#hp rewrite

author's notes: hello friends! i'm back with another chapter, finally!!!

all i'm going to say... is that i now understand why so many hp fics split the school year into two or more chapters. i kept holding off on posting this, but then it just got longer and longer and longer... so here we are! this is only part of Harry's second year — more to come!

that said, let's get into it! sorry to keep you waiting 😔 adjusting to full-time work + taking on a monster of a project that has spanned the entire eight months of my employment so far... yeah! i've been busy! haha. anyways. let's gooooo!

Recap of last chapter: After Harry's first year at Hogwarts, he stays at your home over the summer. After receiving a letter from the Weasleys, he decides to join them and Hermione at Diagon Alley to go school shopping. The two of you attempt to travel via Floo, but Harry takes a wrong turn and ends up in Knockturn Alley. Increasingly worried, you search Diagon Alley for him—nearly colliding with the Malfoys in the process—before finally finding Harry safe with the Weasleys. After that, you leave to purchase supplies for your classes... and return to the group at the bookstore to find Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy at each other's throats. You manage to break up the fight, but the ensuing chaos provides an ample opportunity for Lucius Malfoy to slip a battered diary into Ginny Weasley's cauldron...

The rest of the summer passes far too quickly for your liking. It feels faster than the blink of an eye. Before long, you’re waving goodbye to Harry as he heads on to the Hogwarts Express. He waves from the window of the compartment he chose with his friends, and you can’t fight off a smile as you wave back. As a professor, you’re allowed to ride on the Hogwarts Express free of charge. But you prefer just traveling via the Floo Network—you can use the fireplace in your home to get to the fireplace in your office in the blink of an eye. 

You idly hope Harry’s train ride is uneventful. You find yourself casting repeat glances over at the doors to the Great Hall, waiting for the students to appear. The professors are often the first to arrive, and you spend most of the time speaking with the Muggle Studies professor next to you. The seat on your right typically belongs to the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, which means that you will have the distinct misfortune of sitting next to Gilderoy Lockhart. 

Ah, Lockhart. He is pompous above all else. Upon first introducing himself to you all last week, he commandeered the staff meeting and proceeded to rattle off a far too long list of random awards he’s earned. Supposedly, among his various titles and achievements are: 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. 

These things mean nothing to you. The same goes for the rest of the professors. But the students? Well. A good chunk of the younger ones are infatuated with Lockhart, as you soon learn upon his arrival to the Great Hall for the Welcoming Feast. Within a few minutes, he’s already wandering the tables and signing napkins for his admirers. You stifle a scoff and instead glance over at the Gryffindor table, relieved to find that Harry has made it to school in one piece. He, Weasley, and Granger seem to be discussing something animatedly, while the elder Weasley, Percy, watches on in amusement. 

The Ravenclaws are lively tonight—or, about as lively as that crowd can be. There are journals, sketchbooks, and pieces of parchment scattered around their table… even during the Welcoming Feast, before the school year has officially started. 

The Hufflepuffs are happy, their conversations warm and friendly. They’re typically a pretty nice bunch, but you’ve been here long enough to know not to test a Hufflepuff’s loyalty. They are fiercely protective of their friends and family. 

Last but certainly not least are the Slytherins. Draco Malfoy and his group of other pureblood students are gathered at one end of the table, speaking in hushed tones. Malfoy looks about the space frequently; when his eyes land on yours, he glowers and looks away. 

Another Welcoming Feast, another school year. Time really does fly.

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised to hear that Harry and Malfoy are at each other’s throats already. You’re mildly skeptical: it’s only been a few days since the start of the semester. Surely they don’t have much to quarrel about. Surely. 

You would really think so. But that’s where you’re wrong. Because on Friday afternoon, just before you can write off a successful start to the semester, Minerva McGonagall is heading to your office and pausing in your doorway. There are students behind her, but they’re blocked by her frame. 

“Hello, Minerva,” you blink, surprised to see the Transfiguration professor in your office at such an hour. To your knowledge, she’s usually teaching at this time. “What brings you here?” you ask, looking up from the Runes research you had been reading. 

“I’m afraid I don’t quite have time to supervise their detention,” Minerva says, before stepping aside to allow the students behind her to enter the room. To your surprise, it’s Harry and his friends Ron and Hermione. You raise your eyebrows. Hermione’s looking down at the ground. Ron looks almost breathless, his face flushed. Harry is studiously avoiding your gaze. 

They’re in detention already. It hasn’t even been a week. Merlin. These three are proving to be trouble.

“I was hoping you would supervise them,” Minerva continues, breaking you out of your thoughts.  

“Yes, of course,” you remember to respond. You don’t have any grading to do today anyway—the students’ first assignment is due next week. “How long should their detention be?” you ask. 

“Just until you grow tired of them,” Minerva says with a cheeky wink, before leaving the room. Ron sputters in protest; Hermione huffs; and Harry just looks slightly amused. She closes the door behind her, leaving Harry and his friends in your office. They all linger just past the doorway, hands shoved in their pockets or fiddling with their uniforms. They’re not usually a timid bunch, but that’s the best word for their behavior at the present moment: timid. That raises some red flags in your mind. 

