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Chapter Text

Today was not Harry Potter’s day. Then again, no day was. But this was a particularly bad day for Harry. For any other normal twelve-year-old, this would probably mean getting grounded or breaking a bone. Sadly, Harry was not a normal twelve-year-old. 

A bad day could mean any manner of things for Harry. This “bad day” included basilisks-  a creature that, up until a few hours previously, he did not know existed- and the supposed “memory” of his parent’s killer. 

Yes, Harry Potter was very much not a normal twelve-year-old. He would have reflected on his circumstances and asked desperately what god he had angered if he weren’t fighting for his life. 

The creature’s head was the size of his entire body, clothed in oil-spill black scales, its fangs were as long as the gleaming silver sword in his hand. Its head snapped forward. 

He was going to die. 

It was a bit sad that even that wasn’t very new to him. Gloating laughter rang as time slowed. The stench of blood and rotting meat wafted from the snake’s mouth. His sword sang out as he lunged to meet his death. If he was going to die, he was bringing the goddamn snake with him. The creature’s jaws opened wide around him, gleaming pink and red. He hoped Ginny would be okay, that somehow someone would defeat Riddle. Someone who most definitely would not be him, he’d be too dead to do any saving. 

His mind was strangely clear as the sword sank through the delicate flesh, and the piercing scream of his would-be killer died seconds after it started. Searing heat surged through his veins, lighting every nerve. Hot blood splashed over his arms, his chest, and his face, slicking his fingers as the sword slid free of the beast’s skull.

“You’re dead, Harry. Just give up. You may have killed the basilisk, but for what? How does it feel, Harry, the venom of a basilisk?”

He stumbled back, head light and legs shakey. Riddle’s voice sounded far off, underwater, like that one time Dudley pushed him into the pool. His nose suddenly felt stuffy. He coughed as the taste of metal slid down his throat, blinking rapidly when the chamber blurred even more. He didn’t know where his glasses were. He was supposed to have them, always supposed to have them. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t buy him a new pair, so he couldn’t lose them. 

His knees hit the ground. Wetness soaked into his trousers, weird, and wet, and slimy. His chest hit the ground next. Something tugged in his arm, sending more burning weakness through him. Pain lit up his legs as his muscles started to cramp, tightening in lightning-quick waves. Cotton filled his head even as he turned to the burning, cold-please-please-please-make it stop!- in his arm. Pale ivory stuck out through the black of his cloak and, past that, brilliantly copper red. His eyes focused on the red, past the thing in his arm, to the lump of black and red and white. Ginny’s skin was pale grey, like a corpse. 

“It’s rude to ignore your superiors.” 

A foot connected with his side, sending him bouncing across the grimy floor, a trail of blood left in his wake. Harry shook as he forced himself up onto shaking, trembling arms. His fingers brushed leather. He didn’t know why he looked, why he thought whatever thing he’d touched was more important than the ghostly boy stalking towards him, but he was glad he did. A huffing laugh trembled from his lips. The world around him cleared, snapping back into focus like the fang in his arm wasn’t pumping venom into his bloodstream, like he wasn’t dying. He rose onto his knees with a strength he didn’t know he had, fingers numb as he reached up, grasping wet, bloody, bone. 

“What are you laughing at, Potter? Cracked already, have you? I shouldn’t be surprised, you are just a boy, after all.” 

Harry looked up through black strands, his hair sticking to his skin, a smile peeking through the haze of pain. Riddle swaggered towards him leisurely. It was almost over, almost over. The sword of Gryffindor was still in his hand. After everything, he’d still kept ahold of it. The metal felt warm, humming in his hand like it was alive. His hand clenched around the hilt as he steeled himself. He grinned, blood coating his teeth, and pulled. A sickening slurp left his arm as the fang came free. His fingers spasmed around the sword. He watched Riddle’s smirk change, lips twisting into a snarl as he stomped towards him. He giggled deliriously, eyes half-closed. Something in him, something petty and dark, reveled in the look in Riddle’s eyes. A sort of fearful rage that twisted into a predatory bloodlust. 

His muscles protested weakly as he forced his arm up. The fang burned through the skin of his palm as he plunged it down, gravity finally working for him. The tip of the fang slid into the cover of the diary with a frightful ease. Ink gushed out, followed by agonized screams, soaking the fang. Harry brought it up again and down it plunged, even deeper into the cursed thing that had started the worst year of his life. He watched with glee as ink spread in a puddle around the book, so very similar to the puddle of red forming under him. Red and black mixed into one another like liquid marble. 

Golden tears punctured through Riddle’s ghostly form. The wrath writhed, twisting around in place, howling his anger. Harry forced his arm up again, grin turning slightly demented, vengeful, as he let it fall again. Riddle screamed, a sound like shattering glass, his body falling apart at the seams, gold flakes falling to the floor like ash. Harry watched, unable to force his body to move, as Riddle fell apart, the last of the shade fading into swirling light. 

Silence took over the chamber, only broken by the dripping of water and Harry’s whimpering pants. He fell, tipping over onto his back as the glow of power keeping him moving vanished into nothing. The stone floor felt like heaven on his burning skin. He lay there, basking in the cold and staring up at the ceiling. Something clicked near him. His eyelids closed slowly and opened even slower. A musical tone got his eye to skitter in an attempt to look. Red and gold appeared above him as Fawkes hopped onto his chest. Harry coughed at the deceptively heavy bird. Another musical tone made him open his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them.  

“‘Mm sorry, Fawkes,” his voice came out hushed, barely a whisper, “Guess I’as too slow. Take-take care of Ginny, please.” 

Silk-soft feathers brushed his cheek, smoothing away bloody tears. Silver liquid dripped down Fawkes’ feathers, black eyes glossy. Drop after drop soaked Harry’s skin, but nothing happened. Harry gave a soft humorless giggle, managing to brush numb fingers under the phoenix’s eye. 

“Don’ cry. Tha’s sad,” his voice slurred together. Black eyes gazed down at him mournfully before Fawkes made himself comfortable. Heavy wings draped around him as the bird curled up on his chest, long head nuzzling into Harry’s neck. 

Fawkes was warm, Harry thought, going back to staring at the ceiling. It was a nice warmth, not like the venom at all. Flames almost seemed to lick off Fawkes’ feathers, seeping into him. A barely visible golden light bounced off his feathers. He wanted to sleep, just a bit. He was warm and tired, and everything hurt. A soft breathless sob broke through as Fawkes began to sing. Tears dug trails through the blood and muck covering his face. Warmth engulfed him as golden flames burned him away.

I don’t want to die.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up in complete darkness. Which was better than he was expecting, given he hadn’t expected to wake up at all. Every inch of his body hurt, and exhaustion clung to him like a wet cloak, or maybe that actually was his wet cloak. There was no possible way he was in the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey would sooner shave her head than let a hurt student stay in dirty clothes. Wherever he was, it was comfortable. The cushion beneath him was spongy and cool, like silk, but there was a faint burnt scent in the air. 

There was cold metal in his hand, the sword a familiar weight. He relaxed against the cushions, trying to forget the pain that was still wreaking havoc on his nerves. His fingers brushed a smooth wooden edge, following the seam of the wood to a corner and then another corner. He couldn’t bring himself to panic, exhaustion too heavy on his mind for anything else. There were voices, quiet ones, he could barely hear through the fog in his head. He was supposed to be dead or close to it. Maybe he was still in the chamber, Fawkes keeping him warm. Or maybe this was his afterlife. 

It wouldn’t be a particularly good afterlife. But maybe he didn’t deserve a good afterlife. The past two years at Hogwarts had been both the best and worst of his life, even if it was infinitely better than the Dursley’s. Being stuck in a box for the rest of eternity wasn’t too bad, all considered. He liked small spaces anyway. They reminded him of his cupboard, the one place his relatives never bothered him. What kind of box was big enough to fit a person in anyway? He lay there in the dark, half dreaming, half thinking. Exhaustion pulled at him, threatening to drag him under, even though he’d only just woken up. It was so quiet he could almost hear his heartbeat, but that was impossible. He was dead. That was why he was in a box, after all. Something about that thought wasn’t right. He was supposed to be dead, and he was in a wooden box. What was wrong with that thought?

Oh, Merlin, he was an idiot, had they buried him alive? His fingers clenched tight around the hilt of the sword, feeling the blood run down his arm. He reached forward or upward, he didn’t know. His arm felt numb and cold, pins and needles sending sparks of pain all across the limb as it brushed cool satin. A coffin. He was actually in a coffin. And he wasn’t dead, though he certainly felt like he was close to it. 

“Headmaster, one of the gates hasn’t opened.”

Headmaster? Was Dumbledore coming? He didn’t understand. His eyes fluttered as his heart began to speed up. A burning began in his chest, growing hotter and hotter the more his heart pumped. His head felt fuzzy and light. His mouth stung as nausea roiled in his stomach. 

“Oh? How rude! Sleeping through their own orientation, honestly, children these days.”

That was not Professor Dumbledore. His eyes snapped open as an echoey knock sounded on the lid of his coffin. That was not Dumbledore, he was not at Hogwarts, and he was not dead. His heart sped up, magma burning through his veins. The familiar rush of adrenaline tried to wash away his pain and only half succeeded. 

Light pierced through the darkness as the lid swung open. Gravity reasserted itself, and with it, Harry’s pain skyrocketed. He was fine. He could handle this. He’d handled 10 years with the Dursleys. He’d handled Professor Quirrel in first year. He’d handled the basilisk and Riddle just moments ago. He could handle this.

His heart said otherwise with a spasming lurch that sent him stumbling out of the coffin. His feet met hard stone. His eyes blurred, a harsh squealing rang through his head, a wave of heat rolled down his neck. He could still move, that was good. Moving meant he wasn’t dead yet.

He blinked the stars from his eyes, trying to focus on the faint voices in front of him. Coffins. So many coffins. All around him were countless floating coffins glowing with an eerie green light. Movement snapped his dwindling attention to a group of blurred figures. Slowly, too slowly, he adjusted to the light. A skull. That man was wearing a skull as a mask. His lungs froze in his chest as a memory forced itself to the surface.

“Death Eaters were the servants of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, identified by their ivory skull-like masks.”

But this mask wasn’t ivory, and it wasn’t human either, more bird-like than anything else. What did that mean? His flagging brain strained to comprehend anything other than the sharp burning-freezing agony coursing through him.

“The only exception to the typical Death Eater uniform was what became known as the ‘Inner Circle’. These were the elite of the Dark Lord’s armies. These witches and wizards were allegedly given leave to customize their uniforms, often in the form of their skull masks. Each Inner Circle member had a different mask to differentiate them from the Dark Lord’s ordinary servants.”

The thought had barely fully formed before he forced the sword of Gryffindor up. The silver-white sword buzzed eagerly in his hand, feeling almost alive as it sent tingles of electricity up and down his fingers. He tried forcing his other arm up with no response, only more pins and needles, but that was fine. He was fine. He could work with one arm. He grinned through the pain, through the fear. Grinned like Professor Flitwick the one time Harry had ever seen the man angry. He grinned like the goblins in Gringotts, with bloodstained teeth and vengeance in his heart. His mouth stretched and contorted, lips cracking and sending a new surge of fresh blood across his teeth. Death Eater, that’s what that man was. Black crawled insidiously at the edges of his vision, the ringing in his head growing louder. There was a crowd of them, all adults, all threats, only one with a mask. He let out a slow breath as his lungs finally began to work again. This was old territory, he could handle this. Adults were the enemy, as usual. Dark wizards were the enemy, that he’d only learned in the last two years, but it fit well enough. He could handle this. 

It was getting hard to think. His eyes blinked slower and slower with each second that passed, harder to open each time. He didn’t realize they’d closed and hadn’t opened until the soft scrape of leather on stone made them snap open. He struggled to focus through half-open eyes, the world swimming in blacks and greens. There was a boy? He blinked harder, trying to force himself to focus. Yes, there was a boy-

 No, that was an adult.

 Yes, an adult. 

A very short adult. 

Harry could almost feel his brain slowing down. There was an adult walking towards him, but no matter how much he wanted to, Harry couldn’t make himself back up. His legs wouldn’t listen to him, only sliding a bit back, but that was okay, Harry could see the man better this way. He opened his eyes again, and the man was halfway across the room. The other adults behind him seemed to take a step back and away from the man. 

A spark of curiosity managed to worm its way past the confusion and fear pumping adrenaline through his veins. Pink. The man had dark pink highlights in his black hair and bright electric green formal clothes. He had to be hallucinating, right? Right. There was no way an adult would have hair like that or clothes like that. That was just too…not normal. Adults weren’t not-normal. Harry was not-normal; the Dursleys had always said so. 

Did he have horns? 

Harry blinked even harder this time. No, not horns, that was just his hair. Weird. When did he get so close? Harry tensed as the man came within arms reach, seemingly ignoring the sword in his hands. This close, Harry could see the man wasn’t very much taller than he was. Slowly, gently, the man knelt before him. Harry sucked in a harsh breath, lungs wheezing with every pull. His eyes were red. Not like Voldemort’s. Not like any Harry had ever seen before. It wasn’t like the vampires they’d learned about in DADA, not the red of rotting blood. No, this was bright crimson. This was the red of the candy apples he’d never been allowed to eat. The red of maraschino cherries. 

And above all, they were soft, kind. Harry felt his heart twist in his chest, and this time he didn’t think it was from the basilisk venom. It was a sharp pain that brought tears to his eyes, blurring them even further. Those eyes were impossibly gentle. They couldn’t be looking at him. No adult ever looked at him like that. He wasn’t meant for looks like that. Those were for Dudley and Ron and Hermione and anyone that wasn’t Harry Potter. Not him, never him.

“It’s alright now, Little One.” 

What? That couldn’t be for him. He wasn’t little. He was short, but he’d never been called little, not like that. Not like it meant something far softer. This-this couldn’t be real. This wasn’t for Harry. Harry was dead, and this was his punishment because no adult would ever look at him like that. No adult would ever talk to him like that. 

A pale, way too pale to be normal, hand reached out, and Harry couldn’t do anything but watch as slender fingers cupped his hand. Warm, it was warm. Warmth radiated from those fingers, seeping into his skin and straight down to his soul. They pried his far smaller ones from the grip of the sword deftly. Harry didn’t fight it, he didn’t think he had the strength to fight it. The man took the sword from him so gently, so softly, and ever so slowly pulled it from his blood-slick fingers. His fingers left smeared trails of copper-red on the metal grip, distorting its silvery glow. The man laid the sword down just out of reach, the blade singing out as it rasped against the stone.

“No harm will come to you here, this I swear.” 

Something in him snapped. Cold liquid beaded at his eyelids, overflowing, dripping down his face. Never in his life had an adult, had anyone, promised him something like that. He was never safe, that kind of thing wasn’t meant for him, just like this gentleness wasn’t meant for him. Something burned and broke and shattered inside him. He stumbled forward, something desperate, something hurt, something impossibly young and old cried out for that promised safety. 

He promised, he swore, so that meant he was good, right? Magic wouldn’t let him break that, Harry desperately hoped. He looked up at the man through blurry eyes and a sharp knife-filled grin that broke into something wobbly and fragile. 

“It hurts,” He whispered in a voice that felt too young to have come from him. Harry wasn’t young. Harry wasn’t a kid. Harry was- he was just Harry. He was the Dursley’s freak nephew. He was the delinquent of Little Whinging. He was Harry Potter. He wasn’t a kid, had never been a kid. 

The man smiled even softer this time, something Harry hadn’t thought possible. There was something impossibly tender about it like he knew everything Harry was thinking and disagreed. This was a smile Harry had never seen before. Not at him, not at anyone. He didn’t think it should be possible for someone to look that gentle. 

“I know, Little One.”

Chapter Text

In a split instant, Harry’s legs went numb, pins and needles spearing through them mercilessly. He stumbled, boots rasping against the stone floor. That man, there was something magnetic about him. Harry’s hand moved on its own, reaching out, almost begging. He was so tired, his lungs laboring in his too-weak chest, his entire world was burning and freezing, but still something called out to him. 

“I know, Little One.”

Tears fogged over his eyes, dripping insidiously down his cheeks, and he couldn’t decide if they burned or not. Harry whined, whined like an animal, like the freak his relatives had always called him. I know, Little One. How many nights had he spent dreaming, hoping, yearning with every ounce of his soul that someone, anyone would see, would know how much he was hurting? How many nights had he begged to be saved, and when had he stopped? When had he given up and accepted his life as his due? 

With just one sentence, all those nights, all those hopes and dreams, came rushing back. His heart cracked in his chest, leaving something broken and lonely and a thousand shades of pain in its place. It hurt, it hurt like a dam had been opened inside him, and eleven years of abandonment and cruelty came pouring out. He took a step forward, toward that weird man with the pink highlights, and his body, beaten and battered and burning and freezing, gave out on him. His legs trembled, and numbness raced up them, banishing the pins and needles and leaving a complete lack of feeling. The floor rushed up to meet him, but his knees hadn’t even touched the floor before cool arms caught him. 

Harry curled toward that blessed relief, the blood boiling in his veins beginning to cool. Silken fabric crinkled in his hand, slipping between his fingers. He burrowed into that pristine, too-white shirt, like a snake seeking heat. The scent of fresh rain and rotting leaves paired with damp stone, and nearly hidden under it all the scent of a lightning storm. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he lurched forward, trying desperately to stop the treacherous tears that leaked from his eyes. He couldn’t cry. Crying was useless and always made his head hurt, but for some reason, the tears wouldn’t stop. They burned down his sticky cheeks and soaked into the fabric. Arms curled around him, squeezing him tight before lifting him. 

He would’ve squeaked if he could breathe past his tears. Deft hands gently grabbed his, guiding them around the man’s neck while an arm went under his legs, propping him up on the man’s hip. His mind went hazy as his head was tucked against the man’s collar, the scent of rain and stone even stronger. For a second, gravity and time stopped. 

He was being held. Actually held. Like a child. He clasped his hands together behind the man’s neck and buried his face into the man’s shoulder. He’d never been held before. Part of him, the part that had always associated “adult”  with “threat”, screamed for him to fight, to bite, to get this man to let. Him. Go. Another part of him, somewhere deeper down, the part that had watched as Dudley was carried off in Uncle Vernon’s arms after a long night watching the telly, hungered for more. Harry had always been jealous. Always. Always. Always. Other children got picked up from school and hugged and given toys and presents, and cupcakes on their birthdays. And what did Harry get? Nothing. Harry got nothing. 

