione immediately went to her usual spot front and center, leaving Harry to quietly slide into a seat near the back.

He sat there for a while until a few sixth-years he actually recognized entered the classroom: Katie Bell and Cho Chang.

They looked around a moment, trying to find a place to sit before they glanced back and saw open seats by Harry.

He straightened slightly at their approach, though he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t really know either of them beyond the fact that Cho tends to give him a run for his money in Quidditch, and she’s slowly starting to sit with him and his friends. Katie Bell, meanwhile, was always just sort of an older Gryffindor. Someone he was aware of but had never really spoken to.

It was almost strange to see them together. Cho with her skirts and painted nails, while Katie was more relaxed and tomboyish.

In fact, he’d never seen them hang out together before.

When they approached, Harry let his hand reach for his bag as he said, “I can move over one if you want to sit together.”

“I appreciate that, Potter.”

He gave Katie a nod and stood, scooting over one seat as Cho sat beside him and Katie to her side.

“You and Granger got advanced placement?” Cho asked with a smile. “Impressive. I heard that happens like, once a decade.”

Harry only gave a shrug. “Yea, me and ‘Mione took OWLs over the summer. I got NEWTs Charms, DADA, Herbology, this, and Care for Magical Creatures. She got the same, but also placed for History of Magic, and got Astronomy instead of Magical Creatures.”

“That’s like, super cool.”

Harry blinked a few times, swallowing as his mouth felt suddenly dry. No girl, besides Lavender on a few occasions, had ever spoken to him like this before. It was … enthusiastic, but he wasn’t sure what for. Cheery. Giddy. He sat up straighter. “Oh.” His face was red, but he didn’t know why.

“I heard you’re prefect this year. Granger, too, yea?”

He nodded at Katie’s statement. “Uh, y-yea. We are.”

“Cool.” She gave a casual smile. “Guess we’ll see you at the meeting next week.”

He knew Katie was a prefect, but somehow, he hadn’t realized Cho was one.

And Cho was Cedric’s ex.

Cho was the Head Boy’s ex.

-----

He felt the magic before he heard the incantation. The hair on his arms stood as he flung his wand-arm back, some partial awareness of where he was reminding him to stammer out the incantation for a shield spell to keep his cover. But the rest of him was entirely devoid of that awareness. The rest of him was back in the graveyard. The rest of him was almost certain that he was being attacked by Death Eaters.

The mediocre casting of a jinx hurdled towards him. The crackling orange in the air dissipated as soon as it touched the light blue forcefield that covered Harry’s front.

His wand-arm shook, and his eyes were wide, darting around.

Movement to his left.

He flinched.

“Potter?”

It was Flitwick.

He was at Hogwarts.

Right.

“Uh, professor?”

How long had he been standing there?

“Are you quite alright?”

Harry knew he was in the classroom, he knew Filtwick was standing before him, and yet, Harry had absolutely no idea where he was. He thought things, or maybe he saw them, but couldn’t tell the difference between what was in his head and what was right in front of him. There was a dark blur around the borders of his vision as he focused on the professor’s face. That was the only thing he was certain was actually there.

His mouth was moving.

Harry forgot to listen.

“I don’t know what happened.” Was all he could say, something in his tone as vacant as his eyes. He swallowed. “I’m at Hogwarts, right?”

The professor’s eyes widened, quickly realizing what was going on. “Would you like to see Madame Pomfrey?”

“I … don’t know.” Harry blinked, slowly coming to himself. He reached up a hand and stroked at the cool scales wrapped around his forehead. “I’m sorry.” He blinked a few times. Some cold awareness was creeping back into him and he took in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what just happened. I’m sorry.” But this time, his tone was clear. He knew where he was. “Didn’t expect a spell to come flying at me.” He cracked a smile.

Flitwick nodded before turning towards the class with hardened eyes. “Gideon Warrington. Care to explain why you nearly hit Mr. Potter with your spell?”

But that’s when Harry realized it wasn’t totally silent. He heard the snickering. It was muffled and from the direction of the Slytherin in question. He heard the crackling of the fire that the giant cauldron sat over and the crunch of twigs under the steps of the looming werewolves.

He was at Hogwarts.

Gideon leaned back in his chair with practiced nonchalance, but his knuckles whitened around his wand. “A slip of the wrist.” He drawled, flashing a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

There was something white behind the skin of the hand that the werewolf bit down on. Two fingers were missing from it, but strands of skin and gore still clung to the wounds.

He was at Hogwarts.

“A slip.” Flitwick repeated, unimpressed. “Ten points from Slytherin. Next time, it’ll be detention. I will not tolerate assault in my classroom.”

--

“I’m going to kick his ass.”

“Harry, you’re a prefect. You can’t.” Hermione harshly whispered.

“Already decided.”

“You can’t get in fights as a prefect! It’s only the first day.”

“I’m going to kick his fucking teeth in.”

“Please, Harry. Don’t.”

He took a deep breath but stopped before it was too deep. Deep enough to make the scar on his stomach tighten. Somehow, he wasn’t very comfortable with the idea of giving Warrington detention. It almost felt … weak. Cowardly. Harry had the official power to do something about his bully, and yet, he didn’t want it. He liked the old way. He liked the fight.

--

"Need your little stick, Potter?" Gideon sneered, pushing off the wall with a thud of boots. "Or do you just like playing cripple?"

Harry’s grip on his cane tightened. "Clever are we?" He smiled. "Must’ve been a thrilling summer of remedial lessons for you." He felt Ianthe stir in his hair. “You must be insane to think you can fight me.” He spoke as he calmly took his glasses off and slid them into his pouch. “I’ve had far worse odds than three-on-one.” He let his robes slide off to leave him in his clothes and leather jacket. Harry’s eyes retracted into slits as his vision adjusted. “Right. Who's first?”

Gideon’s cronies shoved him forward. Pain spiderwebbed up Harry’s thigh, but he let momentum carry him into a pivot, cane whirling. The polished wood whipped against the first student’s kneecap with a crunch that was sharper and wetter than Harry expected.

The boy crumpled, howling.

The cane snapped.

Harry and the other two only stared.