Still, you don’t want them to think they’re in for a heavy scolding, so you try to lighten the mood. “Detention already?” you ask, unable to hide your amusement. “Gotta say, you three are quite the troublemakers.” 

“Professor,” Harry pipes up, his quiet but sincere tone immediately drawing your attention. You look at him imploringly. He sucks in a breath. “What does Mud—” he tries to ask.

“Don’t say it!” Ron interjects with a harsh sound. The boy sighs and looks over at you. “Professor, when we were coming back from Harry’s Quidditch practice… Malfoy and the Slytherins were there…” They have Quidditch practices already? You blink and refocus. That wasn’t the point of that remark.

You wait patiently for him to continue. “Well,” Weasley stumbles awkwardly. “Malfoy called Hermione… You know. That slur for Muggleborns.” 

Your eyes widen. “Did he really?” you ask, a bit shocked. You know there’s some Pureblood prejudice lingering around the school, especially in Slytherin. But you never thought it would be so blatant. There are rules against that kind of thing in Hogwarts’ bylaws. Albus instated them. 

You take a moment to process what you just heard, before continuing to speak. “Then why are you three in detention, instead of him?”

“Well,” Harry says awkwardly, looking reluctant all of a sudden. “We kinda… sorta… hexed him a bit.” Ah. That explains it. 

You’re about to respond when your eyes find Hermione, standing off to the side and looking uncharacteristically agitated. She’s been quiet throughout the entire conversation, now that you think about it. That’s pretty unusual for her.

“Are you all right, Miss Granger?” you ask concernedly, taking note of how despondent she seems. “You seem upset.” You certainly wouldn’t blame her. Even if she’s not entirely familiar with the term, she’s smart enough to pick up on how inflammatory and bigoted it is. 

“I’m— I’m fine,” she stammers, her eyes firmly locked on the ground.

“Professor, what does that word mean?” Harry asks quietly.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts. It’s good that you’re having this conversation. That doesn’t mean it’s an easy one. “It refers to a wizard’s blood status,” you eventually answer. “There’s an archaic belief that Pureblood wizards—those born to two magical parents—are superior to halfblood and Muggleborn wizards.”

“That’s… not true, right?” Harry asks uncertainly.

“Of course not,” you respond, “Blood is just blood. It makes no difference. But some wizards—especially those from families like Malfoy’s—still hold onto those ideals.”

“The Sacred Twenty-Eight?” Ron adds. 

“Yes,” you nod. You turn to Harry and Hermione, who both look confused. “The Purebloods kept records of British families they believed to be ‘uncorrupted’ by Muggles. Basically, those that only had Purebloods. Those twenty-eight families are called the ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight’.” 

“The Malfoys are one of them?” Harry realizes. 

“Correct,” you confirm. “Most of the magical world doesn’t buy into that whole blood theory anymore. And, as I’m sure you’re realizing, to keep magic in the family…” you trail off. 

“Wait,” Hermione says, her eyes widening as she catches on quickly. “You aren’t saying…?”

“What?” Harry asks, clearly a bit lost. 

“Many of those families engaged in incest, to ensure their bloodline was kept ‘pure’,” you say, air-quoting the very last part. 

“Ewwwww,” Harry says, his face wrinkled in disgust. Ron nods emphatically. 

“Yeah, it’s gross,” Ron agrees. “The Weasleys were included in the list, but Dad made sure to tell them off for it. We have Muggleborns in our family, after all. And we don’t do any of that nasty stuff.”  

It’s quiet for a moment. You take a deep breath. “I’ll cut you three a deal,” you offer, “because, truthfully, I don’t think you deserve detention for sticking up for yourselves.”

“Really?” Hermione asks. Harry sends her a look and Ron steps on her foot. “Ow!” she hisses. 

“Really,” you nod. “Actually, I think you made the right choice. And I’ll have a word with Severus to ensure Malfoy is punished accordingly.” They exchange hopeful glances. 

“I do have to keep you three here under supervision,” you continue, “but I’m fine with you just sitting here. If you want to get homework done, or talk amongst yourselves, that’s okay. My only request is that you remain here until an hour has passed.”

“Sweet!” Ron exclaims. Hermione sends him an unimpressed look. “What?” he asks self-consciously. 

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry says with a slight smile. 

“No problem,” you nod. Ron and Harry are quick to settle in on the armchairs in the corner of the room. You conjured up a third one for Hermione, but she remains frozen in the doorway. “Miss Granger?”

“Yes?” she asks. Damn it, she still looks upset. 

“You’re a brilliant witch,” you reassure her. “Having Muggle parents is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Okay,” she says, ducking her head a bit. She’s a bit frazzled. You frown, trying to think of a way to console her better. 

“I’m a Muggleborn too,” you say before you can stop yourself. The response is immediate: Hermione’s head whips up as she looks at you; Ron and Harry both look over from the corner. 

“Really?” Hermione asks quietly. 

“You bet,” you say with a slight smile. “I went to school around the time Harry’s parents were here. The prejudice was… Well. It was arguably worse than it is now. But that’s not why I’m bringing it up. I want you to know that you’re not alone. You can come talk to me if you ever feel like you’re being picked on or discriminated against. I would hope the rest of the staff are the same.”