Harry was never held. Harry was never hugged. Harry never got presents or cupcakes. Harry didn’t get any of these things and he was jealous. Every time Dudley got a hug or a kiss from Aunt Petunia, something in Harry writhed, yearned, and cursed. It was that jealous part of him that led him to little petty acts of revenge. Vernon’s keys went missing in the mornings, his oxfords fell apart, and his credit cards would stop working. Petunia was harder to get, being in the house at all hours of the day, but eventually, her dresses would come out of the wash with oil spots, and the sugar containers would be switched with the salt. Sometimes, Harry thought those little acts of vengeance were the only things keeping him sane in that house. 

Harry didn’t think he’d ever been touched in a nice way until Hogwarts, until Ron started dragging him around by his arm, until Hermione started grabbing his hand at every opportunity. They didn’t even seem to notice it, but it stuck out like a burning lightbulb in a dark desolate room to Harry. Getting touched sent near-painful tingles through his skin, but somehow he still craved it, still craved the burning touch and the trails of sensation it left on his skin. Harry thought he’d drowned that part of him, the part that begged in the sanctity of his mind for someone to love him. Harry wanted to be held. He wanted to be hugged and kissed good night. He wanted cupcakes on his birthday and maybe even presents too. He wanted clothes that fit and shoes that weren’t falling apart. He wanted long nights in front of the telly with popcorn. He wanted to be carried up to a room that didn’t have bars on the window. 

Harry Potter desperately wanted to be loved. He wanted it so badly it hurt, his heart twisting in his chest every time he thought about it too long. So when a hand, gentle and cool, cupped the back of his head and petted his bloody, muddy hair, Harry felt that tiny part of himself he’d hidden for so long cry out. He barely had time to smother his sobs before gravity literally abandoned them. The arm around him tightened, pressing him closer, as they left the floor. Then they were moving, drifting through the room. Harry could feel the adults on the other side of the room shift away, making a path for them.

“Crowley, I believe the infirmary would be the best place to relocate, yes?” 

He could feel the man’s chest vibrate with every word. His deep, almost lyrical, voice like a lullaby. Harry pressed his ear harder against his shoulder, listening to the way his lungs wooshed and his heart thudded. Hypnotized and buried in fabric, he completely missed leaving the room. The steady thump-thump of the man’s heartbeat lulled him into a half-asleep state. The pain throbbing through him felt distant, like a sound underwater. He drifted through half-lidded eyes and an unending exhaustion. The halls passed in blurs of color and vague sound, indistinct as they flowed around him. 

 It wasn’t until the sharp scent of antiseptic burned his nose that he came back to himself. Plush white beds lined the walls, curtains drawn back. All empty. A hospital wing. That’s where he was. Harry let out a soft huff. Figure that’s where he’d end up. He expected to be put down, to feel the rock-hard mattress that always came with a visit to the hospital wing. He expected a plump witch to come bustling in with a sharp word. He expected potions to be poured down his throat, fighting not to gag at the completely rancid taste that always came with them. 

He didn’t get any of that.

He wasn’t at Hogwarts, he told himself. These beds were too big, too soft looking. There was no Madam Pomfrey organizing shelves. There were no statues. No students lying too still on hard beds like they had for months. There was no Hermione, hand outstretched with a mirror clutched in a bone-white grip. No Collin Creevy with his camera destroyed. This was not Hogwarts. He didn’t know what to think about the bone-shaking relief that thought gave him. He shouldn’t be relieved. Hogwarts was his home, the only home he’d ever had. Every year he’d dreaded leaving the castle, dreaded having to return to Privet Drive and his relatives and everything that came with them. 

 The numbness in his legs crept higher, slowly, insidiously, torturously, moving up over his knees to his thighs. The muscles quivered, falling limp in the man’s hold. A humm came from above him, hands tightening around him. Harry squeaked when the hospital wing suddenly flipped upside down, arms tightening around a thin, pale neck. A deep, rolling chuckle vibrated through the man holding him, sinking down into Harry’s bones, a soft, gentle warmth growing somewhere deep in his chest, so incredibly different from the roiling, wrathful heat that melted his veins. Gravity reasserted itself, pressing Harry against the man and then they were floating, drifting leisurely down to one of the thick beds. Harry’s head lulled, swimming in colors and lights and sounds. A faint ringing buzz pierced the fog in his brain. His heartbeat thumped slow and faint at his temples. Shadows crawled along his mind, lulling him, drowning him. There was a voice above him, hands prodding at him. Time lost all meaning, flowing around him without direction. A blink took a thousand years. A heartbeat, a thousand more. Each breath was slow, his lungs sputtering with every intake. 

He felt like he was floating underwater, the world outside moving so radically apart from him. A soft humming echoed through the water, pulling at his attention. The lights blurred, dimming, as he opened his eyes again. His next breath was a gasp that sent him lurching to the side, shivering and shaking as a deep glacier cold pierced his skin. It froze his blood solid, crystalizing his veins, spreading from his heart. Glass shards splintered in his chest, and he couldn’t breathe. His lungs shattered with every choking inhale of frigid air. Hands clutched at him, holding him tight. He blinked rapidly, forcing the film from his eyes, and tried to think past the unending cold. He felt like untempered glass, fragile and thin and on the verge of bursting apart at the seams. He needed something, anything, to distract him, to stop the screaming in his mind. Agony tore at his throat, desperately wanting to be let free. 

He fought back the pain with clenched, grinding, teeth and forced himself to focus past the black shadows at the edge of his sight. There was something dark covering him. Something dark and leathery stretched around him like a cocoon, blocking out the light and scent of the hospital ward. The smell of rocks and deep damp caves surrounded him, filtering into his lungs with every shallow pull. Only a small arrow of light pierced the dark haven, lighting the inside with a dull white-blue glow. 

 He lay curled up in a ball on a living pillow. Soft, warm, gusts of air ruffled his hair, and his pillow rose and fell steadily. Harry shifted, weak but needing to know where he was. He caught pale skin and gleaming red eyes as he turned onto his stomach, elbows stabbing into soft flesh.

“Awake now, Little One?” 

Bright, glowing, crimson-red eyes peered down at him from a deathly pale face framed by black and pink hair. Harry’s breath caught in his lungs. He hadn’t been able to see anything past blurry colors in the odd room, but now, close up, the man was… otherworldly. His skin was pale and silvery like moonlight given physical form, glowing with a pale light in the dark. His hair was dark and silken, so very different from Harry’s own, with magenta streaks breaking up the darkness. Thick eyelashes framed candy-red eyes, dark black-green makeup shadowing his eyelids. Long pointed ears poked through his curtain of hair, elf-like and completely inhuman. A pair of pearly white curved fangs interrupted his cheery smile. 

“What are you?” Harry whispered, awe and curiosity mixing with the slightest hint of fear. Harry had buried his curiosity years ago. Curiosity got him yelled at and hit. Curiosity got him kicked out into the yard on the hottest days of summer. Curiosity led him to a room with a three-headed dog and a mirror that showed him what he could never have. Curiosity was never a good thing for him to have, he’d learned that years ago, but he couldn’t help it sometimes. Sometimes, there was just too much temptation to know. That was what had driven him to wander the castle so late at night, hidden beneath a cloak nobody could see through. It was a pressure on his mind, a sort of restlessness, a voracious need to understand. 

He felt that same odd restlessness now, staring at the face of something, someone, so far out of what he thought of as normal, as human. What was he? Why were his ears pointy? Why did he have fangs? Was he a weird vampire hybrid? Why was his hair pink, was it dyed? Harry wanted to know everything. 

“Oh? What am I?” Amusement curled around the man’s words, lightening his deep voice. The man cocked his head to the side, and something about it reminded Harry of one of Mrs. Figg's cats whenever they saw a bug. There was something distinctly predatory about the gaze on him, but Harry’s eyes were stuck on the pointed ears that twitched higher with the movement. 

“That’ll cost you, Little One,” he murmured softly, darkly, like he was sharing a secret. Harry looked back into his eyes, away from the oddly fascinating ears. His brows furrowed, scrunching up his nose. 

“Cost me what? I don’t think I have any money; it’s all in my trunk,” he didn’t know why he felt the need to say that. His head still felt light, sharper than before, but it still swam with an annoyingly familiar numb cloudiness. 

The man’s smile widened, fangs on full display, red eyes glimmering. His smile twisted at the edges, giving way to an almost sadistic grin. A hand smoothed back Harry’s hair almost lovingly, tenderly, fingers trailing along the shell of his ear. 

“I’ve no need for silver and gold, Child,” he giggled like the very notion was amusing, “No, no coin would be worth a trade.” He hummed, a purring noise that vibrated through Harry, “Tell me then, Child, and I shall tell you. What are you?” 

Harry’s head turned, tilting to the side, unintentionally mimicking the man. A confused frown found its way to his face as he chewed on his lip. The taste of copper made him grimace, wiping at his face with an even more bloody hand. It was like talking to the Ravenclaw dorm door knocker all over again, not that Harry had tried talking to it more than once. He looked down at his hand, splayed across the man’s chest, smearing blood on an already bloody white shirt. 

He was human. That wasn’t the answer, though. At least not the right answer. It was too obvious that he was human, because what else would he be? He didn’t have pointy ears or fangs or red eyes. He was just him. Just Harry. He was just Harry. That was what he wanted to be anyway, not that he thought the wizarding world would ever let him. Harry was young, not dumb. But that still didn’t answer the question! He couldn’t say he was “just Harry”. That was who he was, not what he was. 

Harry groaned softly, digging his face into the soft fabric below him. But if he wasn’t Harry, then what was he? This felt exactly like talking to the Ravenclaw doorknocker. Riddles, riddles, and more stupid riddles. What was he? He was just him. He was a wizard, and that thought still made him feel giddy even after 2 years. He was a second-year Gryffindor. He was the one everyone loved to blame, whether it was his relatives or the other students. He was always the one blamed. 

His nose burned, tears pooling in his eyes. He was also, apparently, turning into a crybaby. The man made a soft, almost startled, noise and brushed Harry’s hair back. Harry pushed back the part of him that wanted to lean into the touch and the part of him that wanted to hiss like a feral cat, turning his attention back to his dilemma. 

He was a Gryffindor Quidditch player. He stifled a scoff at that thought, because really, like that was worth anything. But Harry was average in pretty much every other way. He wasn’t a genius with magic like Hermione or a chess master like Ron. There was one thing that made him stand out, not that he liked it at all, and he definitely didn’t want to tell the man. But maybe that was the answer. He rolled the idea around a bit, weighing his options. Was it worth it? 

He lifted his head just high enough to look at the man’s face again. He wasn’t looking at him anymore, eyes closed peacefully like he couldn’t care less about what Harry said or did.

  No, Harry decided, it wasn’t worth it.

There was only one answer Harry could come up with, and it wasn’t worth it. It was the first thing he’d learned about himself in the wizarding world. The first thing that had actual worth was not his vault or his magic, but something that had been given to him. The one thing that gave him any amount of value to the rest of the world.

 Somehow, Harry didn’t think the man knew who he was. It was weird, in a way, to not be recognized, even with his scar on full display. He didn’t want to lose that. There was a kind of safety that came with not being recognized, Harry had found. It was another thing he’d learned years ago. The only teachers who weren’t weird to him were the ones who didn’t know all the things the Dursleys liked to say about him. He hoped the same could be said for the wizarding world. He’d never not been recognized in Diagon Alley, but maybe it was different here. 

He was Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, and that gave him worth, no matter how much he hated it. He was either hated or obsessed over. He wasn’t oblivious to it, even if Hermione and Ron thought he was. He just tried to ignore it as much as he could, like it would go away if he purposely didn’t think about it. 

It wasn’t worth it. He wanted to keep this strange peace and warmth, and if that made him selfish or stupid, then so be it. Harry Potter wasn’t a name to him anymore, it was a title. It was what he was, not who. Harry didn’t even know who he was anymore, and lying in an infirmary bed was most definitely not the place for him to realize that. It made him feel empty in a way, like something immeasurably important had been taken from him. 

Harry Potter was The-Boy-Who-Lived. Harry Potter was the hero. Harry Potter was the Gryffindor seeker, the youngest in over a century. Harry Potter was Hogwarts’ local celebrity, admired and hated in the same breath. Harry Potter was not a twelve-year-old boy trying not to cry in a hospital room. 

Harry took a short shallow breath, held it, and released it slowly, pushing back the burning in his nose and the way his throat felt tight. He was not going to cry. He was not going to cry. So what if his name didn’t feel like a name anymore? It didn’t matter. It was just a stupid name! So what if it didn’t feel like it was his anymore? He didn’t own a name. That was impossible. So impossible, he shouldn’t even be thinking about it. 

He shook his head, swaying slightly when his neck went weak, and pressed his forehead into the warm chest below him. He needed an answer, one that wouldn’t get him killed or held for ransom. He needed to think, but it was so hard to focus when his heart kept sending shards of glass through his chest, and he couldn’t tell if that was from the venom or the stupid attachment he had to what he was beginning to realize was a name that wasn’t even his anymore. 

What was he? A random twelve-year-old who really didn’t want to be wherever he was. Okay, he could do this. He just had to find something. What was he? Something important but not too important. His teeth ground together as he searched through every memory he had for an answer. 

What was he? The last Potter? Harry let out a soft bitter laugh. Yeah, that was a perfect answer. Harry personally thought that little tidbit was pretty damn important, but apparently, nobody else did, given not a single person had ever thought to tell him. No, Harry had to find that out himself! As much as his professors probably liked to think, Harry actually did read. He’d spent at least a month scouring the library for anything about his parents, about his family, about, well, anything. After Hermione’s word vomit on the train, he’d practically consumed every book he could get his hands on that even so much as mentioned the name Potter. 

That was how he’d found out. Alone. In a library. 

That was how he found out he didn’t have a family. It was one thing to find out his parents had been murdered, he’d always known they were dead. It was something completely different to find out his entire bloodline had been wiped out. Every. Single. Relative. No matter how distant. He’d had cousins. He’d had aunts and uncles, grandparents and great-grandparents. The Potters had been a pureblood family, a pureblood House. Harry hadn’t even known what that had meant. It meant branches, an entire family tree with so many branches it took up three entire pages in the book he’d found it in. It meant hundreds of years of history. 

Harry remembered sitting in front of the Mirror of Erised and seeing dozens of faces. Children running back and forth across the frame, his cousins and aunts and uncles. Harry should have never been alone. That was what he’d learned in that library, from those books. The Potters had been a close-knit family, and Harry would’ve grown up with dozens of friends, of relatives, his own age.

That hadn’t happened, though. It hadn’t happened because the Death Eaters, because Voldemort, had hunted-

Them.

 Down.  

Every last one. Every last Potter. Gone. They’d been slaughtered, like rabbits. His family had been hunted and slaughtered like animals. Harry was the last. Out of dozens of innocent people, Harry was the only one who survived. Harry was the one left with a legacy of the dead and no idea how to shoulder it. 

That was what he was. He was the last one. The last link to a bloodline, to a family, that had been around for hundreds of years. Even if he’d never known them, they were still closer to family than the Dursleys ever would be. His family was dead, and Harry was alone. That had been a constant, his entire life. It was something he’d always known, even if he hadn't understood. 

“I think I have an answer,” Harry whispered in a raspy, ghost-like, voice. 

“Oh? Then what are you, Child?” The man whispered in an equally quiet voice, his eyes not opening, still just as relaxed as he’d been the last time Harry looked at him.

Harry swallowed harshly and cleared his throat, trying to prepare himself to say the one thing he’d tried avoiding his entire life, as short as it was. 

“I’m an orphan.”

Chapter Text

There was a moment of silence and stillness after his proclamation before the man’s eyes popped open, blinking wide, almost blank startled eyes up at the canopy of their cocoon. Harry watched him warily, confusion warring with awe as the man’s ears twitched up and down and those dully glowing red eyes came to rest on him.

“Huh,” came a faint sound of realization, breaking the silence between them for only a moment before the man lapsed back into a dazed quiet. Harry dithered, swaying between wanting to say something and staying quiet. 

Harry had never told anyone about him being an orphan. Dudley had gotten a strange thrill out of telling anyone he could about Harry not having parents, and the wizarding world had pretty much been stalking him since birth, so there wasn’t really any need. In fact, Harry was pretty sure this was the first time he’d ever told someone. It was a bit amusing, in a way. Maybe he should’ve done this before. He could only imagine what Hermione’s reaction would have been that first meeting if he’d opened with that. It probably would've been hilarious. 

He snickered softly as he imagined what Hermione’s horror and embarrassment would’ve looked like, drawing the man’s attention back to him. Harry grinned weakly up at him, eyes glimmering in the dark, mischief lighting up the green. Red blinked back at him in stupefaction, still apparently struck dumb. Harry snickered quietly, lungs fluttering, chest aching with the movement. 

“What about you?” He asked, his voice airy and fuzzy. His eyes stayed locked on the man’s pointed ears, tracing their shape against the darkness of his hair. He didn’t quite know why he was so fascinated by them, just that they pulled at something in the back of his mind. It felt like seeing Norbert’s egg back in the sweltering heat of Hagrid’s hut back in first year. It pulled and tugged at him, at his heart and mind, drawing him in like a fly to honey. He was fascinated, captivated, utterly ensnared by the sight. 

Harry was a slave to his curiosity. That insatiable need for knowledge had been beaten and battered and stomped on the entire decade he’d spent with the Dursleys, but Hogwarts had brought it back from the dead. Magic had brought it back, had breathed new life into the withered husk that was Harry’s curiosity. Only it’d gotten a bit… twisted along the way. He didn’t search the library obsessively like he would’ve back when he was little and the library was his only escape from Dudley’s gang. Books only held his interest when he got caught on a subject that spurred him on, like his family’s history or the war his parents and grandparents had fought and died for. No, books didn’t hold his attention usually, didn’t draw him in and consume him. That dubious honor went to his Adventures, to his reckless chase after the mysteries around him. He wandered the castle after dark in search of all the nooks and crannies that held Hogwarts’ secrets. He looked into mirrors that showed him things that could never be. He followed spiders into a wood that had proven time and time again that it wanted him dead. He smuggled a hatchling dragon out of the castle in the dead of night. 

Harry Potter was drawn to the kind of knowledge that would get him killed. He thirsted for it like a dying man. As much as Harry said over and over that he wanted to be normal, he never would be, not while his curiosity pushed him, and his need to save others propelled him even further. 

It was that drive to know, that pull from his heart, that pushed him to ask again, “What are you?” 

The man gazed down at him, a smile slowly growing across his black-painted lips. Those candy-red eyes softened and sharpened, something secretive leeching into them. A type of tension pressed down around them, the air growing heavy. Harry’s lungs ground to a halt in his chest, but his attention didn’t waver from the ethereal being. 

Soft skin brushed his as the being cupped his cheek, black nails a stark contrast to the glowingly white skin. His thumb grazed Harry’s lower eyelid, the nail digging in just enough to feel the sharpness against the delicate flesh. Harry didn’t move, didn’t flinch away. He gazed back into red-red- red eyes that held time captive and felt awe flow through him. Something wound tight around him, like a noose, like a snake, like a collar and leash, like the hug of a parent, though that was a feeling Harry had never known. Something like fear stirred deep in his chest. 

This wasn’t the fear of a stranger, not the fear of the unknown or a threat. No, this was an instinctual rise. This was the creeping fear that came with looking into a patch of woods in the night. This was the darkness that looked back from between the trees, an invisible pair of eyes and hands waiting for you to come just a bit closer. This was the fear that had children crowding into the center of their mattress, staring in mute horror at the face in the closet no one else could see. This was the fear you felt looking down into deep water, knowing miles stretched below you and everything knew where you were. 

Fangs glinted from a twistedly tender smile, and deceptively bright eyes held darkness in their depths. 

“Oh, what a dangerous game you play, you clever child,” his voice was lyrical, musical, enticing, like magic and temptation given sound, “What am I, indeed?” 

He chuckled, dark and light and everything in-between and other. Harry was a moth and he was an open flame, bright and dangerous even when the darkness was his own creation. Harry was small in comparison to this creature, and it was only now that he was starting to understand that. Even as fear joined awe in his heart, something else stirred too, something deeper, something Harry had buried so deep so long ago he couldn’t remember a time he’d felt it this clearly. Harry latched onto it with a terrible ferocity born from long-held desperation. He dug his nails so deeply into that feeling he could feel it bubble in his soul, could taste it sparking like electricity and spice on his tongue. He buried himself in that feeling, that utterly subjugating feeling of Kinship. 

“I, child,” he paused, grin widening around too long, too sharp teeth, “am Lilia Vanrouge, Fae of the Autumn Court.”

Pressure…

Pressure, gravity, magic crushed down on him with every word. Static whited out all thought, and from the blank slate of his mind rose images. 

Roses and briars and thorns twisting, ensnaring, holding fast to meat-stripped corpses. Gleaming gold and tarnished silver. Apples hung heavy with dripping crimson, sweet juices trailing down branches and trunks. Berries crushed underfoot leaked scarlet into green-emerald grass. The trees were dipped in copper and brass, sparkling, glowing in the dusk light. Music rang out, followed by the gliding and dragging of feet. A festival built on the bones of others, the living dancing upon them with bleeding feet.

Chapter Text

Harry came to with writhing gasps, hands spasming. Trembles ran down every centimeter of his body, shaking him down to his core, to his soul. Soft, soothing humming surrounded him as hands rubbed his back and smoothed down his frazzled hair. The scent of magic was heavy in the air, overtaking the iron scent of his blood and replacing it with ozone and petrichor. The air practically dripped with power, laying over him, seeping into him, and joining the conflicting heat and frigid cold in his soul. 

He wanted to say something, do something, but he couldn’t do more than struggle to breathe. Each breath brought in more of that power-saturated air, filling his lungs with near-golden-hued air. He blinked lethargically, barely noticing the light surrounding him and the lack of a body beneath him. 

There were voices, a crowd of them, all surrounding him. Blindingly white coats outlined with crimson red fluttered around the crowd of bodies, dragging his attention to the swishing cloth. There were three different people moving around him as a floating gurney was moved next to his bed. 

“Be at ease, Littlest One. The white mages are here now, they’ll be taking you to a hospital shortly.” 

Harry forced his eyes away from the glimmering white cloaks, tracking the familiar voice. He twisted around, a hand reaching out towards the fae on reflex. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to do. The white-cloaked adults instantly flew into a frenzy, speaking in a rapid-paced language that was most definitely not English. Lilia Vanrouge of The Autumn Court backed away, hands held up as one of the cloaked individuals practically stalked towards him. It would’ve worried Harry if the fae hadn’t been smiling playfully, fangs peeking out and red eyes glimmering. 

A set of unfamiliar hands grabbed him in gentle but firm holds, attempting to turn him back onto his side. Harry squirmed, fighting back with what little strength he could, trying to keep his eyes on- 

Lilia? No, that would be too familiar; he hadn’t been given permission to use his name. Mr. Vanrouge? Could he call him that? Did he need to ask to call him by his name? He really wished they’d covered more about the Fae at Hogwarts. They’d only barely covered the Summer and Winter Courts in DADA, and even then, they’d only covered sprites, goblins, and cornish pixies. Most of the stuff they’d covered on Goblins was in History of Magic with the Goblin Wars, and there was no way Mr. Vanrouge was a Goblin. The ears were pretty much the only similar thing between them.

One of the white-cloaked people, a blond man, looked at him intently, lips moving slowly, swishing a pen around his head. Harry gave him a Look, one that spoke of just how insane Harry thought he was. His eyes darted between the pen and the intense-looking man, trying to inch away subtly. Who swishes a pen at someone? A pen? He could understand a wand, that made sense, but a pen of all things? 

Harry managed to twist his head back around just enough to see Mr. Vanrouge getting what seemed like a lecture from a woman dressed in the same white robes as the man with the pen. Some part of him hoped Mr. Vanrouge would notice and actually stop the pen-waving weirdness, but it was not to be. A finger tapped him on the shoulder, bringing him back to the blond man. He spoke, and Harry stared with wide eyes and a slightly panicked frown. He couldn’t understand a single thing the man said. Not. A. Single. Word. 

Harry had personally never met someone who didn’t know English, and this entire situation was quickly moving past what he was comfortable with. His eyes darted around as the man repeated himself, desperately searching for an escape from what was quickly becoming a very awkward, one-sided conversation. He found himself drawn back to Mr. Vanrouge, the fae now speaking in the same slurring, huffing language as the blond man. 

Part of him wanted to call out to the only person in the room who could probably understand him; the other part of him hissed about the dangers of debts. All the books, History of Magic and DADA, said not to get indebted to the Fae. There was bad blood between Fae and Wizards, a lot of it. There were wars going back entire millennia, all the way back to Godric Gryffindor, mostly with Goblins. He knew there were rules to follow, but he’d never actually thought he’d have to use them! The only ones he could remember were the ones he’d found while looking for a way to stop Dobby from trying to kill him. 

He gave Mr. Vanrouge another look out of the corner of his eye, ignoring the charades the blond man had resorted to. Mr. Vanrouge wasn’t a house elf, obviously, but maybe those rules would work here. He could only remember a handful of them, though. Hopefully, he wouldn’t get kidnapped or something. 

So absorbed with his thoughts, Harry missed the blond man sighing before lifting his pen. Harry yelped and flailed as gravity abandoned him for the second time that night, drawing attention from the rest of the room. The woman talking with Mr. Vanrouge hissed, actually hissed, and Harry was almost convinced she’d spoken parseltongue. She stalked across the room with long strides, Mr. Vanrouge in her wake, eyes practically on fire. 

Harry was only in the air for a second or two before he touched back down on the floating gurney. That second or two was more than enough for the woman to make her way to his side, her own pen making an appearance. This close, Harry could make out the crimson lining around her robe and the golden embroidered half-moon symbol on her sleeve. She spoke in a harsh, fast-paced, clipped tone to the blond man as she dragged her pen in figure eights above Harry. Whatever he had to say must not have been good because she turned and practically barked out orders to the other white-robed adult who had been going through what looked like potion vials. 

It was only as the gurney began to move that Harry realized Mr. Vanrouge wasn’t following. His heart jumped in his chest, sending a shockwave of pain through his veins. He twisted around, ignoring the hands that tried to hold him steady, eyes wide and panic beginning to flood through him. 

“Wait, hold on! Aren’t you coming too?” Harry blurted out, struggling against the nurse-paramedics- whatever they were. The woman clicked her tongue, but Mr. Vanrouge only raised an eyebrow at her, a smug tinge to his seemingly ever-present grin. She sneered at him, ears pinning back against her hair. 

Harry’s eyes snapped up to her head, wide and disbelieving, mouth falling open with soundless confusion. He blinked and blinked again when the cat ears didn’t disappear. 

“You have cat ears on your head,” Harry blurted out, voice soft and whispery like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. And really, he couldn’t. There were cat ears on her head and she was acting like that was normal. Was that normal? Did people just have animal ears here? 

That got her attention, though, her brows furrowing as she leaned closer to Harry, pen once again waving. Harry got the distinct feeling he’d said something wrong as Mr. Vanrouge stepped closer. Harry’s hand darted out the moment he came within arms reach, latching onto his jacket with an iron grip. They’d have to physically pry Harry from him because there was no possible way Harry was going anywhere with them without Mr. Vanrouge. 

“You’re coming too, aren’t you, Mr. Vanrouge?” Harry gave the fae his most pitiful, innocent, puppy-like look he could. The fae in question grew tense, his smile straining at the edges as his eyes burned into the cat-eared woman. 

“ Unfortunately,” the woman began in a sharp warning tone, “Your companion will be unable to join us.” 

Oh, oh, Harry did not like that tone. It was the same tone his uncle used when talking about immigrants and homeless people. It was the same way Malfoy talked about muggleborns and half-bloods. It was disdain and scorn hidden under a thin veneer of superiority, something that made the wild, vengeful part of him pop to attention. His eyes narrowed, bright green and mischievous, as his mind raced. There was absolutely no way he was leaving without Mr. Vanrouge, if only because he wanted to crush that false superiority beneath his heel. Spite had always been a powerful motivator for Harry, especially if it involved adults. 

So, in typically Harry Potter style, he asked the one question that always set his relatives off.

“Why not?” 

Harry glanced back at Mr. Vanrouge when the being shifted. Red eyes shifted away as a slight grimace formed across Mr. Vanrouge’s face. The woman glared harder, a calico tail flicking agitatedly behind her. 

“Because it is the law, young man. As an unaffiliated adult Fae, Sir Vanrouge is not permitted within the premises of a pediatric medical facility. Therefore, he will not be accompanying us. Truthfully, he and any other Fae should’ve been separated from you upon discovery.”

Harry only got half of that, feeling woefully out of his depth, but his confusion was swiftly overtaken by indignant anger. His eyes widened, mouth twisting into a scowl as his nose scrunched up. Heat bloomed in his chest, chasing away the frigid cold, leaving pins and needles to race down his arms and legs. He couldn’t understand everything she was saying, but he could more than understand what she was getting at. 

“You’re saying he can’t come because he’s not human?” Harry spat the word like it was an insult, and really, it may as well have been. In his experience, humans were horrible, terrible creatures. Not a single person had ever helped him at the Dursleys, and only Hagrid had ever helped him in the wizarding world. Harry knew the way the Dursleys treated him wasn’t right; he’d seen enough parents with their kids to know that adults shouldn’t hit children, but that didn’t mean anyone had ever helped him. 

It was even worse in the magical world! At least in the muggle world, the adults could make excuses, but the magical world? Everyone knew what had happened last year, and Harry was willing to bet that everyone had already heard about the chamber of secrets by now too. Had any of their teachers ever listened to them, listened to him? No! Of course not! Everything in his life had made it absolutely crystal clear that humans did not care.  

In Harry’s opinion, animals were better by far. Hedwig cared more than anyone in his life ever had! She brought him mice, and that was more than any human had ever done. Before Hedwig, the neighborhood cats had practically rallied around him, probably because of how much time he spent at Mrs. Figgs. They were the ones who had hissed and scratched and growled at Dudley and his gang whenever they chased Harry down Wisteria Walk. Animals had shown him more kindness and more mercy than any human. 

Dobby was the first non-human person Harry had ever actually met, and well, the only thing Harry could really say was he was at least trying to help. It wasn’t great, not by a long shot, but at least Dobby was trying. Even if Harry really wished he would stop. 

“That’s stupid!” 

“We don’t have time for this,” the woman muttered, massaging the bridge of her nose. With a wave of her pen, the gurney started moving. Harry’s eyes went wide before he physically wrenched himself around and latched onto Mr. Vanrouge’s arm, hugging the appendage tight. The man let out a soft grunt as Harry buried his face in his coat sleeve. The gurney instantly came to a halt, freezing in midair, Harry hanging halfway off it. 

“Child, stop this!” Now, the woman actually sounded concerned, her voice overly strict and tight, “Sir Vanrouge can not accompany us; this is not up for debate. You need medical care, extensive medical care we aren’t capable of providing here.”

“Then leave! I don’t need you!” Harry shouted, voice muffled as he took in breath after breath of Mr. Vanrouge’s forest-like scent. Harry was nothing if not stubborn; if he said he wasn’t leaving without Mr. Vanrouge, then that was that. 

“Oh dear,” Mr. Vanrouge huffed quietly, his voice light and bubbly, positively brimming with amusement. Harry could practically hear the grin in his voice, but it only seemed to make the woman angrier.

“Child, if you don’t obey my medical authority, I will be forced to restrain you for your own good. You’re in a delicate enough situation, Sir Vanrouge, I suggest removing yourself before your presence makes the situation worse than it already is.” 

Harry whipped his head around, teeth bared, and a rumble building in his chest because that sounded like a threat, and Harry Potter did not respond well to threats. 

“He’s coming with us,” Harry growled out, throat burning and fire bubbling in his stomach. 

“He is not. Sir Vanrouge already has one charge of child theft on his record, and I would very much not like to add another.” 

“Well, nobody asked you,” Harry snapped back in his most waspish tone, mimicking his aunt’s tea party arguments. Part of his mind latched on to the child theft accusation, but he pushed it aside. He could deal with that later. There was no possible way Mr. Vanrouge kidnapped someone, he just didn’t seem the type. That was more the kind of thing people like Mr. Malfoy would do, and Mr. Vanrouge was nothing like Mr. Malfoy. Even if Fae actually did steal children, Harry doubted Mr. Vanrouge would steal him. Why would he? Harry wasn’t worth stealing if nobody knew who he was, so all he had to do was make sure nobody figured out he was Harry Potter.

“Well then, this is quite the conundrum,” Mr. Vanrouge said with a soft laugh.

“ Sir Vanrouge! ”

Harry hissed like a feral cat, lips pulled back and teeth on display. Maybe it was the long years spent with only the neighborhood cats as friendly company, or maybe it was all the time he’d spent with Hedwig, but the sound that ripped from his throat did not, under any circumstance, sound anywhere close to human. It brought something to mind, though, and a plan started to form. It was devious, clever, and positively Slytherin. As much as doing anything Slytherin left a bad taste in his mouth, if it meant Mr. Vanrouge could come with him then he’d go through with it.

“Don’t talk to him like that! You don’t get to talk to him like that! He won’t let anything happen to me, he promised! ”

 Take the bait. Come on. Mr. Vanrouge was smart, Harry knew it. He was a Fae, so of course, he was smart. Fae played with words like children played with Play-Doh, so he had to understand what Harry was doing. Harry was far from the sharpest knife in the kitchen, but he knew his way around words. He’d played with them enough at the Dursleys to know how to spin things the way he wanted. 

The woman stilled, pen half raised, and the hair along Harry’s neck rose. Hawk yellow eyes glared at Mr. Vanrouge as her tail flicked and twitched. The Fae couldn’t lie; that was what everything Harry’d read about them said. They couldn’t lie, but they could twist and contort their words. Every promise they made was binding, each an oath enforced by their very nature. 

Mr. Vanrouge’s smile was sharp, darkness lurking between his fangs. Harry could twist his words and his meaning, but he knew with an instinctual pull in his heart that the Fae were better. The Fae, this Fae in particular, were far more wily than Harry could ever be. They lived to take advantage of every situation. They were practically Slytherins by nature. If Mr. Vanrouge really didn’t want to come with, then there was no doubt in Harry’s mind that the being could slither his way out without even trying.

Mr. Vanrouge tilted his head with a soft hum, his smile coy and secretive, “Yes indeed, a promise was made. It’d be quite remiss of me to leave it unfulfilled, wouldn’t you say, Madame Criquet.” 

The woman, Madame Criquet, worked her jaw, glaring daggers at Mr. Vanrouge. Not that the man seemed to mind at all, smiling serenely back at her. Her tail curled behind her as one of her ears flicked back. 

“Very well then. In accordance with the treaty, you will be permitted entrance so long as you remain with your debtor, barring surgical treatment. At which time you will be monitored.” She turned with a dismissive flick of her tail.

Mr. Vanrouge chuckled quietly, maneuvering Harry back onto the gurney with a frightful ease. It was just as he laid Harry down, prying his hands from his cloak like Harry hadn’t been holding him in a death grip, that he leaned over. 

“Very well done, you clever, clever child,” he whispered, though his eyes were on the woman and the way her back went tense, ears pressed flat to her head. 

Harry grinned, and if there was a tiny bit of his own darkness lurking behind his teeth, nobody would ever believe it.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke slowly, bit by bit. His fingers twitched first, pins and needles running down his arms. Then his ankles rolled, smooth fabric rubbing against bare skin as goosebumps rose along his legs. It was cold, cold in the way only the infirmary had ever been. The blanket over him was paper thin and did absolutely nothing against the chill, leaving him to try to dig himself deeper into the bed. 

His eyes cracked open with an almost gooey feeling, eyelashes sticking together. He stared up at blurry painted tiles, bright colors mixing into mishmashing smudges. His head felt empty in what would’ve been an alarming way if he was able to feel anything other than a weird filmy, disjointed barrier between his mind and his emotions. He twitched his fingers again, a second passing before they actually moved, feeling every joint as they bent. 

His lips smacked together as he opened his mouth, grimacing at the truly rancid taste of his own mouth. His tongue felt numb and dry, the worst mixture of cotton and sandpaper coated his throat, and it was only as he went to take in a breath that he noticed the mask over his nose and mouth. He almost felt like he was drowning in gross, sterile-tasting air, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

He’d woken up in the infirmary more times than he could count but this had to be the absolute worst. The bed he was on was reclined slightly, pillows propped up around him. One of his arms was held in a sling-like thing keeping it off the bed and still. Metal gates bracketed the bed, keeping him from rolling off, different wires and tubes crisscrossing around. Up above him were three different bags, tubes flowing from two of them down somewhere he couldn’t see or feel. It took another moment of staring at the clear, yellowish, liquid dripping from one bag and the dark red dripping from the other for him to realize he was at a muggle hospital. 