“I—” Hermione breaks off, “thanks, Professor.”

“Sure thing,” you hum. “And, hey, look at me. I’m a professor here at Hogwarts. Not bad for a Muggleborn, huh?”

A watery laugh. “No, not bad at all,” she says, a smile finally breaking onto her face. 

“Hang in there, okay?” you say gently. “I’m sure you’re kicking Malfoy’s ass in classes, anyways.” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ron affirms, getting up and nudging her shoulder supportively. Harry smiles at her. Hermione seems to brighten up, wiping at her eyes before a resolute expression rises on her face. 

“Thanks, guys,” she says softly. Eventually, she joins her friends in the corner of your office. You return to your work, trying not to smile as you hear the students’ ever-familiar bickering in the background.

A few weeks later, Harry visits your office again. This time, you do have some grading to do. But you’re not bothered by the interruption. In fact, it’s nice to have an excuse to take a quick break. 

“Hi,” Harry greets you, his hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Hey, Harry,” you smile, looking up from the homework you assigned your sixth-year students. “What’s up?”

He steps into your office and closes the door behind him. “I, uh… just wanted to warn you,” Harry says, fidgeting awkwardly. “Lockhart tried to get me to sign autographs with him. I didn’t want to, so… I told him I had detention with you.”

You huff in amusement. “Feel free to continue using that excuse,” you smile. Harry grins sheepishly. 

“Thanks,” he nods. You know Lockhart has been treating Harry like a celebrity. It’s ironic—Harry’s more well-known than he is. You have to wonder if the professor is trying to steal some of that fame. The even more ironic part? Harry doesn’t even want to be famous in the first place. It’s all such a mess. You shake your head in disbelief, trying not to think about the absolute mess that is Gilderoy Lockhart.

“He’s starting a Dueling Club soon,” Harry continues. “Professor Snape is supposed to be there too.”

A Dueling Club. That’s right. You heard about that at the last staff meeting. You have no idea how Lockhart got Snape of all people to help him. And no doubt, those two will get along as well as oil and water—which is to say, not well at all. “Are you going to join the club?” you ask. 

“I’ll probably go to the first meeting,” he nods, “because Ron and Hermione want to. But I was actually wondering if you could teach me about dueling instead. You said something about it last year.”

“Oh, I did, didn’t I?” you hum. “Yes, I think I can do that. Can you remind me of your schedule? We can probably find some time during the school day, unless you’d rather give up your evenings to meet with me.” 

“Yeah, no thanks,” Harry says, a sheepish grin on his face. “No offense.”

“None taken,” you respond easily. “I hear Wood has been tough on you guys this year.” The Gryffindor Quidditch captain has always been a bit obsessed with the sport, to put it lightly. Considering Harry already had practice the first week of school… You shake your head in exasperation. 

“We have a lot of practices,” Harry confirms. “He told me we have to win our match against Slytherin or die trying.” 

You sputter. “Yes, that sounds about right,” you sigh, recalling what you know of the elder boy. “But please don’t. Quidditch is not worth dying over, trust me.” 

“We’ll see,” Harry says with a teasing shrug. 

You roll your eyes at him. 

You almost start to think that this school year will be uneventful for Harry. Of course, that’s when you’re swiftly proven wrong. 

You’re walking down the hallway one unremarkable evening, only to find Harry staring at the castle wall in front of him. 

“Harry?” you ask. Harry turns around and faces you, his eyes widening. You frown and take a step closer, only to finally see what he’d been looking at. Filch’s cat, Mrs. Norris, is limply hanging from the wall; there’s a bloody message written underneath it. You squint to read it: 

The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware…

Harry is staring at you with utter fear in his eyes and it makes you nauseous. He’s afraid of your reaction, of you not believing him. You’re about to say that you know he didn’t do this when there’s a sudden commotion behind you. “What’s going on here?” a familiar voice demands. You turn around to find Minerva approaching, Filius and Severus on her heels. 

“I was taking Mister Potter to the dormitories when we came across this,” you supply quickly. Severus glares at you in evident suspicion, but the remainder of the professors seem to believe you. Sensing he’s outnumbered, Severus scoffs and keeps quiet.  

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs quietly, once the professors are preoccupied with the bloody message. Before you can respond, he’s continuing to speak. “Why’d you believe me?”

“You’re a good person, Harry,” you respond. “I know you wouldn’t do something like that.” 

“You think I’m a good person?” he blinks.

“I know so, yes,” you assure him. The fact that he’s even asking is heartbreaking. “Just don’t get a big head about it, okay?” you joke. Harry smiles. 

Ron and Hermione soon run over, asking Harry what happened. With the help of the Gryffindor prefects, any student onlookers are taken back to their dormitories. You’re soon left standing in front of the bloody message with Filch, Severus, Minerva, and Albus—who appeared shortly after the commotion. 

“I want Potter expelled!” Filch demands.

“Argus, relax, it couldn’t have been him,” you interject. The man is understandably agitated—his cat was petrified, after all. But still, that doesn’t give him the right to hurl accusations around without proof. “This magic is far too advanced for a second year.” There are few ways to achieve petrification like this—all of them are Dark. 

“And why should we take your word for it?” Severus remarks sardonically. He lets out a short breath, as if disgusted. “You’re close to the boy.” 

“So?” you argue. “You really think I’d let him do something like this? I’m a Muggleborn too—seems hypocritical.”

“A fair point,” Albus hums. You can’t help but shoot a victorious smirk at Severus, who scowls in clear annoyance. “No, young Harry did not do this.” 

Silence. You look around at the group. Your colleagues all seem to be content to remain silent. Are you really the only one who cares about this? “So…?” you eventually ask, somewhat impatient. “What now?” 

Albus looks amused, for some reason. “Ah, the joys of being young. I miss the vigor of youth.” 

You frown. He can call it whatever he wants. “Come on, don’t tell me we’re just going to stand here,” you press. “This endangers the students.” 

“The Chamber of Secrets does not exist,” Minerva says firmly. “We’ve searched for it countless times.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” you argue, “because this person does exist.” You point to the wall. “There doesn’t have to be a giant mythical creature hidden in an underground passage somewhere. This is real enough.”

You look around at the group. Minerva doesn’t look convinced, and neither does Albus. Argus is clearly too torn up about his cat to be of much use. This leaves you looking at Severus imploringly. Surely he understands the gravity of the situation, even if he seems to hate your guts. 

“Albus,” Severus says, his calm voice drawing you out of your contemplation. “It does seem… irresponsible… to ignore this.” Thank you, you think. Severus scowls, as if sensing the thought. 

“Oh, I will not ignore it, I assure you,” Albus asserts. “I will speak with Pomona so she can prepare the Mandrakes—I suspect we’ll need a Mandrake Restorative Draught to counter the paralysis.”

“Yeah, but who’s to say it won’t be a student next?” you frown. “I’m not trying to be difficult here, but none of this seems very proactive.” With the rumors of Salazar Slytherin’s violent rhetoric, there’s no telling what the ‘Chamber of Secrets’ could really entail. And ‘enemies of the Heir’ likely references anyone who isn’t a pureblood wizard. Naturally, this puts at least half of the school in danger. 

“Very well then,” Albus relents. “We’ll speak about this in my office.” 

That’s the best you’re going to get. You’re not necessarily happy with it, but it’ll have to do.

As you expected, your conversation with Albus yields little in the way of genuine action. (That’s proving to be a common theme with him.) Instead, he gives you a long and winding tale of Salazar Slytherin’s time at Hogwarts—and ends with stating that the Chamber of Secrets—while not yet discovered—is very much real. Supposedly, it was opened in the 40s. 

Does any of this information help you? Kind of, but not really. Before long, you’ve resorted to conducting your own investigation. You spend a few late nights wandering the castle, but these efforts are futile. As you’re walking down the second floor corridor, you pause to stare at the wall. The message has since been removed from the surface, but there are faint dried blood stains. 

This message is located near the bathrooms, for some reason. Was that choice intentional, or did the culprit only choose it out of convenience? Either way, you decide it would be prudent to investigate. Inside the sprawling bathroom, there’s a soft sound that almost sounds like crying. Frowning, you take a few steps closer before reeling back in surprise as something floats right past your face. It’s Moaning Myrtle, a ghost infamous for her violent mood swings and contrastingly shy demeanor. She was a student here once, supposedly. 

“Hi, Myrtle,” you greet her, after your heart starts to calm down in your chest. 

“Oh, hello,” she says sarcastically, her brown ponytails swishing as she tilts her head in scrutiny. “You’re intruding on my space, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” you respond. But you’re already here, and more importantly, you need answers. You’re not going to let a ghost of a student boss you around. “Listen, when did you attend Hogwarts?”

“Asking a lady her age?” she scoffs, growing frustrated. “You’re quite rude, you know!”

“Just answer the question, please,” you implore her. “It’s important.” 

She sighs. “It was 1943,” Myrtle recalls. Right around the time the Chamber was first opened. Supposedly. “There I was, crying in the bathroom… when all of a sudden, I heard this awful grating sound.”

You stare at her in complete disbelief. Is she about to tell you how she died? You don’t end up getting the answer to that question, because Myrtle senses your scrutiny and quickly turns self-conscious and indignant. 

“Ugh, you’re all the same!” she hisses, her fists clenched at her sides. “Asking me these nosy questions, pretending to care! Hiding away and scribbling in your little diaries. I hate it!”

“Wait, whoa, whoa, whoa,” you say quickly. “Diaries? Someone’s been coming here?” 

“Yes, that one wench,” Myrtle spits. 

“Myrtle,” you say chidingly. “We don’t call people wenches.” 

“That one— That one girl,” she corrects herself, clearly disgusted at the notion. “Red hair. It’s demonic, is what it is. Always lurking in here, whispering to herself. It’s creepy.” 

“Red hair?” you repeat. “Myrtle, do you know her name?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. 

“Is she a Gryffindor?” you ask. 

Myrtle scoffs. “Now you too!” she huffs. “I don’t know, and I don’t care!”