The film over his mind peeled back a bit, just enough for him to struggle to pull his eyes away from the strangely entrancing paintings on the ceiling. The room he was in was small but nice, nicer than he thought a muggle hospital would be. He would’ve expected a large room filled with beds and other patients, like a bigger version of Hogwarts’ infirmary. This wasn’t that, not at all. The room was small, the walls painted a creamy beige. A counter was pressed up against the wall with a sink and a taller cupboard. There was a black glass thing mounted on the wall opposite his bed. It would’ve looked like a big telly if it weren’t pressed flat against the wall.

Harry stared at it for a moment, brain foggy, watching how the light bounced and reflected off the glass. Sunlight reflected back at him, streaming in from the window on the other side of the room. Two recliner-like chairs sat on either side of the window, brown paper bags sitting in one. Curtains on either side of the window were pulled half-closed, letting in only a narrow stream of amber-gold light. 

Harry paused as he stared at the motes of dust floating in the light, head near twitching as soft clicks and squeaks caught his attention, dragging his eyes upward towards the most shadowed corner of the room. He blinked, slow and long, trying to work out exactly what he was seeing. It took a moment, a stupidly long moment, for him to recognize the black and pink hair up on the ceiling.

 Mr. Vanrouge was sitting. 

On the ceiling.

Okay, then.

Mr. Vanrouge was sitting crisscross on the ceiling, a clipboard in his hands, soft clicks coming from him. He’d changed sometime, his suit switched out for a short-sleeved black shirt with a green long-sleeved undershirt. His pants had rips at the knees like the kinds Harry’d seen older muggleborn and halfbloods wear in the common room, not at all like any adult Harry had ever seen. Maybe the fae were different from other adults? The centaurs didn’t wear any clothes and talked about the stars like they were alive and centaurs were fae, so maybe that was just how fae were. 

Harry was certain his aunt would’ve slapped him upside the head if he’d ever tried dressing the way Mr. Vanrouge did. No, she’d probably just kill him and bury his body in the backyard. It kind of made him want to get a couple shirts just like Mr. Vanrouge’s. He could almost imagine how red she’d get if he came back looking like one of those “hoodlums” she always muttered about. His uncle would actually kill him though, or at least he’d try.

He must’ve made some sound, maybe a laugh or a scoff, because Mr. Vanrouge’s head popped up or rather down. Despite being upside down, his hair still laid flat against his head like gravity was just a suggestion. Bright red eyes positively gleamed as an equally bright smile lit up his face. Gravity took hold, dropping Mr. Vanrouge halfway to the ground before he flipped, floating gently to land on silent feet. 

“Are you awake this time, Littlest One?” 

“This time?” He croaked, the words slurred and broken, muffled by the mask. Harry grimaced as another gust of air was pushed into his face, gagging as he was assaulted with another taste of his own mouth. When was the last time he’d brushed his teeth? 

Mr. Vanrouge giggled with a grin that reminded him distinctly of the Weasley twins whenever they had blackmail on someone. He waved his hand, plopping down into the empty recliner. Harry’s eyes caught on the collection of bracelets and jewelry around his wrists, faint jingling making his ears twitch, the light bouncing off the metal bracelets. There was one large clear plastic electric green bracelet with exaggerated spikes that Harry just couldn’t pull his eyes from. It was almost neon with how bright a green it was, practically glowing when the light hit it.

“The nurses had quite the show when you came out of anesthesia,” He leaned forward, still staying out of the sunlight, “though the compliments were quite flattering. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone focus so much on my eyes before and then you yanked that assistant’s tail, the poor dear.”

Harry’s face burned all the way up to his ears, finally forcing his eyes away from the weirdly entrancing bracelet. Mr. Vanrouge watched him with a wide toothy smile, fangs gleaming and so very obvious. 

 “Though still better than any time I’ve had to be anesthetized. I’ve got combative in big bold letters on my file,” He said proudly, like that was actually something to be proud of. But then again, Harry could almost understand it. He’d be proud of being able to fight while drugged too, but no, apparently Harry just said and did embarrassing things instead. 

Mr. Vanrouge tilted his head at him, picking up the clipboard again, twirling a pen topped with a green gemstone. His smile dimmed into a more relaxed one as he leaned back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other, balancing the clipboard on his knee. 

“How do you feel? Would you like me to alert the nurse? There’s one right outside the door.” He gestured with his head towards a door Harry hadn’t noticed, the wood blending into the beige walls. 

Harry paused, eyeing the door with open suspicion. He remembered the way the paramedics acted towards Mr. Vanrouge and, now that his head was a bit clearer, he could remember a lot more he hadn’t caught before. They were wary of him, of Mr. Vanrouge. They were… afraid of him.

“Are they going to try to take you from me again?” Harry asked. His eyes didn’t stray from the door. Even half-laying down, body feeling too heavy to move, he tensed. He’d fight if they tried. He didn’t care if he couldn’t feel his arm or if everything felt too numb and strangely sensitive, if they tried taking Mr. Vanrouge from him, he’d show them just how protective a Gryffindor could get. 

A muffled laugh drew him from his staredown with the door. Mr. Vanrouge sat hunched over, a hand over his mouth, head turned to the side like he wouldn’t be able to hold in his laughter if he looked at Harry. 

“No,” soft laughter interrupted him, “No, dear, they’re not going to,” he lurched, snorting with the effort not to laugh.

 “They’re not going to,” he snickered, and Harry found himself infected with his own giggles, “‘Take me’ from you. I’ve made sure of that.”

Harry relaxed into the bed, internally marveling at how much softer it was than the ones at Hogwarts, but even reassured as he was, he still kept the door in the corner of his eye, just in case. He didn’t trust adults. Trusting adults had never ended well, whether they were magical or muggle. Mr. Vanrouge couldn’t lie, but he also couldn’t control other people. Harry wouldn’t put it past the nurses to try something if they felt the same way about Fae as that cat woman did. 

“Ah, before I forget,” Mr. Vanrouge rose from his chair, placing the clipboard on a small coffee table Harry hadn’t noticed before, “The medics had to remove your clothes, though I assumed you’d like them back, so I mended them.” 

Harry perked up, watching as Mr. Vanrouge riffled through one of the paper bags and pulled out a folded square of clean fabric with a triumphant aha. Harry caught sight of the golden stitching and the crimson red of the inner lining of his uniform cloak before Mr. Vanrouge placed it to the side. Next from the bag came his trousers, neatly folded just the same as his cloak. 

“Unfortunately, I couldn’t save your shirt. That one had to go straight to the biohazard bin, I’m afraid. But I did find quite a few interesting things in your pockets.” 

He moved to the next bag with an amused smile and a mutter that sounded suspiciously like, “Apparently, all children are the same.” 

A handful of chocolate frog boxes found themselves next to his uniform, along with a half-full box of Every Flavor Beans. Then came-

“My cloak!” Harry jerked upright. Fire lit up along his neck, but he didn’t care because his cloak was right there. Within an instant, Mr. Vanrouge was beside him, a hand on his chest, pushing him back down gently. 

“Careful now. You’re not to move without the doctor’s permission.” He stepped back, eyes darting to the door briefly. He turned an intense look to Harry’s neck, somehow knowing just where the pain was. 

“It doesn’t look as though you’ve ripped the I.V out, at least,” he sighed, taking another step back. With another stern look at Harry, he turned back to the bags and, more importantly, Harry’s cloak. 

Harry stared at his cloak, barely noticing Mr. Vanrouge taking out three different textbooks. A tight knot in his chest loosened, leaving him tired and achy. Everything was going to be fine. He had his cloak, and the nurses weren’t taking Mr. Vanrouge from him, and Tom Riddle was dead. He was fine. He was alive. Everything was fine, now. 

A quiet part of his mind wondered what Mr. Vanrouge would want in return for staying with him and protecting his things, not that Harry cared too much about the frogs and beans, but his cloak and uniform were something else entirely. Right, he would want something, probably. Nothing was free, Harry had always known that. He couldn’t say thank you, that would just make things worse. How much did he even owe Mr. Vanrouge? He’d helped save his life, and that was…that was big. Harry wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t know a lot about magic or the world, but he knew he’d been dying, and Mr. Vanrouge helped him. He could only imagine what the Fae would want in exchange.

“Oh yes, and this!” 

Harry turned his attention back to the very weird adult he’d found, only to see him pulling a small golden ball out of his pocket with a manic grin. Mr. Vanrouge rolled his practice snitch between his fingers, eyes following its every movement in a distinctly cat-like fashion. Harry watched the man play with the snitch and found himself wondering if Mr. Vanrouge was an adult at all. Fae aged weirdly, though Harry couldn’t say anything about that given wizard lifespans. Maybe Mr. Vanrouge was the Fae version of a teenager. 

Harry shuddered as the scent of cranberries and rotting roses suddenly overcame him. No, Mr. Vanrouge wasn’t a kid. Harry couldn’t say how old the Fae was but he was most definitely not young in any way, shape, or form. Harry could say with absolute certainty that Mr. Vanrouge was the oldest person he had ever met.

Mr. Vanrouge paused in his fidgeting, body going deathly still and Harry immediately snapped his head towards the door. The room went still and silent, like time had paused and everything, even the air itself, stood frozen. 

The lock on the door, one Harry hadn’t noticed and he cursed himself for overlooking it, clicked and a moment later the door swung open. Harry tensed even further, muscles burning, as two men walked in, both dressed in a dark maroon military-like uniform. Mr. Vanrouge drifted closer to his bedside in the time it took for both men to enter the room. Behind the men, a tall woman walked in followed by a red-headed man that reminded Harry of Mr. Weasley. Harry just barely managed to see two more maroon uniforms standing on either side of the door before the door closed. 

The two uniformed men moved in unison to stand against the back wall, both of them staring at Mr. Vanrouge with dark, narrowed eyes. The woman moved with swift, purposeful strides to the countertop, seemingly ignoring everyone in the room. 

Harry switched between staring at the men or staring at the woman. Both men had close cut brightly colored hair and round ears. One man had dark skin and bright, bright, orange eyes while the other was sickly pale with deep black eyes. The knot in Harry’s chest grew tight again as he lingered on the batons hanging from the men’s waists and the way neither of them so much as looked at him.

“Good evening, Mr. Charming. You may call me Dr. Haust, I’ve been overseeing your recovery since we received you. With me is Mr. Schwartz, the social worker presiding over your case. Please pay no mind to the officers, they are here for both our and your safety,” the woman said as she continued to open drawers.

“Ah, I believe you’re looking for this,” Mr. Vanrouge spoke up as the clipboard drifted up from the armchair, floating across the room to the woman. Harry’s fingers twitched, body shifting, as the men both tensed, their hands moving closer to their belts. Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes stuck to the doctor, but his smile widened. 

Dr. Haust watched him for a long moment before grabbing the clipboard from the air. She flipped through the papers diligently, glancing at the medical equipment every now and again. 

“I will excuse this for now, Sir Vanrouge, but may I remind you that it is illegal for you to look at the medical information of others not under your purview,” she murmured lowly as she placed the clipboard back down and grabbed a pair of gloves. The red-headed man, Mr. Schwartz, frowned briefly, tapping away on a flat glass and metal thing. 

Harry stared at the man for a moment, his own frown pulling at him. Ignoring the glass-metal-thing, the Dursleys had told him and Dudley about social workers before. They’d always said the government would take him away, experiment on him, that he would never see the light of day ever again if they took him. When he was little, it used to scare him. He’d stay up night after night, imagining the Queen’s guard bursting through his cupboard door to drag him away. He didn’t know how old he was when he decided they were lying, but he knew it was around the time he learned that adults weren’t allowed to hit kids. 

Dr. Haust smiled at him thinly as she grabbed the near-empty clear yellowish bag, reading the label over. Her eyes didn’t stray from the bag even as her brows furrowed. 

“We were expecting you to wake up yesterday, but you had a strong reaction to the anesthesia. Now that you’re awake, one of our officers can take your statement and Mr. Schwartz can go over what’s going to happen next.” 

What was going to happen next? Harry’s eyes narrowed, darting over to the social worker, and then to the officers. They were going to try taking Mr. Vanrouge from him. The thought burned, bubbling like a potion gone bad in his chest. His blood began to heat, his arms near shaking with the sudden rush of adrenaline. His lungs shuddered with the effort to breathe, straining against his ribcage with every halting breath. The hospital room blurred even further, dimming at the edges. He tried moving his bound arm, only to be met with absolutely nothing. His teeth ground against each other with a horrible grating sensation that sent him reeling. He hated how he couldn’t sit up, how he couldn’t move his arm, how the doctor leaned over him-

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder, but instead of burning like most touch did, Harry found himself relaxing into the touch. Mr. Vanrouge took a step closer to his bedside, Dr. Haust taking a step back in response. The officers tensed. 

“Mr. Charming,” Mr. Schwartz broke the tense silence-

“That’s not my name,” Harry interrupted waspishly, internally seething. He hated this. There were too many people and the room was too small and the officers were still there with their hands on their belts and he wanted them gone, but he especially hated that stupid name. He wanted everything to go back to before the doctor, and the officers, and that damned social worker came in. He wanted quiet and some food and to never hear that name that tasted like Lost-Alone-Help me please ever again. A film settled over him with that name, layering over what he was with expectations he wanted absolutely no part in. 

“Let’s get you sitting up, Little One. I’ve the feeling this conversation will go much smoother that way, yes?” 

Harry gave a full-body twitch as that ridiculous name was washed from him, the helplessness it carried falling off of him like a film of dust. Dr. Haust made a faint sound of protest but Mr. Vanrouge must’ve done something because, in the next moment, she grabbed a remote from one of the drawers. Harry sighed silently as the head of the bed began to straighten up out of its half-reclined state, some of the tension draining from him. His lungs drew in a full breath of air. Harry hadn’t even noticed how light his head had felt since the Doctor and the others had come in.

The adults around him traded looks, Mr. Vanrouge looking as smug and smiley as ever, before Mr. Schwartz nodded. The man smiled, seemingly the only person other than Mr. Vanrouge completely at ease.

“Alright then, could you perhaps tell me your name?”

“No.” Harry gave the man a dull look, dearly wishing he could cross his arms over his chest. As it was, all he could do was sit up straighter, looking the man dead in the eyes. Mr. Schwartz didn’t even have the decency to look annoyed. The man just kept smiling calmly, blue eyes intent and calculating in a way that made Harry think of Mr. Vanrouge. 

Harry’s brows furrowed, fighting the urge to lean forward as he stared deep into Mr. Schwartz's eyes. The blue shone like precious gemstones. Harry’s head twitched to the side, jerky and puppet-like as he tried to figure out just why the tall red-headed man could possibly remind him of Lilia Vanrouge. 

The man nodded like he’d expected that answer, still with that infuriatingly calm smile. Harry imagined just what his face would look like if he punched him. Wizards never expected muggle fighting and Harry was proud to say he was pretty good with his fists, he’d had to use them often enough growing up in Little Whinging. 

“How about something to call you by then? Could you give me a nickname or something similar?” 

“No.” 

Mr. Vanrouge snickered softly, a hand over his mouth even as his eyes practically glowed with mirth. Harry’s lips twitched up briefly, warmth flowing through him, centered on the hand still on his shoulder. He leaned to the side slightly, just a bit, as he followed some odd insatiable need to be just the slightest bit closer. 

Mr. Schwartz cleared his throat, the sound echoing and breaking through whatever gentle warmth had been growing in his chest. Harry felt like he was stuck in a metaphorical tug-of-war, swinging rapidly from happiness to a weird, almost territorial, anger. He couldn’t help it though, not when the man was trying to take away the only adult Harry had ever met who actually seemed to care about his well-being, even if it came with a debt to be paid. Harry didn’t care if he had to pay it all back eventually, he was going to have to do that anyway. The moment anyone found out who he was they were going to want something from him. Whether that was money or a favor or him dead, it didn’t matter. Everyone wanted something from him, at least with Mr. Vanrouge he understood. Everything was a deal to a Fae. Every action was a transaction to be repaid eventually and that was something Harry could understand. 

He’d lived with the Dursleys his entire life and every day was an unwilling transaction. He cooked, he cleaned, he gardened, and for what? What he got in exchange was pitiful, not at all equivalent, but he had no choice but to accept it, and over time he’d gotten used to it. Just like he’d gotten used to Hogwarts and the way everyone looked at him, expected things from him. 

“Well then, young man,” Mr. Schwartz paused, eyeing him intently, waiting to be interrupted again before he continued, “Could you give us a phone number to contact your guardians? We’d like to investigate just how you came to be injured, but to do that we’d need to know where exactly you belong.”

The man kept a calm, serene smile as he spoke, Harry staring at him blankly all the while. There was absolutely no way he was giving anyone the Dursleys’ home phone number. He could almost hear his aunt’s shrieking at the very idea of a hospital calling them due to him. He wasn’t telling them anything.

Then there was the whole “us” and “we” thing Mr. Schwartz was going on about. Harry didn’t know why exactly he was paying so much attention to the way Mr. Schwartz spoke, it felt important though and Harry had long ago learned to trust his instincts. He latched on to the wording like a niffler to a gold coin. “Us” and “we” stood out the most to him but so did “belong”. What exactly did Mr. Schwartz mean by “where he belonged”? 

Harry didn’t belong anywhere, that he was absolutely sure of. No place had ever welcomed him completely, had ever invited him to stay. He did not belong with or to the Dursleys and he most definitely didn’t belong with or to the wizarding world, so where exactly did he belong? Nowhere. And if Mr. Schwartz wanted to know where he belonged then why did he ask for his relatives' phone number? 

Harry chewed his lip, eyes narrow, and focused so intently on the man he squirmed. That wasn’t quite right though. Mr. Schwartz hadn’t asked for his relatives' number, he’d asked for his guardian’s number. The word “guardian” meant something along the lines of “someone that protects”, or at least that was the definition Harry decided it meant. Mr. Schwartz, after all, hadn’t specified what exact kind of guardian he was talking about. 

Along those lines, Harry had never actually had a guardian either. Nobody had ever protected him, not any time he could remember. He knew his parents had died protecting him, but they were, well, dead so they weren’t really any help at the moment. Other than them, nobody had ever so much as stood up for Harry. So technically, Harry didn’t exactly have a guardian. He wasn’t stupid enough to say that though. If Harry didn’t have a guardian, then that meant he didn’t have anyone to protect him, not that Harry needed anyone to protect him, but he doubted Mr. Schwartz would see it that way. 