“Okay, okay,” you say, trying to placate her. It’s too late, though—she’s already letting out an annoyed huff and promptly disappearing. “Damn it,” you curse under your breath. 

Fortunately for you, there are very few people with red hair at the school. And it’s a girl, which narrows the list down to… Ginny Weasley. Ron Weasley’s younger sister, who was just sorted into Gryffindor at the beginning of the school year. She’s a first-year student. You haven’t really seen her around too much, but you’ve overheard students whispering about her odd behavior.

Naturally, you have to investigate. And it’s easy enough for you to speak with her, even though you only teach older students. You send her a message inviting her to meet with you in your office, and she shows up right on time that evening. 

You take a moment to study her, looking for anything that may seem strange. She seems fine enough: her bright red hair almost seems to sparkle in the warm light; there’s a reluctant smile on her face. You remember her being pretty shy, from what Harry’s told you. 

“Hi, Miss Weasley,” you greet her from your desk, motioning for her to enter your office. She takes a few steps closer, albeit hesitantly. 

“Hi, Professor,” she greets you respectfully. 

“I’m sorry for the ominous note,” you smile sheepishly. “I don’t really see you around the castle, and you’re too young for my classes, so I had to get creative.”

“It’s fine,” Ginny nods, seeming to lose a bit of her anxiety. She still looks a bit restless, though. You’re not sure if it’s just because you haven’t met before, or… if it’s from something else. You decide you’ll have to figure that out as you speak together. 

Plus, if push comes to shove, you can always throw the memory of this conversation in a Pensieve and take a closer look for any signs of unusual behavior: twitching fingers, restless eyes, unusual reactions to your statements, et cetera. So you suppose it’s fine if you don’t glean anything from her right away. 

“What did you need?” Ginny asks awkwardly. You blink and focus on the conversation once more, taking note of the way she seems somewhat eager to wrap this up. Then again, it’s a Friday evening—she probably has better things to be doing than speaking with a professor she doesn’t even have classes with. 

“I just wanted to check on you,” you respond good-naturedly. “See how everything’s going for you.”

“Oh, it’s good,” she hums, nodding quickly. She shifts her balance, clasps her hands in front of her. “Things are good.”

You try to subtly glance at her hands, but to your knowledge, they look normal enough. You’re not sure what you were expecting: trembling, bloodstains, callouses… Whatever she’s going through, she’s hiding it very well. 

You hide a frown and continue speaking. “That’s great,” you answer. “What classes have you been enjoying so far?”

“I like Charms,” she responds. 

“Good,” you acknowledge. “Filius is an excellent professor. One of the best in the field.”

“Mhm,” she hums. 

It’s like pulling teeth. You sigh. It’s clear you’re not going to get anything from her. At least, not today. “Okay,” you conclude. “Well. I didn’t actually need anything from you, and I don’t want to monopolize your evening. You’re free to go.” 

The relief that flickers across her face is obvious. “Thanks, Professor,” she answers. She turns her back and starts walking away; you’re blurting out one final piece of advice before Ginny can leave. 

“Miss Weasley?” you ask. She freezes in place and turns around to look at you. “Please tell someone if you’re struggling. It doesn’t have to be me. But suffering in silence isn’t noble—regardless of what your housemates may believe.” 

She straightens up and nods solemnly, before slipping out the door and out of sight. You stare at the empty doorway for a long time, deep in thought. 

…That conversation didn’t help at all. 

Looks like you still have some work to do.

Why Gilderoy Lockhart is the one to lead the newly created Dueling Club, you haven’t the faintest idea. After all, Filius Flitwick—the Charms professor here—is a duelling champion. He’s highly talented. But no. Instead, the Dueling Club is led by a brash loudmouth with too much time on his hands. 

You’re really starting to question Albus’s hiring decisions. There is almost nothing redeemable about Gilderoy Lockhart. He doesn’t seem to actually know much about Defense Against the Dark Arts, from what Harry’s told you of his classes and from what you’ve overheard. Supposedly, he was stupid enough to release a whole group of Cornish Pixies in his classroom and then conveniently disappear. 

Yeah. You’re not exactly impressed with the guy. So when you see students gossiping about the Club’s first meeting in hushed whispers, you’re not exactly surprised. Things went awry, supposedly. You don’t really listen to student gossip, so the most you know is that Harry and Malfoy were chosen to duel. 

You have noticed that students are giving Harry a wide berth. One day the next week, he visits your office and elaborates. 

“Did you hear about my duel with Malfoy?” Harry asks almost hesitantly, looking around the room before settling on something just past your shoulder. 

“Yes,” you admit, “but I don’t know much.”

Harry begrudgingly recounts the details of the duel. He grows visibly nervous and apprehensive as he tells you that Malfoy conjured a snake. You suspect that Severus had a hand in encouraging the Slytherin boy, probably planting some paranoid thought in his head and making him imagine animosity. Conjuring a snake is pretty intense for a duel between second-years, after all. 

“That explains why everyone’s talking about your duel,” you hum. Malfoy and Harry are somewhat infamous for their tense rivalry, ever since Harry refused to shake Malfoy’s hand before the Welcoming Feast. 

“Uh, yeah, but…” Harry trails off hesitantly, “there’s more.”  