Harry scoffed out loud, ignoring how the adults in the room stared at him with a roll of his eyes. 

Adults, he thought scornfully, were stupid. Adults loved to think they were always right, like there was nothing they didn’t know. Professor McGonagall ignored Ron, Hermione, and him back in first year, and look how that turned out. Adults believed what they wanted to believe. So what did Mr. Schwartz want to believe? Harry couldn’t say he didn’t have a guardian, that would just end badly no matter how he put it. He thought about Dumbledore for a moment, but no. Dumbledore was the guardian of Hogwarts and was then technically Harry’s guardian as a student of Hogwarts, but Harry couldn’t exactly tell Mr. Schwartz Dumbledore’s phone number, now could he? Harry was pretty sure Professor Dumbledore had never even heard of a telephone before. 

That was ignoring the fact that he was in a muggle hospital and they were asking for a phone number. Harry doubted any witch or wizard actually had a home phone, the Weasleys sure hadn’t. Hermione did, but she was muggleborn and her parents, being muggles, would obviously have a home phone.

 Mr. Vanrouge had used magic though, right in front of what could be muggles, and nothing had happened. None of them had freaked out, though they’d all gone tense and twitchy, but none of them acted like magic was something that shouldn’t exist. There was something very wrong with all this, but no matter how much Harry tried, he couldn’t figure it out. Either the muggles in this country, and Harry was fairly certain he was in a different country what with the whole foreign language thing, had discovered magic and nobody else in the world knew or wizards in this country had somehow gotten magic to work with muggle technology. Personally, Harry didn’t think either was likely, but he couldn’t come up with anything else that could explain everything around him. 

So, the adults here knew about magic but still used muggle stuff and wanted to know what adult was responsible for him. Harry perked up at that thought, his glare falling away to an almost maliciously gleeful look. A quiet giggle tried to worm its way from him before he could stomp it down. 

What was it that Mr. Vanrouge had promised him in that room? The words came to him just as clearly as when the Fae had spoken them. 

“No harm will come to you here, this I swear.”  

Mr. Vanrouge had not protected him, but he had sworn to do so. There was leeway there though. Mr. Vanrouge had sworn that oath in that room, specifically in that room, and therefore technically the oath only applied to that room. He was under no obligation, magical or otherwise, to protect Harry after leaving that room. But then, in that infirmary, Mr. Vanrouge had gone along with his half-arsed plan.

“It’d be quite remiss of me to leave it unfulfilled.”

That’s what Mr. Vanrouge had said, implying that his oath wasn’t restricted to that room. So, technically, Mr. Vanrouge was responsible for his safety. At least until the oath was fulfilled, and Harry didn’t exactly know how oaths like that worked. For all he knew, Mr. Vanrouge could actually end up stealing him while using the oath to justify it. 

Harry wasn’t exactly sure what he felt about potentially being “kidnapped”, but he figured anything was better than the Dursleys. Even Askaban was better than being sent back to his relatives. Was it technically kidnapping if he went willingly? 

Well, he was about to find out. 

Harry looked up at the adults, Mr. Schwartz waiting patiently with his calm smile. He glanced at Mr. Vanrouge, trying to gauge what the Fae’s reaction to what he was about to do might be. The short Fae seemed all too happy to stand there and watch from his bedside, his happy-go-lucky smile tainted with dark glee as he watched Mr. Schwartz like a hawk sighting prey. Harry might have only said a sentence or two to the Fae but he was sure he’d get a kick out of the inevitable fallout. 

“My guardian,” Harry began, an innocent smile standing out against the near sadistic gleam in poisonous green eyes, “is Mr. Vanrouge.”

Chapter Text

Chaos descended upon the room. Harry watched with all the satisfaction of a cat curled up in a sunbeam as the adults spoke up over one another, voices rising higher and higher. Mr. Vanrouge let loose a haunting cackle, clicks and squeaks breaking up the errant laughter as he bent over, arms wrapped around his stomach, eyes squeezed shut even as tears beaded at the edges. Gravity abandoned the Fae leaving him floating, rolling in the air, legs tucked close to his chest.

The two officers were staring at him with wide eyes, finally looking at him instead of Mr. Vanrouge. Mr. Schwartz tapped away rapidly at his glass thing while the Doctor practically yelled at him. 

“This can’t be legal,” Dr. Haust said, voice tight, her eyes drilling into the social worker, “That cannot be legally binding.” 

Harry smiled smugly, again wishing he could cross his arms over his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a group of adults so frantic, least of all because of him. Oh, he’d seen adults angry or frustrated because of him, but never this panic. The Doctor tried to hide it, but Harry had spent his entire life picking apart his relative’s emotions. Her voice was tight and controlled, barely raised but her face paled a shade or two, her hands fiddling with her pen. 

Mr. Schwartz on the other hand was much harder to read. His eyes had gone a bit more wild and Harry only just then noticed the slight oval shape of his pupils. 

His eyes flicked to Mr. Vanrouge, the Fae floating just slightly above his bed. His hand wiped at his eyes, cackles petering out with only the occasional chuckle. His pink-dyed cheeks were stretched wide in an open-mouthed smile, the red of his eyes bordering on scarlet. 

“Never in all my years-” Harry heard him whisper between fleeting giggles. Fingers danced across his forehead, pushing his hair back, grazing against his scar and Harry stilled, dread wrapping around his lungs like an iron band. Mr. Vanrouge only paused for a second, a long, sharp nail digging into the skin for a second before it vanished. Harry waited, as still as a faun hiding from a wolf, but nothing happened. Nobody suddenly started shouting about Harry Potter. There wasn’t the slightest mention of The-Boy-Who-Lived. Not from the Doctor who switched between staring at him and Mr. Vanrouge and glaring at the social worker, and not from Mr. Schwartz who stared at him like he could see his life falling apart in front of him. 

Gradually, in miniscule increments, Harry relaxed though the band tightened around his lungs for a completely different reason. Why didn’t they notice? It couldn’t be accidental magic, could it? Mr. Vanrouge had noticed, but he was Fae so Harry wasn’t completely sure if wizard magic worked the same way on him. The others though, they should have noticed. It wasn’t that they didn’t know about magic either, they clearly did. If they knew about magic then they should know about him, but maybe the books had lied. With all the books he’d read about the Blood War, it’d seemed like the whole world knew what was happening, but maybe they didn’t. Maybe they just didn’t know about him in this country. 

Harry tried to tell himself that it was a good thing they didn’t recognize him but his heart still stuttered and blackness crawled at the corners of his eyes. A machine next to his bed beeped and the Doctor snapped over to it, watching it with the desperation of a woman trying to find anything to distract herself from the situation at hand. 

She still didn’t say anything about his scar. Nobody said anything about it. Nobody recognized it. His fingers twitched, hand shaking as he grabbed a handful of the bed linens. He could ignore Mr. Vanrouge not knowing him. Beings rarely cared about wizards other than to feel contempt for them. The centaurs had known him though, back in first year.

 He looked at Mr. Schwartz, watching the man with widening eyes and shaking hands as the social worker looked at him and then back at the thing in his hand. Nothing. There was no recognition, even with his hair pushed back, scar on full display.

One by one Harry looked at each adult, even the officers who’d started speaking to each other in hushed tones. Nothing at all. They didn’t know him. Why didn’t they know him? 

He wasn’t in Europe, he couldn’t be. He wasn’t in America or Canada either or any country he knew about. America and Canada spoke English, Italy spoke Latin, and France spoke French. Harry didn’t know what language Wizarding Germany or Asia spoke, but there was a growing certainty that whatever language was spoken here wasn’t one he’d ever heard about. He could understand Mr. Vanrouge, Dr. Haust, and Mr. Schwartz just fine, but he could remember the “white mages” as Mr. Vanrouge called them speaking a different language. 

He wasn’t in Europe. Why didn’t they know him? 

“I need to speak to my supervisors-”

“Where am I?” Harry interrupted, his voice sharp as a whip. Nobody seemed to hear him.

“This is beyond my purview, but I’m sure there’s a precedence somewhere. We can have this handled soon enough,” Mr. Schwartz was saying in a rush.

 His chest hurt. His heart shook. His lungs dragged in a shallow breath that felt more like shattered glass.

Why weren’t they listening to him? Look at him.

Look. At. Him.

Please -

Look at me!  

Panic squeezed at his heart, twisting like a fist, and Harry couldn’t do more than stare in mute silence at the adults around him. His head felt too heavy for his neck to hold, his body too weak as faint barely there trembles ran up his arms. Harry grasped for a lifeline, anything to save him from the clawing grip of the swirling spiraling panic. He hadn’t felt like this since before first year, or even before then. He thought he was over this, over this stupid helplessness. 

He couldn’t- he didn’t- he-

No.

He wasn’t doing this. This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t helpless anymore. He had magic now. His body ground its teeth together, still silent, still mute. 

He hated it. There was nowhere to hide here and he didn’t want to hide. He was better than that now. He didn’t need his cupboard anymore. He just needed to speak. Just open his mouth and speak. 

Talk dammit!  

But his body didn’t move other than to shake like a bloody coward. 

“Officers, escort Sir Vanrouge out-” Mr. Schwartz said, squinting down at his glass thing, lips pursing and shoulders tight. 

Over his dead bloody fucking body! 

Like a rubber band being pulled and snapped, Harry grabbed hold of his anger, the emotion a frigid-cold hurricane overcoming the choking fear of the unknown, and dragged himself forcibly to the surface. His veins froze and power rushed through him, shaking through him and he couldn't control it. His skin was too tight, his body too small to contain it. And he didn’t want to. He wanted to drown in this seething anger, he wanted to burn the fear lurking underneath it to ash. Anger was better than fear. Anger let him fight back. 

The officers had barely taken a step forward before they were lifted up, feet hovering above the floor, and slammed back against the wall. Harry shook, panting, heaving breath after breath, shoulders hunching. The air thrummed with oppressive force. The windows rattled in their frames and the wall plaster creaked. Those brightly painted ceiling tiles bounced and shook and vibrated with a thunderous clatter. The fluorescent lights flickered violently and the medical machines screamed before going suddenly, startlingly, silent. At once the lights and machines went black with a visible shuddering wave passing through them. A dim grey shadow descended upon the room, leeching the color and warmth from the walls.

Over the sound of his own panting breaths, Harry could hear a distant alarm ringing. A red light flickered to life, lighting the room in a dull gleam. The light filtering through the windows seemed so dull compared to the gold that’d bathed the room before the doctor came. The curtains swayed in a wind that wasn’t there, fluttering with a gentle swishing noise. 

The door shook, faint voices shouting out from the other side followed by hurried footsteps that passed by. He could hear squeaking wheels being rushed past his room. Harry lifted his head, not noticing how it’d dropped, glaring out through his hair at the adults- threats - adults. His heart beat a steady rhythm, so very calm in spite of his seething possessiveness. 

The doorknob clicked and bounced, the door shaking against a cracked frame as someone on the other side tried to open it.  His eardrums twitched, sending odd vibrations through the inside of his ears. Two identical snaps broke the silence. Harry’s eyes dragged slowly over to the officers, riot batons in their hands and magic sparking from them in electric waves. 

Something in him went still at the sight. Danger. He blinked. Threat. 

But their eyes weren’t on him. They weren’t threats to him, no, every ounce of hostility they bled was pointed straight at Mr. Vanrouge. Mr. Vanrouge who was still beside him. Mr. Vanrouge who they were trying to take away from him. 

Sweat beaded at their brows, over wide eyes and dilated pupils. Fear wafted off of them in waves and not just them. The social worker was backed up against the wall, halfway to the floor, but unlike the officers, his eyes were on Harry. Dr. Haust had crammed herself between the cabinet and the counter, holding her clipboard to her chest like it would protect her. 

Mr. Vanrouge was beside him, but Harry didn’t look away from the two officers with their steady hands, sparking batons, and trembling terror that sang to him like a song. The door creaked again, stronger this time, as something slammed into it. The walls on either side cracked, the plaster splintering, sending chips of pain scattering across the floor.

The dark-eyed, pale-skinned officer bared serrated triangular teeth, skin flickering grey. Harry blinked long and slow, every breath dragging from him. A high shaking rattle rose up as the officers made to move, freezing them solid. A breath hissed from him and frost crept up the walls, all warmth in the room bleeding towards him. 

“Mr. Vanrouge isn’t leaving,” Harry spoke to the room, aimed at the officers. His eyes flicked to Mr. Schwartz, to the glass thing he clutched like a lifeline despite its black surface. 

It wasn’t a question, wasn’t a request. Mr. Vanrouge would not be leaving. Harry wouldn’t let him. He wouldn’t let anyone take away the one person who looked at Harry like he was worth something, something other than defeating Voldemort or the fame that followed him like a plague. 

“He must,” Mr. Schwartz panted, quiet and almost gentle like he expected Harry to snap at anything louder. He still looked at him with wide eyes, skin pale against bright red hair. Something stuck between reverence and fear stood out in his sapphire blue eyes with their oval pupils. 

“No.” 

The man looked almost frantic as he stood up straight, taking a tentative step away from the wall, keeping a close eye on Harry as he did so. 

“It’s the law,” He near-whispered pleadingly but Harry felt nothing but cold apathy for him.

“ I don’t care. ” 

“Young–” Mr. Schwartz cut himself off. Venom coiled in Harry’s chest, hissing threateningly– “In accordance with the Land of Dawning’s laws, Sir Vanrouge must vacate the premises the moment his welcome is revoked.”

Harry almost snorted, then paused and decided to anyway. He scoffed at the man, feeling as sharp and tightly wound as a snake. Or maybe more like a lion crouched in the underbrush. Harry didn’t think he’d ever had a case of accidental magic that large before, but now his anger simmered like the embers of a dying fire, just waiting for someone to throw gasoline to the fading flames. He didn’t want that fire to die yet, not when fear still lurked under it. He just had to wait until that fear faded then he could let go of the freezing anger that numbed him from the inside out. 

“Adult Fae are prohibited from being around unclaimed children, that is the law, and if Sir Vanrouge’s presence is causing issues for our investigation we are completely in our right to separate the two of you.” Again Mr. Schwartz spoke softly, coaxingly.

And just like that, the fire in his chest wooshed back to life, this time with indignity. Harry seethed and Mr. Schwartz reeled back, eyes falling to the ground. There was silence then. The officers hadn’t put their batons away but they weren’t approaching now. The doctor was still in her corner. Mr. Vanrouge hadn’t said a word but Harry could feel his warmth beside him, floating above him. It was comforting in a way, steady and there in the same way the hand on his shoulder had been earlier. 

“Why would I care about this country’s laws? I’m not even from here, so why does it even matter? That law is stupid anyway! What, do you treat every non-human person like this, or is it because he’s Fae ?” Harry sneered, leaning forward as far as he could, the IV pulling at his neck.

Hermione would be so proud of him. The two of them had spent days and nights ranting at one another once they found out about exactly how Goblins and other non-humans were treated by the wizarding world. And they hadn’t been alone, other muggleborn and muggle raised sometimes joined in on their incensed rants. There’d even been a week she and Harry had absolutely refused to even look at Ron after their mutual best friend said something offensive about Goblins. 

Hermione was just disgusted with the treatment in general, but for Harry, it was more personal. He had after all lived with Petunia and Vernon Dursley. He’d been subject to too many rants about so-called hoodlums and foreigners to feel anything but revulsion towards that kind of mistreatment. That week had been the first time Ron had ever reminded him of his cousin and it’d put a wedge between them for some time afterward until Ron actually started listening to him and Hermione during their sessions. 

“It doesn’t matter if you’re a citizen or not, as an unclaimed child you are vulnerable to the Fae. We are trying to protect you,” he said urgently, beseechingly, eyes flicking above Harry, skin growing even paler. 

Harry had never been protected in his life, not any time he could remember and he most certainly didn’t need or want some racist to try doing it now. When had an adult ever protected him? When had an adult ever listened to him? Harry rolled his eyes. They still weren’t listening to him, but he didn’t know what to do to get them to listen to him. 

Harry had never been a person who thought much, but now he couldn’t seem to think at all. There was a fog covering his mind, one he wasn’t used to. His go-to had always been to ignore the adults and just do what felt right, but there was no instinct pushing him here. There was nothing but the absolute certainty that he had to stay with Mr. Vanrouge. Mr. Vanrouge was Safety and that was something Harry had had very little of in his short life. 

Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke as slow and clearly as he could, “I don’t need or want your protection.”

Mr. Schwartz opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again, throat bobbing, looking vaguely nauseous. A faint giggle floated down from somewhere above him. Harry’s lips twitched, his chest warming, the ice around his heart beginning to thaw just the slightest bit. At least someone was enjoying themselves. 

Mr. Schwartz sighed and pinched his nose, rubbing at his eyes. He checked his glass thing again but the surface was just as black as the machines around them. The door and wall shook again, dust fell from the ceiling. 

“Sir Vanrouge cannot be your guardian. That’s not an option available to you. The courts will take custody of you as a ward and if a relative or guardian is not found or is found negligent then you will be assigned one.” The man let his hand fall to his side, apparently giving up on the weird thing. 

Harry stared at it, brows furrowed. Curiosity, that cursed thing, gnawed at him. Harry decided to stop listening halfway through Mr. Schwartz’s speech. It didn’t matter what this country wanted to do with him. Mr. Vanrouge was going to be his guardian until he could get a letter to Ron or Hermione and get out of whatever backward place he’d ended up in. He’d end up with the Fae one way or another, even if he had to steal himself away. Mr. Vanrouge was stuck with him and that wasn't going to change. 

Still, though, he stared at the glass-metal thing in the social worker’s hand. He’d never seen anything like it. Clearly, it was something magical, but what? It’d been lit up white before his accidental magic blew everything up and Schwartz had tapped at the glass part of it when Harry started all this. 

“What is that?” Harry interrupted, not caring that Schwartz was still in the middle of extolling the virtues of the foster system or some such rot. 

Mr. Schwartz stopped mid-sentence. A smile grew, tentative and small, like he thought Harry actually cared about anything he’d been saying. The air shifted beside him and out of the corner of his eye he could see Mr. Vanrouge float down to stand at his bedside again. The dark-skinned officer had gone to the door, speaking through it to someone on the other side. The black-eyed officer still stood, baton out, eyes locked on Mr. Vanrouge. The doctor slowly stood from her half-crouch against the cabinet, eyes darting about like a frightened animal.

“Well a ward of the court is-” 

“Not that, that .” Harry pointed to the thing in his hand.