You raise an eyebrow expectantly. Harry seems twitchy all of a sudden—moreso than normal. You wait for him quietly, and eventually, your patience pays off. 

“The snake was going to attack Finch-Fletchley, but I told it not to,” he reveals. 

You stare in disbelief. “And it… listened?”

Harry nods. “It was speaking to me.”

Ah. That explains why everyone has been so guarded around Harry lately—they saw him speak Parseltongue. It’s a very rare ability, one traditionally associated with the Dark Arts. And, of course, people fear what they can’t understand. You tell Harry as much. 

“But… why was everyone so…?” ‘Afraid’ goes unsaid. There’s a frown on Harry’s face as he looks at you expectantly. 

“Voldemort can speak to snakes,” you answer, “which altered the public’s perception of the ability.”

“It’s not evil?” he asks. 

“Of course not, Harry,” you respond. “Dark magic isn’t inherently evil, in the same way that light magic isn’t inherently good. Magic has the capacity to harm or help, regardless of its origin.”

“...Oh.” He seems to mull over the thought.

“That’s why Magical Ethics is a course of study here,” you continue. “Think about it: a cleaning spell thought to be harmless could be fatal when used incorrectly. The same goes for a spell thought to be dangerous.”

“Nothing is quite so black-and-white,” you finish. “Especially magic.” 

Harry falls silent. There’s a slight furrow to his eyebrows, a pull to his lips that suggests he’s thinking very hard about something. 

“You okay?” you ask after a few seconds. 

Harry blinks and looks back up. “Yeah,” he says with a slight nod. A reluctant smile rises on his lips. “Ron and Hermione told me you’d say that.” 

“They did?” you raise an eyebrow. 

“Well, not really,” Harry says sheepishly, “but they said you wouldn’t judge me for it.” 

“I suppose they’re right, then,” you say with a growing smile. “Don’t tell them I said that.”

Harry laughs. When he leaves ten minutes later, his shoulders are more relaxed and there’s almost a bounce in his step. You can’t help but smile, even as you look back down and return your attention to your students’ assignments. 

Unfortunately, this bright spot doesn’t last forever. With the growing threat of some unseen force endangering students, the revelation of Harry’s new ability, and the constant tension brewing between purebloods and Muggleborns… you suspect this school year is going to be an eventful one.

next chapter

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“Are you quite sure that’s a good idea, Jamesie?”

James Potter—a dashing young man with untidy hair and a mischievous grin—turned round. His hazel eyes twinkled behind his round glasses.

“Oh, come off it, Gran. Of course it’s a good idea. The Ministry needs us, and if we show up, it’ll give the others a boost.”

Elisa Potter, née Fleamont, looked frail but kind. Her age showed in the deep lines that marked her face, yet there was a warm, grandmotherly glow about her.

“Hm… if you say so. But do be careful, dear. He could strike there.”

“I doubt he’d be daft enough to attack us in the middle of the Ministry. Besides, Professor Dumbledore and all the Order of the Phoenix will be there. Not to mention the Aurors. I’ve got great faith in Bartemius Crouch.”

He turned as a soft voice came from the stairs. Lily Potter was descending gracefully, a baby in her arms. Behind her, Peter Pettigrew followed, holding another child. The man looked terribly pale.

“Mmm. You can say that because you don’t work for him,” James quipped, nodding to his wife. “He’s an absolute tyrant!”

Lily rolled her eyes and moved to hand him the baby—but before she could, the old lady intercepted and took the infant herself.

“James! Don’t speak that way about your cousin!” Elisa scolded, before looking down at her great-grandson. “Oh, my little Harry—you’re the very image of Henry.”

James held his tongue, though he was tempted to protest. He knew how fond his grandmother was of Harry—named after her late husband, Henry Potter. Sometimes, he pitied her: she had outlived her husband, her son, and her daughter-in-law. She had nearly wasted away from grief until Harry’s birth rekindled her spirit. Her greatest joy, she said, had been the naming of her great-grandson—Harry James Potter, the eldest, bearing his father’s name.

“Not that he’s heavy or anything…” came a weary voice.

James chuckled at Peter’s exhausted look and motioned for the second baby. Unlike Harry, who had his father’s dark hair and his mother’s bright green eyes, the younger twin had inherited Lily’s fiery hair and James’s eyes. Arthur John Potter—named after Lily’s father and grandfather.

“All right, Peter?” Lily asked, concerned. “You look a bit peaky.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he said, waving her off. “Just overdid it at dinner, that’s all. My fault—I should’ve stopped at the second helping.”

James grinned. “You say that every time, Petey. One day your stomach’ll finish you off before the Death Eaters do.”

Peter tried to laugh, but the sound came out more like a sigh.

“I think I’ll head off,” he said finally. “Need a bit of rest.”

“As you like,” James replied. “Be careful on your way. If you run into an Auror, tell him you’ve just left our place—he’ll understand.”

Peter nodded, cast one last, uneasy glance at the twins, and Disapparated with a crack. Silence fell—heavy, uneasy.

It was Elisa who spoke first.

“That boy’s not right.”