Schwartz frowned confusedly, lifting his hand with furrowed brows. The glass thing shone as the light hit its black surface and Harry’s eyes tracked the light as it bounced and reflected on the wall. 

“My phone?” 

Then everyone’s attention was on him. Harry’s skin tingled under the combined confused stares of five adults. His shoulders rose and his cheeks and ears burned. Clearly, he was supposed to know what the thing was and there was no way it could be a telephone. Handheld telephones were huge, practically the size of bricks, not to mention expensive. He’d never seen one in person before but he’d seen them on the telly the few times he’d managed to catch a glimpse. His relatives had a home phone, but it was still a massive off-white thing with a cord and a boxy phone cradle. His uncle bought it the year before Harry’d gone off to Hogwarts, so there was absolutely no way mobile phones had become these flat glass and metal things in just three years. 

Mr. Schwartz shared an uncertain look with the doctor who furrowed her brow and grabbed her clipboard. She flipped through the pages impatiently, the divet between her brows growing larger with every passing second. 

“We didn’t record any signs of head trauma in our exams, so there shouldn’t be any memory loss,” she muttered, half to herself and half to the rest of the room.

“Perhaps not memory loss, then,” Mr. Vanrouge leaned on the side rail of Harry’s bed, picking at the chipping paint on his nails, “Tell me, child, what did you use for long-distance communication in your homeland?”

Harry uncurled just the tiniest bit from his hunched-over position. His cheeks still burned but there was no judgment in Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes, only clear open curiosity and a willingness to listen. The tight ball in his chest fell apart and the strings keeping Harry tense fell with it. His shoulders dropped and his lip trembled and his nose began to burn, but he pushed it back. He’d done enough crying and he still needed to make sure they wouldn’t try taking Mr. Vanrouge away. His anger was cooling no matter how much he wished it wouldn’t and the fear that something was deeply, dreadfully, wrong came creeping back. 

“We use owls,” he chewed his lip, eyes darting up then back to his lap, “And letters.”

“Letters?” Mr. Schwartz's voice pitched higher and Harry chanced a glance at him, still trying to ignore the rising stuffiness in his nose and the cold achiness that went straight down to his bones. 

“Yeah, you know, letters. Parchment, ink, bird. It’s not difficult.” 

Oh Merlin, Hedwig! Harry sucked in a breath, suddenly feeling shaky and unbalanced with the knowledge that Hedwig was nowhere near him, and who knew when she’d be able to find him or if she’d be able to find him. 

“Ah, I see,” Mr. Vanrouge nodded, “so your country doesn’t use technology?” 

Harry almost snorted at him but managed to stop himself short. It was never a good idea to insult the Fae. It was one of the main things all the books had specifically said not to do, but Harry also didn’t think he could talk without his voice shaking. So, instead, he waved his hand at the black machines and lights. 

“Our magic doesn’t do well with it,” He muttered as quietly as he could, though his voice still warbled slightly, but at least Mr. Vanrouge was the only one who could hear him. Harry swallowed around the disgustingly phlegmy feeling in his throat and the rising lump that made it hard to breathe. 

“I don’t think my headmaster even knows what electricity is,” he forced out a giggle as he tried to distract himself from the way his eyes were beginning to blur. 

“Oh?” Mr. Vanrouge’s voice was soft now. Soft and warm like a freshly laundered blanket and Harry desperately wanted to wrap himself up in it. 

“He’s over a hundred and ten,” he heaved a wet hiccup, hunching further into himself. He hated this, hated the crying, and the people, and Hedwig wasn’t there. He shouldn’t be acting like this. He was better than this! He wasn’t a little kid, but he felt like he was drowning. He’d killed someone again, and he didn’t know if Ginny was okay, and Hermione was still petrified, and his arm was throbbing, and Hedwig wasn’t there! 

“I want my bird, ” he sobbed out and that was his breaking point. The tears building in his eyes finally overflowed and snot ran down his nose. Thick saliva choked him as he strained to keep himself quiet. He tucked his legs up as close to his chest as he could and buried his face between his knees. His hand found its way to his mouth, his teeth biting into the thick flesh just under his thumb. 

“Oh, oh, oh, dear,” A soft deep voice crooned. A pair of arms encircled him, tucking him close, “We’ve had a difficult couple of days, haven’t we. It’s just too many emotions, isn’t it?”

A gentle hand grabbed his, firmly guiding it out of his mouth. Mr. Vanrouge rubbed at the teeth indents on his hand, rocking him side to side slowly. His mind went numb, a woolen blanket draping itself across his sporadic thoughts. Every sound echoed, faint and vague.

“Sir Vanrouge-”

“I’ve raised three children, believe me, this is the easiest way to get him to go to sleep without another outburst-”

Chapter Text

The next time Harry woke up he came to in a sudden wave of awareness. His eyes snapped open, barely processing the ceiling above him before he tried to sit up. There was no slow awakening, no fogginess clouding his thoughts. One second he was asleep, the next he was awake like he’d never closed his eyes to begin with. 

It was the way he usually woke up, a leftover habit from the Dursleys. He had to be up and moving before anyone else in the house. The moment he was let out of his cupboard, he was working. Cooking breakfast, dodging Dudley’s fists, making his Uncle’s lunch for work, making Dudley’s lunch for school, then straight to his morning chores before school. Any hesitance was clocked and swiftly punished. His relatives were like hunting hounds when it came to sensing weakness, so Harry made sure not to show any. 

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was that there was someone new in the room. The next was that all the other adults, except for Mr. Vanrouge, had apparently found a way out. Third, and most importantly in Harry’s opinion, was that Mr. Vanrouge was still there. The man’s deep voice rumbled softly as he spoke to a new woman. The two had evidently not noticed him waking up. Given how intently they were staring at each other, talking in hushed but no less intense tones, Harry wasn’t surprised. 

The new woman was dressed in a neatly pressed, dark blue pinstriped suit. Harry was sure this woman would’ve gotten the most rotten of looks on Privet Drive. He’d never seen a woman wear a suit before. That wasn’t all though, she might’ve gotten rotten looks because of her suit but her hair? Harry had never seen a woman with such short hair before and on Privet Drive that without a doubt would’ve made her an outcast. For all that it was neater and more finely gelled back than his Uncle’s had ever been, Harry knew that wouldn’t have gotten her any compliments in the suburban hellscape that was Little Whining. 

One round ear was adorned with a small bell-shaped earring that tinkled oddly when she bowed her head over a stack of papers on the table in front of the two. Only wearing one earring? How scandalous ! Harry huffed a soft laugh to himself.

 Mr. Vanrouge was dressed just the same as he’d been earlier so he at least hadn't left and Harry hadn’t lost too much time. He narrowed his eyes at the small Fae, chewing his lip. His stomach twisted as he thought about the seconds before he’d fallen asleep. He’d been put to sleep and that realization made his stomach burn and twist and writhe. That someone could just touch him and put him to sleep without a single ounce of resistance grated on his nerves. It made his instincts scream. 

He felt better than he had before his “nap” but he wouldn’t let Mr. Vanrouge do that again. He licked over a canine, feeling tension rise in his shoulders with malevolent intent. He’d bite him if he tried and Harry knew his teeth were sharp. He’d bitten his Uncle before, and gotten a nasty black eye from it, but he’d drawn blood in kind. If Mr. Vanrouge tried putting him to sleep again, he’d do the same. He didn’t know if Fae were harder to hurt than humans but Harry was sure he could get his point across one way or another. 

Taking a deep breath to calm the indignity festering in his stomach and the bitter tinge of betrayal on his tongue, Harry straightened up, “Excuse me?” 

Instantly both adults’ heads shot up. Two pairs of eyes, one a stormy blue and the other a vibrant red, locked on him. Mr. Vanrouge’s serious, intent, look faded, replaced a second later by a luminous smile that almost lit up the room. The woman, on the other hand, regarded him with a carefully blank look. Harry stared back at her, deliberately ignoring Mr. Vanrouge. He couldn’t do anything to the Fae, not really, but he could at least give him the silent treatment or as close to the silent treatment as he could without slighting him. 

Harry was beginning to realize just how tricky dealing with the Fae could be. Straddling the line between politeness and insult was going to take up the entirety of his focus and he couldn’t really afford that when the social workers were trying to take him away. As annoyed as he was with Mr. Vanrouge, Harry still refused to be separated from him. He’d been trying to get away from the Dursleys for too long to let the opportunity pass him by, even if it was just for a summer or however long it took someone to track him down. But first, he had to actually stay with Mr. Vanrouge because there was no way he was getting sent to wherever social workers take kids. Better the Fae he knew than the humans he didn’t. 

“Excellent, you’re awake,” the woman straightened even further, cool eyes drilling into him like she could see through him, “You may call me Mrs. Stil. I am the agent assigned to your case. I’ll be taking over Mr. Schwartz’s position as your main contact with the Court of Wards.”

Well, huh. He actually kind of liked her. She wasn’t playing nice like Mr. Schwartz had. She wasn’t treating him like a kid and that was something Harry could appreciate. He wasn’t a kid. He didn’t think he’d ever actually been a kid and being treated like one made him break out in hives. A kid didn’t kill his teachers. A kid didn’t fight giant thousand-year-old snakes. 

Harry. Was not. A kid.

“Due to your reaction to potential separation from the Fae known as Lilia Vanrouge, we’ve elected to allow your continued acquaintance. To continue our investigation I’ll need to ask you some questions. I ask that you answer to the best of your ability, as truthfully as possible. Until the end of the interview, Sir Vanrouge will remain silent with minimal interaction unless magical intervention is needed. Is this to your satisfaction?” 

Harry sat there dumbly for a moment, staring at Mrs. Stil with wide eyes. That was a lot to take in all at once. Ok. This was fine. He could do this. It was just talking, like a teacher conference. That was easy enough. 

He chanced a glance at Mr. Vanrouge, unable to help himself. He shouldn’t be this- this needy , especially after the man put him to sleep like that, but he just couldn’t help but want to make sure he was still there. It was like there was a current of lightning running through him, sending nervous energy through his veins. He could feel it just beneath his skin, buzzing and zapping along. It ramped up and up and up, tracing a path up his spine to the back of his neck. 

Mr. Vanrouge gave him a bright smile, eyes soft and candy-red and that electric humm calmed slightly. He was fine. He wasn’t going to be left alone with a random person. It still lurked just beneath the surface but he didn’t feel as petrified as he’d been when Mr. Schwartz tried getting Mr. Vanrouge taken away.  

Harry looked back to the social worker, swallowing thickly, and nodded. Mrs. Stil nodded back to him and picked a small blocky thing off the table. Mr. Vanrouge relaxed deeper into his chair, crossing one leg over the other, a pen spinning between his fingers. Alright then, they were probably going to be there a while. Harry copied Mr. Vanrouge, leaning back into his pillows. 

“I will be recording during the course of the interview. Anything recorded can and will be used in a court of law if the situation necessitates it.” She looked back at him before sitting primly in the hospital chair. “The date is the 24th of August, 4078. The time is 15:22-”

Harry stopped listening after that. Mostly because he was stuck wondering what the bloody hell she meant by August. And what exactly was 4078 supposed to mean? It couldn’t possibly be the year. There was absolutely no way. That’d mean he’d time-traveled and that was impossible. If it was August then he’d somehow time-traveled three entire months. He wasn’t even going to think about how long he’d have to travel to somehow end up in 4078. 

Nope. No. He had not time traveled. No time travel here. That was impossible you see, so it couldn’t have happened to Harry. That was the kind of stuff that belonged in the shows Dudley snuck downstairs to watch after his Aunt and Uncle had gone to bed.

“Please state your name and age for the record.” 

Harry smiled dully at Mrs. Stil because he honestly didn’t even know what to give her. He didn’t have a name anymore and he hated how empty he felt without one. Harry Potter had been stolen from him and he couldn’t even try to get it back, not when that meant leading everyone back to him, not when it meant going back to the Dursleys. 

Not when he didn’t want to be Harry Potter anymore.

Harry Potter was so many things and none of them were him. Harry Potter was a hero. Harry Potter was the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry Potter was the celebrity who was stared at in hallways and bowed at in the streets. He’d never even gotten the chance to be Harry Potter before the name was stolen from him, before expectations and weight were added on top of it and it became both less and more than a name. 

Harry had tried to fit himself into that mold because he’d finally had a place he could belong and he didn’t mind changing himself if it meant he could stay there. He could play the hero when he felt more and more like a target. He could be the celebrity and he could take the criticism. He could take all the weight of the title that was Harry Potter just so long as he could have somewhere to belong. 

“I’m turning 13 in July,” was all he said.

 He couldn’t look at her. Not when the steel band was back and suffocating him. He didn’t want to be Harry Potter anymore. Harry Potter was too heavy for him, it was crushing him. It was shaving parts of him away and he didn’t know how long he could last, how long Harry had until Harry Potter was all he was. He could be Harry Potter. He could let himself be erased, but he didn’t want to. The wizarding world had him, had stolen the core of his being from him, had taken everything he could ever be from him, and it had given nothing in return. He didn’t belong in the wizarding world and he didn’t belong in the muggle world. He wouldn’t belong in either of them while he was Harry Potter. 

So he would leave it. He could drop Harry Potter and be Harry. Just Harry. Even if he didn’t know who Harry was anymore. He could find out though and this time he wouldn’t let anyone steal it from him. So no, he wasn’t going to tell them his name. They could call him whatever they wanted, just so long as they didn’t try forcing expectations on him. He wouldn’t be put back in a mold again. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be crushed by something he wasn’t. Not again, not ever. He was him and if they didn’t like that then they could move along, he didn’t need them. 

He looked at her then, daring her to say something about it. Mrs. Stil didn’t even raise an eyebrow. She looked back at him calmly and just as blankly and professionally as she had before. 

“The child, henceforth referred to as BD394, has neglected to state a name. In accordance with procedure, the case file will be reordered under BD394. Continuing with questioning.” 

Harry fought back a relieved sigh when the- well it wasn’t a name but he didn’t know what to call it- didn’t have any weird taste or feelings attached to it. Cool blankness settled over him instead. 

“Please state your country of origin.” 

“England.” 

There was a bit of a reaction then. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion before smoothing out into nothingness. Harry decided to ignore it. He had not time traveled. He was just in some different country and they were wondering how he’d gotten there. 

“Do you have any living guardians that can be contacted?” 

“Um-” He cleared his throat, feeling just a tad left-footed. Could he tell them about the Dursleys? He’d tried telling people before. He’d told his primary school teachers, the local librarian, Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall. Nothing had ever happened. The librarian and teachers had just told him to suck it up and take his punishments, that it wasn’t any different than the ones they used to give out at school. Maybe he shouldn’t have expected any different from his teachers. He’d gotten paddled and whooped more times than he could count at school because of Dudley. His teachers didn’t care as long as it didn’t leave marks. 

“I have an…Uncle and Aunt,” he said haltingly, hesitantly and he felt Mr. Vanrouge’s instant attention settle on him. The Fae’s gaze lay heavy on his shoulders, pressing down, weighing his answer. He hadn’t lied. He had an Aunt and an Uncle but they weren’t family, they were barely even relatives. Harry was still an orphan, no matter the blood ties he had. 

“They don’t like me though,” he said that part much more confidently. He looked Mr. Vanrouge in the eye as he said it. The truth practically rang from his mouth, stinging and burning as he spoke. It tasted like metal and resentment, like a decade spent in a cupboard under the stairs, like mornings spent dodging frying pans and meaty hands. 

Mrs. Stil continued to look at him calmly, detached, like nothing he said affected her in any way. Somehow that was comforting. 

“The topic of relatives will be revisited after all preliminary questions have been answered. Continuing with questioning. Please explain the nature of your injuries to the best of your ability.” 

Harry floundered then, sputtering, shoulders raising. What did that matter? None of this was about him getting hurt, it was about him staying with Mr. Vanrouge. What did it matter if he was hurt or not? It’s not like anyone else had ever cared. Harry could end up “falling” off one of the staircases and Madame Pomfrey would fix him up and send him on his way with nothing more than a pat on the back and a reminder to be more careful. 

“Why does it matter that I got hurt?” He asked back, tone defensive and just to the left of aggressive. Still, the social worker didn’t react. 

“The nature of your injuries and the circumstances leading to them will allow us to decide your future placement. Depending on your answers we will compile a list of prospective guardians and narrow down which would be most suitable for your continued care.” 

“Mr. Vanrouge is my guardian,” Harry shot back immediately because like hell he’d let some random person decide what was best for him. Whether he liked her or not, Mrs. Stil would not take him away. 

“Sir Vanrouge would be permitted visitation rights should he qualify for them.”

And what exactly did it mean to “qualify”? Harry had only been in this country for, well he didn’t exactly know how long, but he could already tell they wouldn’t treat Mr. Vanrouge well. They’d probably find some way to disqualify him so they could keep Harry away from him. 

“Please explain the nature and circumstances regarding your injuries.” 

Harry took a deep breath, giving Mrs. Stil a narrow-eyed look. He didn’t need to get angry. It wasn’t like they could actually keep Harry away from him anyway. He had magic and an invisibility cloak, he could sneak off anytime he wanted. There was no reason to get angry. 

He didn’t want to tell them though. Not really. He didn’t want to think about it, about the chamber and Ginny and Tom and the Basilisk . He was shivering like he was cold, but he wasn’t. If anything he was hot and his head felt just the slightest bit light. His hand felt slick and tacky even though it was clean when he looked down. It was clean and pale, but Harry was sure he’d be finding blood under his fingernails for months. He clenched his hands to stop the shaking, trembling feeling growing in his chest. His chest was shaking apart, vibrating, with adrenaline and he didn’t know what to do with the endless restless energy that began to grow inside him. There was a ringing in his ears, growing louder by the second. 

He’d need to tell someone though and maybe saying something would make that dreadful shaky feeling go away. He didn’t want to though, not if it meant he’d failed. But needing and wanting something were two completely different things. And he needed to tell someone, at least a little bit. What if Ginny was still in the Chamber? What if she never woke up after Riddle died? It’d be his fault if nobody ever found her. 

So, Harry took a deep shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and began talking.

“My school- There was-” but he didn’t know where to start- “A boy, he started attacking other students-” how was he supposed to explain the worst year of his life? “-He was possessing my best friend’s little sister and making her hurt people. He- We tried- we, my friend and me, we told our defense teacher, ‘cause the boy kidnapped my friend’s sister and we knew where she was, but the teacher tried running away and didn’t want to help but we made him go anyway. And he tried erasing our memories, but that didn’t work and all he did was cause the cave to fall. We got separated though so I had to go on alone. And I found her! I did, but she wasn’t- she wouldn’t- he’d put her to sleep or something ‘cause she wouldn’t wake up no matter what I did.” 

The more he talked, the worse the shaking got. The electric feeling beneath his skin ramped up again, pushing him. He felt like he was shaking apart at the seams. His heart was hammering in his chest, slamming against his ribs and all he could do was talk. The words practically exploded from him and suddenly he couldn’t stop talking. 

“He was killing her. He was killing her. I couldn’t just- he- she’s my best friend’s little sister. I needed to save her and I tried, but then there was the basilisk and I couldn’t fight it-”

He was weak. He was so fucking weak . He couldn’t save one little girl. He’d left her to die alone in a tunnel nobody else knew about. 

There was warmth next to him. Warmth and the scent of caves and wet rock and rainy woods. Harry lashed out, a hand grasping a thin, soft shirt, and a hand covered his own.

“I tried- ” he needed someone to know- “I promise . I promise I tried .” 

And then that hand was on the back of his head and he was being tugged forward. He collapsed against a solid, warm chest. He buried his face into the fabric, needing the warmth and the scent, and the touch. He needed it like he needed air, like he’d drown without it. There was a hand petting him and another wrapped around him and he felt safe . Safe and confined and guarded and all the things he’d never had and never thought he’d ever experience. 

He gasped and sobbed and babbled out as much as he could because someone needed to know . He was breaking apart but he needed to tell someone. 

“I left her alone-” he just about screamed into Mr. Vanrouge’s chest- “I left her to die! ”

It didn’t matter that Harry was dying. All that mattered was Ron’s baby sister lying too still, too pale, on a too-cold floor and Harry couldn’t save her. Harry had left her and now he was safe but she was dying and it was his fault . He should’ve been strong enough, fast enough, good enough . But he wasn’t and she was dead because of him. 

He was crying, screaming, sobbing, breaking and Mr. Vanrouge held him through it. There was gentle magic on his skin, like a living blanket pressed against him. He was warm and he was safe and he was alive. And that was wrong. That was so, so, wrong.

“I tried-” He was rocked side to side- “I tried. ” 

It should’ve been him. If anyone had to die, it should’ve been him . Not Ginny who had a family and brothers who loved her and a Mum and Dad who’d do anything for her. Not Ginny who was just a first-year. Who should’ve been just a first-year. Not Ginny who would’ve had a life and so much to look forward to. 

It should’ve been him . He wasn’t going to amount to anything anyway. He was probably going to die before twenty so why did he get to live when Ginny died? People cared about Ginny, but nobody cared about him. It would’ve been better, easier, if it’d been him. It didn’t matter if Harry died. Hell, half the school probably would’ve celebrated. It wasn’t like he’d leave anyone behind if he died. He had Ron and Hermione and Hedwig, but that was it and they’d all get over it soon enough.

He wasn’t supposed to be here, in this hospital room, with an actual adult taking care of him. He was supposed to be the one lying on the floor, not Ginny. Ginny was supposed to be the one here, the one who was safe and warm and had adults trying to get her back to her family. Not Harry who didn’t have a family to go back to. Not Harry who so many people wanted dead. 

Why was it that he was always the one that lived, that survived? He would’ve rather die with his parents than live without them. He would’ve rather died than leave the Weasleys without their daughter. So why? Why couldn’t it be him ? Why did he always have to live? 

He wanted to run away. He wanted to hide. He wanted to have never existed at all. Maybe then his parents would be alive. Maybe then Voldemort would’ve never come for them.  Maybe then Voldemort would’ve been defeated. Really defeated. Maybe then Tom Riddle wouldn’t’ve taken Ginny into the Chamber. Maybe then Ron wouldn’t wake up with nightmares he wouldn’t talk about. Maybe then Hermione wouldn’t consume defense books like they were her only lifeline. Maybe then Hermione wouldn’t have spent half a year in a coma, petrified by a creature that shouldn’t have even been alive much less in a school. 

Maybe the world would’ve been better off without Harry Potter. 

“That’s enough.” 

Harry startled, lungs heaving in desperate breaths. He stared, feeling empty and lost and black . He felt like something inside of him was darkening, black ink spreading across the canvas of his soul. 

“Sir Vanrouge-”

The melody of his mind was smothered by a startling drumming noise. Everything was silenced, pushed down, by that deep, deep, humming purr. It felt like wings wrapping around him, shielding him from the burning light and the suffocating, drowning , darkness. 

“No. We’ll take a five-minute break and then get back to the questions, but we will not be forcing a child to relive such things. Not here, not now. We can continue at a later date, with a proper licensed therapist at hand.” 

The woman sighed deeply through her nose but must’ve agreed. A second later the door opened and closed with a soft click and the presence of the social worker faded. Then there was silence. Blessed, torturous silence. 

He could feel the thoughts, the ones he hated, the ones that scared him, lurking in the dark corners of his mind. He pressed his head harder against Mr. Vanrouge’s chest, staring at the soft black fabric of his shirt. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want those horrid thoughts and feelings to come creeping back. 

“Take all the time you need. I can keep them away for as long as you wish. We can leave, just say the word and I’ll whisk you away someplace they’ll never find you.” 

Harry ground his teeth together, pressing even closer, his eyes squeezing shut. He could leave. He could run. Mr. Vanrouge would take him away and all he had to do was ask. They would never find him and some part of him wondered if Mr. Vanrouge meant the thoughts or the people, another part of him said both. 

“I left her,” he whispered and he didn’t know if he was trying to make Mr. Vanrouge see that he wasn’t worth what he was offering, because he wasn’t. He wasn’t worth the trouble Mr. Vanrouge would get in. 

“And that’s okay.” 

Something cracked and chipped in his chest convulsed. 

“It’s not,” He muttered, soft and defiant and utterly confident.

A hand stroked down his hair and the arm around him tightened. 

“I rather like you being alive,” came the soft, warm, so very incredibly warm answer. 

And Harry fell apart. He shattered like a fragile glass thing, because nobody had ever wanted him. Nobody ever chose him. Harry was never picked, he was never even a choice. He was pushed to the side, into the dark, into the places nobody ever looked. Harry had never been worth anything, he’d known that all his life. He would never be worth anything. 

Nobody had ever held him so tightly, like he would fly away given half the chance. Harry was convinced he never would, not so long as Mr. Vanrouge still wanted him. He wanted to hug him and never let go. He wanted to dig his claws in and carve his name into Lilia Vanrouge’s soul. 

“I don’t want to go back,” he whispered like it was the worst thing he could ever say, ever want. He didn’t want to go back to Hogwarts and the whispering, gawking, students. He didn’t want to go back to the devastated Weasleys, not when he wouldn’t be able to look them in the eyes. He didn't want to go back to the Dursleys and the nights he went to bed hungry and bruised.

“Oh Dear, it’s foolish to think I’d let you.”

Chapter Text

Harry felt distant after that. There was a deep sort of exhaustion pulling at him, sinking into his bones and then deeper still. He was wide awake but all he wanted to do was bury his head in a pillow and forget the world existed. There was an ocean of nothingness between him and the rest of the world and Harry was devastatingly aware of every breath he took. He should’ve been drowning in it, but he wasn’t. Mr. Vanrouge kept his head above the surface, even when Harry just wanted to sink. 

Mrs. Stil returned in what felt like a blink of an eye and an eternity all at once. Harry stared at her with blank eyes and sighed as Mr. Vanrouge got off the bed and returned to his chair. After that, it was business as usual, or it would’ve been if Harry could feel anything but cold apathy. Mrs. Stil asked her questions, none of them as bad as the last one, and Harry answered.

“What are the names of your guardians?” 

Harry had to stop for a second to wonder if he should even actually answer that. What would he do if they actually got a hold of his Aunt and Uncle? He didn’t know, not with the terrifying blankness smothering his thoughts. It all just made him feel even more exhausted. 

He wouldn’t go back. Not to the Dursleys, not to Little Whinging. The absolute certainty of that made the band of panic around his lungs loosen. It was still there, Harry didn’t know if it’d ever truly go away, but it wasn’t choking him. 

He looked at Mr. Vanrouge and felt a spark of something light up the blank darkness in his mind. His lips twitched upwards and something malevolent stirred in him. He’d spent so long at his Aunt and Uncle’s beck and call. He was hit and chased and hidden away like a dirty secret. He was the skeleton in their closet. 

What would Mr. Vanrouge do if he knew? What would the Fae that wore his skin do if he knew what they’d done to him? Would he care? 

A part of him recoiled and hissed in offense at the very suggestion that he wouldn’t. Mr. Vanrouge was different. He had sworn and stayed by Harry’s side. He wouldn’t leave him. Mr. Vanrouge had proven that, hadn’t he? More importantly, he was Fae and that dark, malevolent, little thing inside him giggled and urged Harry to speak. 

He looked at Mr. Vanrouge with his odd pink and black hair and his candy red eyes and said in the clearest voice he could, with every ounce of meaning he could, “My Aunt’s name is Petunia Dursley and my Uncle’s name is Vernon Dursley.” 

They tasted rancid on his tongue. They burned his ears with shrieking yells and thundering footsteps. They were discord among harmony. They were slamming doors and shattering glass. He couldn’t stand the thought of them, couldn’t stand the sound of them. Harry might not be able to do anything against them, but Mr. Vanrouge could. 

Harry could see the darkness inside him reflected back at him from Lilia Vanrouge’s eyes. He could see the pure Fae vengeance boiling in him, in the sharp fanged smile Mr. Vanrouge gave him. The shadows flickered behind him, shifting like a pair of wings, vanishing as the light hit them. There was the steady drip-drip-drip of water and the echo of screeches and leathery wings. 

Mrs. Stil stared back at him impassively, noting something down in her notebook, and the questions continued. Harry most definitely did not pout. So what if she hadn’t reacted? He didn’t need her to react. It wasn’t like he wanted to make her uncomfortable. He didn’t need to get back at her. That’d be childish, and Harry wasn’t a child. So, no, he was not pouting. 

“What is your Aunt and Uncle's home address?” 

“Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.” 

“Earlier you said your country of origin was England.”

“Yeah.” His stomach growled angrily and his wrapped-up arm itched horribly and Harry really wanted to get up. He hated sitting still. His fingers drummed at his thigh and his foot rocked side to side. 

“Where would you say England is?”

This time he couldn’t help looking at her like she was stupid. Because, really? Who didn’t know where England was? He was pretty sure that was something kids learned in primary school. Maybe he was in some hidden magical country that disappeared thousands of years ago. Like Atlantis or something like that. 

“Europe,” His voice was flat and tired and could he not just bury his head in his pillow and go back to sleep? Please? He’d done enough right? He’d answered her questions, even if they were stupid. He deserved a nap. Just a small one. 

“You mentioned a headmaster when you spoke to Mr. Schwarz, can you explain?”

“I go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It’s a boarding school. Professor Dumbledore is the headmaster.” 

She noted something down again and Harry almost wanted to lean over the bedside to try to see. A ringing sound made Harry jump, shoulders hiking up to his ears. His heart stuttered and his stomach rolled. 

There on the table was another flat glass and metal “phone”. The thing, there was no way it was a telephone and Harry refused to believe it wasn’t magic of some sort, was vibrating. Mrs. Stil frowned, pressing a finger to the glass. The sound cut off abruptly. Harry watched as Mrs. Stil gathered her things, feeling a bit numb and shocked at the suddenness.

“That’ll be all for today. Sir Vanrouge, the Court will be in contact with you. For now, you are free to take BD395. However, this is not a permanent arrangement. Until the case is closed, you’ll be subject to frequent home checks, both scheduled and unscheduled,” She turned to him then, placing a card on his bedside, “If under any circumstances, you find yourself needing help, call this number. The Court will send someone to retrieve you. Have a good day gentlemen.”  

She gave a shallow bow of the head to Mr. Vanrouge before she walked briskly from the room. Harry stared at the door as it swung closed with a quiet click. Was that it? It was over? A weight on his shoulders fell, leaving him almost breathless. 

He let out a soft breathless laugh, his hands shaking. No more social workers trying to take Mr. Vanrouge from him. He wasn’t going anywhere. Just like that. Barely a few words from Mrs. Stil and it was over. 

His bangs were pushed back and glowing red eyes peered down at him. Mr. Vanrouge gave him a soft, impossibly pleased, smile and Harry grinned shakily up at him. Warmth exploded in his chest, spreading through his limbs, down to the very tips of his fingers. His eyes burned and his nose tingled. His cheeks ached from how wide he smiled. It still shocked him, how Mr. Vanrouge looked at him. 

He looked at him like Harry was precious. It was warm and bright and dark and greedy and possessive, and it made Harry feel warm in a way he could only remember in dreams. He could remember long nights in his cupboard dreaming of a woman with hair like fire looking at him like that. It made him want to nuzzle up into the hand on his head. He wanted to latch on to him and drain that warmth away. He wanted it all to himself. 

“I’ll go see when we can get you out of here, hmm? Just sit tight, I’ll be right back.”  

Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat and pushed down the greedy little monster inside him. Mr. Vanrouge bounced from the room, hands behind his back, hair bouncing and swaying. Harry tried not to miss the warmth on his head. It was stupid of him. Really, it was. He didn’t need to be comforted like a little kid, but he couldn’t help but remember the way Mrs. Weasley brushed Ron’s hair back and smothered him with kisses no matter how much he complained or how Mr. Weasley hugged the twins so tightly their faces turned red. He wanted that desperately. 

He shouldn’t expect that from Mr. Vanrouge though. Mr. Vanrouge wasn’t his Dad or his Mum, so he shouldn’t expect things like that from him. That didn’t stop him from wanting it. He was too old for this. He was way too old to be wanting someone to hug him and make all his problems go away. He wanted someone to hug him and kiss him on the forehead and tuck him in. He wanted someone who would stay up with him all night when his brain wouldn’t let him sleep. He wanted someone who would make him hot cocoa when he had a nightmare, like Percy did for Ron. 

He’d give anything for the chance to have something like that. He’d spent days and nights sitting in front of the Mirror of Erised, just watching and wishing. He’d gone to sleep in front of it, imagining his Mum and Dad were really there with him. He imagined his invisibility cloak was a blanket his Mum had put on him and the stone floor was the living room carpet. He’d cried waking up without them there. He’d sat in front of that mirror so long he’d forgotten he was even hungry. Ron was the one to drag him away, the one who had to bring him food when he refused to move. He didn’t care if he starved, just as long as he could have that love, even for just a little while. 

And then the mirror was gone and Harry felt like he’d lost his family all over again. 

The door opened again and Harry shook his head, clearing away the sinking sadness and clinging want. A nurse in light green scrubs rolled in a wheelchair and Harry scowled. Mr. Vanrouge pranced in just after the nurse, smile vibrant and eyes sparkling. 

“I don’t need a wheelchair.” 

“Yes, you do,” Mr. Vanrouge chirped. Harry’s scowl deepened. He had to remind himself that the Fae couldn’t lie and if Mr. Vanrouge said he needed it then he actually did need it. That didn’t mean Harry wasn’t going to complain. 

“My arm’s the thing that’s messed up, not my legs. Why do I need a wheelchair?” He most definitely wasn’t pouting and Mr. Vanrouge’s amused smile was very much unappreciated. That was a lie. Mr. Vanrouge’s smile was probably the only thing keeping Harry from losing his mind. He didn’t want to upset him, not when the Fae was doing so much for him and maybe that smile made him feel just the tiniest bit better. Mr. Vanrouge wouldn’t be smiling if there was something actually wrong with him. Well, he probably wouldn’t be smiling. Actually, Harry didn’t know if Mr. Vanrouge would smile or not if something was wrong. He’d been smiling in that weird room with the coffins after all. 

“Well, the nurses and doctors say you need it.” A long nail trailed through his hair, pushing an errant curl out of his face. The sharp point just barely grazed his cheek, leaving tingles in its wake.

He’d been gentle then and he was gentle now too, Harry realized. His eyes were just as impossibly soft as they’d been in that odd room. Harry swallowed thickly, feeling both guilty and impossibly thankful. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at the Fae, didn’t know what he’d do if he did. He didn’t know how to handle an adult that actually liked him, or cared about him in any way, shape, or form. It was weird, almost as weird as how nice the Weasleys had been. 

Adults had never been very kind to him. People in general had never been very kind to him unless they wanted something from him. It should’ve made him wary, the way Mr. Vanrouge had done so much and hadn’t asked for anything in return, but it didn’t. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to think badly of him though. 

That just wasn’t the kind of person Mr. Vanrouge was. Mr. Vanrouge was chaos and movement and energy. He was dances under the rising moonlight and days and nights without rest. He was greedy and possessive and smootheringly loving. He wouldn’t hurt Harry. He would never hurt Harry. Not in any true way. 

That had nothing to do with his oath either, it was just the way he was. Oh, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt others. Because there was violence in him too. Violence and kindness were the things that made him. Where Lilia Vanrouge of the Autumn Court went, Death followed. His fingers dripped with just as much blood as they did wine. 

Maybe that was why Harry wasn’t afraid of him. He’d never met an adult like that before, never met an adult that was like him before. Violence and Death had made Harry too. He tried to be kind, but he knew he wasn’t all too good at it. There’d been a time when he was younger when he hurt the other kids at school, not for any real reason, just because he was angry. Because Harry was almost always angry back then. If his Aunt and Uncle and Cousin could hurt him then why shouldn't he hurt others too? It was never anything too bad, nothing like the way his relatives treated him, but he’d stolen snacks and swiped toys and thought ugly wretched things about the other children. He’d hated them for having food and toys and parents who loved them and he hated himself too because he never wanted anyone to feel like him, but he couldn’t help the jealousy.

Harry sighed deeply, hanging his head, and let the nurse usher him into the wheelchair without any more complaints. He glared down at his legs and the way they shook as he settled into the chair. His arm was placed in a sling across his chest and a lolly was pressed into his other hand. 

He fiddled with the plastic-wrapped candy while the nurse talked to Mr. Vanrouge about prescriptions and check-up appointments. The nurse gave him a smile and a wave before they walked out and then Mr. Vanrouge pushed him out of the room too. 

“What’s wrong, Little One?” Mr. Vanrouge asked as he wheeled Harry past a pair of guards. Harry cast a look at the double doors the guards stood in front of, wondering what was behind them and why it needed guards. 

“Nothing,” He murmured, chewing at his lip. A hot flush of shame burned across his cheeks and he ducked his head a bit more. 