James frowned. “Gran, honestly, not again. Peter’s clumsy, sure—but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“That’s exactly what people say before they’re betrayed,” she said quietly. “He’s got that shifty look—like someone burdened by secrets. And that Animagus form of his…”

James sighed. “Oh, Merlin’s beard, not this again. You’re not going to start on about animals and souls, are you? Sirius is a dog, Remus is a wolf, and they’re the most loyal blokes I know.”

“Dogs and wolves live in packs, Jamesie,” she replied evenly. “Rats feed on scraps. They survive by hiding.”

Lily stepped in before the argument could go further.

“Grandmother, I understand your feeling, but you know Peter’s not made for confinement. We’ve been cooped up here for months—he’s suffocating, like the rest of us.”

Elisa had insisted Lily call her “Grandmother”—she detested titles and formality. In truth, she was one of the oldest surviving members of English wizarding nobility: the Marquess Elise Potter, née Fleamont, only daughter of the late Earl Felominus Fleamont and Lysiana Gaunt.

“Isolation doesn’t make a traitor,” the old woman said coldly.

“No,” Lily replied, “but it brings out what’s already there. And Peter’s never been comfortable with all this—the Order, the war, the secrecy. You’ve seen him—he sweats just hearing about a duel.”

James nodded, glad to have his wife’s support.

“Exactly. That’s just Peter. A bit of a coward, maybe, a bit awkward—but loyal. He’s never betrayed me.”

Elisa studied him for a long moment.

“You say that as though you need to believe it.”

“I know it,” said James firmly. “Peter’s a friend. And if there’s one thing I learnt at Hogwarts, it’s that you don’t abandon your mates just because they’re scared.”

Lily sighed softly. “You’re right, love. But so is she. Some people you protect best from afar. Maybe we shouldn’t burden him with too much—just in case.”

James shook his head with a grin.

“You two are going to drive me round the bend. We’re already hiding under a Fidelius Charm, watched over by Dumbledore himself, and you want me to start distrusting Peter? No chance.”

Elisa turned her gaze to the fire.

“Trust is a fine thing, Jamesie. But old families learnt long ago—the fire burns those who sit too close.”

“And I’ve learnt that fear loses more battles than war itself,” he said quietly.

For a moment, only the crackle of the fire filled the room, its light dancing on the faces in the portraits.

“This ball at the Ministry unsettles me,” Elisa said at last. “Samhain is no night to parade about.”

“It’s symbolic, Gran,” James replied. “The Ministry wants to prove fear doesn’t rule us anymore. And with Dumbledore and a squad of Aurors there, what could possibly go wrong?”

Lily laid a hand on his arm.

“That’s not what she means. It’s a strange night, James. Even if nothing happens, I don’t like the idea of leaving the children.”

He smiled, reassuring. “They’ll be fine. Gran’s here—no one protects better than you, eh, Gran?”

Elisa didn’t answer at once. She tucked the blanket around the twins, her gaze distant.

“I’ll keep them safe,” she said finally. “That’s all you need to know.”

James kissed Lily, then the children, and reached for his cloak.

“We won’t be long,” he promised.

Elisa nodded silently. As they Disapparated, she stood there for a while, listening to the fire crackle and the soft breathing of the two sleeping infants. Absentmindedly, she reached into her robe and drew out a small object she had carried since girlhood.

Her father, Felominus Fleamont, had been a great wizard—fascinated by the obscure and the arcane. His particular field was chronomantic divination, a rare branch of magic devoted to reading a person’s fate through the flow of time. He had crafted her a small hourglass at her birth—one that had never stopped running.

Until tonight.

Elisa looked at the two babies, sleeping peacefully, and smiled faintly as the family cat curled up between them. Then, softly, she began to hum an old lullaby—one she had once sung for her own son, Fleamont.

“Sleep, my loves, and peace attend thee, All through the night.”

She settled into the rocking chair—one her grandson had brought especially for her weary bones—and the gentle creak filled the quiet room.

“Guardian angels God will send thee, All through the night.”

The chair rocked slowly back and forth as her voice, fragile but steady, carried on the old lullaby.

“Soft the drowsy hours are creeping, Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,”

Her gaze drifted towards the fire, watching the embers crackle and flare.

“I my loving vigil keeping, All through the night.”

With a tender motion, she drew her wand and laid it across her knees.

“While the moon her watch is keeping, All through the night,”

She turned her eyes to the window, where the pale light of the full moon shone through.

“While the weary world is sleeping, All through the night.”

For a few moments, her breath grew shallow.

“O’er thy spirit gently stealing, Visions of delight revealing,”

Her eyes returned to the two sleeping infants, nestled close together.

“Breathes a pure and holy feeling, All through the night.”

She smiled faintly. Deep down, Elisa knew she would not live to see the dawn.

Harry tries to tell Hagrid he thinks the dragon is hungry, he might want to feed it, but the others are confused because it sounds to them like Harry is hiss-cooing or something to the dragon. (Hagrid thinks it’s adorable.) But anyway, however it comes about, it becomes obvious in the time between the dragon being born and Charlie’s friends coming to get them, that Harry can, in fact, understand the dragon and speak to it.

It’s not perfect, but he’s able to communicate to the dragon not to set something on fire or that they need to try to eat the rats as they’re being weaned off the whiskey/blood mix thing. No one thinks it’s a perk of Parseltongue because hello, he’s talking to a dragon, and isn’t this incredible? It must be some kind of ancient inheritance thing.

So, when they write to Charlie, they naturally have to ask him if he’s ever heard anything like that, so instead of just coming to collect the dragon, Charlie comes, too, and they witness this incredible thing. (So does Draco, in the shadows, of course.)

Charlie is super excited and reaches out to every expert he can, and he convinces McG to let him bring Harry out to a dragon range to be evaluated, and they try to keep this new, rare ability under wraps, but some of the assessors blab, and Draco wrote to complain to his father who goes on his own investigation, etc. At any rate, it becomes A Thing.

While Dumbledore steps in to ensure Harry goes back to the Dursleys, the obsessed dragon crowd refuse to be refused outright and secures Harry a camp-like thing at a dragon resort (because they think it’s clearly Harry’s destiny to become, like, the Ultimate Dragon Trainer, and Harry thinks dragons are cool and likes the sound of getting away from the Dursleys for a few weeks).

Their letters don’t get through that summer, though, and Charlie hears from his brothers that they haven’t heard from Harry either, so it’s Charlie who goes to check on him and finds him locked up with bars on his windows. Unlike Ron, Fred, and Geroge, Charlie is a grown-ass adult with his own connections now, which go beyond Dumbledore’ reach because the wealthy dragon resort that’s so interested in Harry is in a goddamn different country with a whole different magical government, and also, ain’t nobody wants to get on the bad side of a self-sufficient DRAGON RESORT that has a ton of dragons that aren’t just roaming their countryside thanks to them.

So, a new arrangement is made. Harry will return to the Dursleys, under strict Romania supervision (I imagine it's some seasoned, scary-looking dragon tamer who demands to stay in the house with them, taking over the guest room, like… ahhhh chef’s kiss) just long enough to satisfy the protection spell, but for the rest of the summer, Harry stays at the resort. Charlie becomes his unofficial guardian, kinda, and: enter, a bunch of OC dragon tamers who are awesome and very protective of their little dragon-speaker.

Second year goes a little differently. First there’s Draco, who hates Harry more than ever over this, but while he knows he’ll never get a dragon-in with the Weasleys, there’s still a slight chance with Harry (and goddamnit, dragons are his NAME’S SAKE, if anyone deserves free access to any dragon they want, it’s HIM), so he tries to become less of a bother. Harry’s still outed talking a different language during duel club, and some people are still suspicious, but most people know about his dragon-ability and wrongly assume the opposite of what it actually is (ie, he can kinda talk to snakes because he can talk to dragons), and Harry only tells Ron and Hermione that the snake was actually a lot easier to understand.

Go to next summer, when his new dragon-tamer-family learn about the events of second year, they firstly, throw a fit because they should have been informed their charge was in danger, and secondly, go and collect the basilisk because like hell are they going to let something like that just rot somewhere. So, figuring out how to destroy Horcruxes later becomes, like, SUPER easy and accessible.

Charlie’s the one who tells Harry about Sirius Black when he escapes, and he straight up tells Harry everything, about Black being his godfather and betraying his parents, all of it, so Harry goes into third year fully informed. He, of course, does not see the grim that summer. But he doesn't spent the year an emotional wreck, just getting a little bit of the info at a time, do with that as you will.

Harry arrives to school with a signed permission slip for Hogsmeade, and even though McGonagall still wants to refuse him because of Black, members of his dragon-tamer family just happen to be in the area for that year for ‘business’ or whatever (aka, protect Harry because ain't nobody said shit to them last year) and escort him to Hogsmeade anyway.

(“With all due respect, Professor, I once had a Peruvian Vipertooth grab my leg and toss me over a hill, and I still got back up and got the collar on her. You think Black scares me?”)

Most of their patronuses are dragons, except for one tamer whose patronus is a chipmunk, and funnily enough, it’s the most powerful patronus of all of them.

Draco doesn’t insult Buckbeak because he wants to prove to the tamers and probably Potter that he can, in fact, handle himself with larger magical creatures. He becomes Hagrid's best, most dedicated student.

I mean, COME ON,  imagine how the whole series can go differently.

Maybe the tamers get hilariously invested in the Scabbers/Crookshanks feud. It's the tamers, maybe, that figure out Scabbers fucking Pettigrew.

Different dragons have to be imported for the first task because Romania would be too biased - or they change the first task altogether because Harry's a known dragon-speaker.

They would DESTROY Umbridge.

Death Eaters vs Dragon Tamers. Dragon Tamers in the Order. Sirius lives because a Tamer was there in the Department of Mysteries to save him. Sirius not going out of his mind being stuck at Grimmauld because he can go to the resort where no one outside the Order recognizes him/cares.

Draco not becoming a Death Eater because he wants to become a Dragon Tamer.

DRAGONS AT THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS. USING THE GRINGOTTS DRAGON INSTEAD OF GRIPHOOK TO BREAK INTO (AND OUT OF) GRINGOTTS.