Mr. Vanrouge hummed, the sound skeptical and curious. He felt it in his chest and magic nudged at his skin, like fingers poking at him. He didn’t know how he knew it was magic doing it, he’d never been able to feel magic like that before, but he knew it was Mr. Vanrouge’s. It felt and sounded just the same as Mr. Vanrouge did. Like rainy evenings and dripping caves and dark cuddly shadows. It wrapped around him, layering on top of him like a blanket.

He didn’t want to tell him though. Not about the stealing or how much Harry wanted a hug or any of the other things Harry wanted. He didn’t want Mr. Vanrouge to know just how confused he was or how utterly and completely lost he was when it came to kindness. 

“I highly doubt that. You’ve had a terribly rough time these last few days. I’m sure you’ve questions at the very least.” 

They made their way through the hallways and passed a big desk with nurses crowded around it. It was only then that Harry realized he hadn’t seen Mr. Vanrouge grab his things. He perked up, head whipping to the side. No bags magically appeared for him. Shocker that. 

“Where’s my stuff?” 

He turned as far as he could to look up at Mr. Vanrouge. 

Who was floating. 

Again. 

His legs dangled above him as he pushed Harry down the halls. Harry really wanted to learn how to do that. Imagine being able to fly without a broom. Nobody would be able to lock him away again. He could go wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted, and nobody would be able to stop him. 

“How do you do that?” 

Mr. Vanrouge grinned even wider, positively smug. His fangs caught the light and Harry was reminded viscerally that he wasn’t human. Those long pointed ears wiggled and Harry was stuck staring at them again. 

“I do it because I want to.” 

Harry gave him a flat look, “That’s not an answer.” 

“Yes, it is.” 

Ok, yes, it technically was an answer, “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

His smile grew even wider, almost splitting his face in half. Mr. Vanrouge giggled mischievously and Harry felt his own lips pull at the edges. 

“Do I?” That wasn’t a lie, it was a question. Mr. Vanrouge absolutely knew what he was doing. He tried to fight the smile down and failed. 

“Yes, you do!” Harry laughed out, trying desperately not to. His chest was warm. A bright little spot of light and heat flickered behind his ribs. There was a giddy, buzzy, feeling just behind his heart that made him want to squirm and laugh.

Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes went wide and delighted, his smile radiant. His slit pupils shrunk and expanded. Harry squawked as his cheek was pinched. 

“Oh, you are just the cutest.” 

Harry’s cheeks and ears burned. He swatted at the offending hand to no avail. His face hurt from how hard he was smiling and his stomach cramped from laughter. 

“Boys aren’t cute!” He laughed out, tilting his head down towards his shoulder when Mr. Vanrouge pinched harder. His eyes screwed shut and he hiked his shoulders up, but Mr. Vanoruge was apparently an expert at cheek-pinching because it did nothing to stop him.

“Of course they are. Just look at me, I’m positively adorable,” Mr. Vanrouge piped up with a laugh. Harry didn’t even know what it meant to be cute or adorable, just that boys weren’t and girls were, but he squinted his eyes open to look at Mr. Vanrouge’s weird black and pink hair and pointy ears and red eyes and thought Mr. Vanrouge was completely insane. 

Harry squinted as golden sunlight splashed against his eyes, blinding him. Somehow they’d ended up at the hospital’s sliding doors. The fingers let his throbbing cheek go and Mr. Vanrouge hummed again. 

“How about a late lunch, hmm? I can hear your stomach growling. I did tell Malleus and Silver to pick up some clothes and such for you and I’m sure they’re just chomping at the bit to meet you.” 

Harry tilted his head back to look at his very weird, most probably insane, adult. Tingles and sparks flew across his skin, blazing with magic. The phantom feeling of fire washed against him followed by an electric humm and the warm glow of sunlight. 

“Who’s that,” He asked as Mr. Vanrouge began to push him down the sidewalk and away from the hospital. The hospital building was massive and bracketed by other buildings, with a large parking lot sitting in front of it. A road sat just on the opposite end of the parking lot, separated by a wide sidewalk and a line of flowers and bushes. 

“Silver and Malleus,” Harry fought back a shudder at the phantom sensations, “are my boys.” 

That had Harry sitting straight up, spine going ramrod straight in a split second. A growing sense of dread and anxiety gripped him in tight talons. Mr. Vanrouge had kids. Two of them. Older ones too if they were going out shopping for him. 

It was one thing to stay with the Weasleys for a few weeks, it was something completely different to steal someone’s Dad. He didn’t know why he didn’t think Mr. Vanrouge would have a family, but it just hadn’t come to mind. He balled his hands into fists in his lap. It didn’t matter. Harry wasn’t going anywhere and they’d just have to deal with that. Whether he’d stolen someone’s Dad or not, Mr. Vanrouge was his now and he wasn’t giving him up. 

Mr. Vanrouge must’ve noticed Harry tensing because then there was a hand ruffling his hair and brushing against his ears and the giddy, warm, buzzing feeling in his chest came back with a vengeance. 

“There’s no need to worry. They’ll love you, I just know it.” 

Harry doubted that but decided not to say anything. He didn’t have the time to say anything else though, because in the next second, the magic around him tightened. Between one blink and the next, Mr. Vanrouge’s magic pulsed and the world around them blurred together. Heart in his throat, Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Air pushed against his face relentlessly, whipping his hair side to side. 

And then it was gone. Just gone. Out of nowhere. Harry sagged in his chair, blinking in stupefied silence. Everything was different. The hospital was gone. The parking lot, the road, the bushes and plants; all of it just gone. How?  

His head whipped side to side, looking at store after store after store. The sidewalk had become brick and storefronts lined the street. They’d teleported. Actually teleported! Gone one second, popping up somewhere else the next. He wanted to learn that. He was going to learn that. He didn’t care what he had to barter or trade, he was going to get Mr. Vanrouge to teach him how to do that. He could go anywhere and nobody would be able to stop him. No more Dursleys, no more getting locked up every summer, no more locks on his door, no bars on his window. He was so going to learn that. No matter what it took. 

He jolted out of his thoughts when Mr. Vanrouge began moving again, this time with the sound of footsteps following him. Harry gripped the arm of his wheelchair tightly, clenching his teeth against the bouncing and rocking. Apparently, brick was not fun to ride a wheelchair on. Not fun at all. 

“Where are we going?” He asked as he craned his head to the side to look into a store they passed. There were crowds of people, all moving aside with brief glances at him and Harry tried desperately not to feel embarrassed. It was nothing like getting stared at by everyone at Hogwarts. He’d gotten used to that. Now everyone was looking at his chair. He determinedly lifted his head, back straight, and didn’t look any of them in the eye. 

He took a deep breath as discretely as he could and let it out slowly. Everything was fine. The stares were different, but they were just stares, and he’d dealt with those his entire life. He could deal with these too. Even as he thought that he still swept the staring crowds for anyone that stood out. It wouldn’t be the first time someone cursed him from a crowd and Harry wasn’t taking any chances. 

His luck was holding entirely too well. That just meant when the other shoe came down, it would come down hard. He didn’t want Mr. Vanrouge to get caught up in any of the usual nonsense that followed Harry around. 

“To lunch. The boys are already waiting for us,” Mr. Vanrouge chirped out happily, almost skipping as he pushed him. 

Immediately, Harry was punched by a burst of stupid, stupid, fear. Somehow, he was more afraid of meeting Mr. Vanrouge’s sons than he was of fighting Voldemort. And wasn’t that just the stupidest thing? Harry was being stupid. Completely and utterly stupid, because there was no way two boys could be scarier than Voldemort of all people. He’d fought Voldemort, twice, and won. He’d fought a basilisk and won. He could look two boys in the face, knowing he’d stolen their Dad from them. He was going to look them straight in the eyes and barge into their lives and family and there was nothing they could do about it. 

He pressed his lips together and glared at the empty air. He wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t. If they had a problem with that, they could fight him. Harry would win. He knew he would win. There wasn’t anyone in Gryffindor Tower that could beat him in DADA and if he could fight Voldemort and win, then he could fight a bunch of teenagers and win. 

“How’d they know we were coming here?” Maybe Mr. Vanrouge had a tracking charm on him. Harry would have to dispel it if he did. He could take out their hands first, get rid of their wands and they’d be sitting ducks. A wide-scale expelliarmus could do it, he bet. He’d just have to overpower it and Harry was good at that. 

There was a hand in his hair again. Delicate, slender, fingers massaged his scalp and Harry’s eyes fluttered, thoughts grinding to a halt. No, stop that! Harry needed to think. He needed to figure out what he was going to do if Mr. Vanrouge’s sons didn’t like him. But he couldn’t, not with those fingers making his head go numb and quiet. 

“You’re so tense,” Mr. Vanoruge said, his voice amused, “Relax, they’ll love you.” 

That was impossible. Nobody ever loved Harry. Well, nobody except Ron and Hermione, but they were different. They were Ron and Hermione.

 “I told them I was checking you out when I went to get the nurse. They decided to go to a restaurant and wait for us there instead of eating at the dorm,” He sighed despondently, “It’s such a shame. I wanted to make you a good home-cooked meal to welcome you to the family.”

Harry didn’t know how to feel about that. Nobody had ever cooked for him, not like that anyway. Mrs. Weasley cooked, but she didn’t cook specifically for him. He’d never been taken out for a special meal either though. Dudley had. It was one of his Aunt and Uncle’s favorite things to do for his cousin. 

Ok. Maybe he was being too quick about it. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Vanrouge’s sons wouldn’t mind him too terribly much. He could try to give them a chance. Maybe they wouldn’t be too angry with him. He just had to calm down. He didn’t know why he felt so… skittish. Maybe Mr. Vanrouge was right. Maybe he had had a rough day. 

He let out a breath. He could give them a chance. Meeting new people had never gone too terribly well for him, but maybe this time would be different. He drummed his fingers on his thigh. His hand felt cold, oddly empty. Oh. Oh, he was an idiot. 

He didn’t have his wand. 

Suddenly the world seemed entirely too large and the crowds entirely too close. No, no, no. He was not going to panic. He was fine. He’d had his wand taken from him the summer after first year and if he could handle being wandless at the Dursleys', then he could handle it here. No wonder he was so nervous. His wand was back in the Chamber of Secrets and if he wasn’t going back, and that was looking more and more likely, then Harry was going to have to find a way to get a new one. 

“Here we are!” 

Harry jumped, hair raising like a cat. He blinked up at the building. He blinked again and looked left, then right. Nope, still the same building. He let out a soft laugh. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about meeting Mr. Vanrouge’s sons. There was no way he was getting let in there. Not with his scruffy looks. Mr. Vanrouge definitely didn’t match the dress code either. 

Then Mr. Vanrouge started forward and Harry marveled at the change between the bumpy brick sidewalk and what he was pretty sure was marble. 

Actual marble. 

He tried reading the golden cursive-like sign above the black glass doors. Definitely not English. He shrunk into his wheelchair the moment they entered the building, the doors opening without anyone pushing them. Harry had lived in a castle for two years, but living in Hogwarts was vastly different than anything muggles could come up with. This is what he imagined the Malfoys' mansion looked like. All black marble and gold lighting and bronze countertops. 

There was a man with tall fluffy round ears perched on his head standing to the side of the doors. He looked at the two of them. Harry looked back, dread and embarrassment buried beneath a feeling of utter done-ness. The poor man looked almost as done as Harry felt.

“We’re a part of the Draconia party,” Mr. Vanrouge practically purred. Harry could almost feel his fangy grin. 

The waiter/employee/whatever fancy title he inevitably had blinked, long and slow. Harry felt that. He almost wanted to do the same truly. The man didn’t hesitate to grab two laminated menus from behind the stand he stood beside though. 

“Right this way, Sir.” 

And just like that Harry was being pushed into the fanciest, most intimidating, building he’d ever been in. Just how rich was Mr. Vanrouge? Who was the Draconia party? Why did Harry feel like he’d accidentally joined some crime family? 

He put those questions aside when he noticed all the other tables were completely empty. He glanced around as subtly as he could. Completely empty. He dearly hoped this was some weird Fae thing. 

Wait, no, it wasn’t completely empty. There at the back of the room was a large round booth table loaded down with plastic bags of different colors and beside that table was another with two boys. Harry’s heart stopped in his chest as he remembered just what they were doing there. 

Both boys stood as they approached and Harry’s heart decided that was an excellent time to meet his stomach. Tall. So, so, tall. 

Both boys were tall and straight-backed. Their faces were impassive and blank. Harry was immediately drawn to the shorter one’s hair. Silver. He had actual silver hair. It shone under the golden yellow light like the polished metal of a sword. Harry’s breath caught in his lungs as he looked into the boy’s eyes. Blue and purple mixed and blended together, highlighted by silver specks that drifted and shifted like stars. 

He had to tear his eyes away from him just so he could look at Mr. Vanrouge’s other son. The breath he’d held came out in a loud gasp but Harry didn’t care because- 

“You have horns!”

Harry just barely registered black hair and enchantingly green eyes before he was staring at the long, S-shaped, horns that curved from the tall boy’s head. It was unnatural. It was inhuman. 

“That’s so cool,” Harry breathed out reverently, so completely jealous. 

Both boys were pale, their skin like moonlight. They were tall and slender and grace practically bled from them. But despite that, there was something about them. Something about their eyes and the way they stood. The silver-haired boy looked at him with open curiosity, blinking doe-like eyes at him. The other boy though. 

Harry stared. 

The other boy stared back. 

His eyes were green, so very green. Green like nothing Harry had ever seen before. And they were wide. The boy’s impassive look was utterly shattered. His mouth had dropped open ever so slightly and his eyes stared down at Harry in uncomprehending shock. 

“You think they are ‘cool’?” His voice was deep and quiet, like a lullaby and Harry thought he’d sound very nice singing if he ever tried it. There was an accent to his words that curled around them, adding a rolling lull. 

Harry nodded, only half aware, too busy staring at the horns in question. He caught the hints though. The uncertainty that lurked beneath that question made his hackles raise. It sounded like Hermione after Malfoy insulted her teeth. It sounded like Ron when he talked about his brothers' grades and awards. It sounded like all the evil little thoughts that told Harry his hair was a rat’s nest, that he was a troublemaker, that he was a burden. 

Harry didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all. Nobody should ever be ashamed of their body. That was something Hogwarts had taught him, something Gryffindor had taught him. Gryffindor was the house of bravery and sometimes bravery meant leaving your bed in the morning and looking at yourself in the mirror knowing there was nothing you could do to change the way people thought. 

There were some days when all the first-year boys had to almost drag Neville out of their room. He wasn’t chubby, he wasn’t a coward. He was theirs and that was all that really mattered because they were lions and lions needed their pride. 

Harry nodded again, this time more firmly, and looked him straight in the eye as he said with the firmest and most absolutely certain voice he could, “Your horns are the coolest.”

Chapter Text

Harry was going to commit some very not-Gryffindor things if he ever found the people who made Mr. Vanrouge’s son so sensitive about his horns. He could just barely see the faint flush that crept up his cheeks and the way his eyes, and wow they were really green, widened ever so slightly. His horns curled up in a gradual “S” from shoulder-length ash-black hair. Were boys allowed to have hair that long? His aunt had always cut his when it got past his ears and it’d only really begun to grow when he went to Hogwarts. He’d never seen any boy with hair that long. 

He glanced at the silver-haired boy, trying not to get distracted by just how shiny his hair was. His hair was long too, not quite as long as the horned boy’s though. Maybe it was a Fae thing? Mr. Vanrouge had longer hair than any adult man Harry’d ever seen. Then again, Mr. Vanrouge didn’t really look too much like a man, but he didn’t look like a woman either. It was kind of odd, now that he thought of it. The black-haired boy had that same look. 

Harry looked between them as Mr. Vanrouge pushed his chair up to the table. A large giddy smile spit Mr. Vanrouge’s face, his eyes shining like jewels as he looked between Harry and the two boys as he slid into the booth. The two boys followed him, sliding in on either side of him. With the three of them sitting side-by-side, it was a bit hard to see any resemblance, but Harry wasn’t going to say anything. He wasn’t rude. So what if neither of Mr. Vanrouge’s kids looked like him? They probably took after their Mum. Though he was a bit confused that she wasn’t there and Mr. Vanrouge hadn’t mentioned her at all. 

Harry watched as Mr. Vanrouge nudged his sons. Both boys shot him wide-eyed panicked looks, like they didn’t understand what he wanted from them. Harry could relate. It was kind of awkward, just sitting there. Staring at each other. Not saying anything. 

How exactly was he supposed to talk to them? How did he start a conversation? Ron was the one who did all the talking, not him or Hermione. Harry didn’t think he’d ever started a conversation personally, at least not one he could remember. He seemed to have spontaneously forgotten how to talk to people. 

Harry fiddled with the laminated, fancy leather-backed, menu in front of him. He needed to make them like him, so that meant talking to them, right? What would Ron do? He’d probably start talking about quidditch or chess and ask them if they liked quidditch or chess. Harry didn’t know a lot about chess, not nearly as much as Ron, but he’d played against him often enough. Quidditch though? That he could talk about for hours. 

Mr. Vanrouge sighed, rolling his eyes skyward, “Well, go on. Introduce yourselves.” 

The boys startled, Harry included, all looking at him with equally wide eyes, before looking at each other. There was a long moment of silence where none of them were really quite sure where to begin. The horned boy straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. An air of power and authority seemed to come over the boy and his startled look faded into neutrality. It was like the world couldn’t touch him suddenly. Like he was above it all. Like between one blink and the next, he held all the power in the world and nothing and no one could touch him. 

Harry sucked in a breath and pulled his own shoulders back. Harry wanted that. He wanted that power. He wanted to be able to tell the world to take a hike. That Mr. Vanrouge’s son could do it just like that, like it was the easiest thing in the world- it was one of the coolest things Harry had ever seen. 

The boy folded his hands on the table, looking down at Harry through sharp slanted eyes. It was only then that Harry noticed he was wearing makeup too, like Mr. Vanrouge. The grey-green eye shadow made his eyes seem even brighter, almost cat-like as they regarded him. 

“You may call me Malleus.” 

It wasn’t as strong as when Mr. Vanrouge told him his name, but there was still something there. Harry’s ears rang and twinged as the humming tones of a lullaby surrounded him. It engulfed him, covering and surrounding him like a cradle. It was gentle and somehow large. It was dark, but not bad or wrong. It was a kind of darkness that reminded Harry of the Black Lake at night. It was peaceful like the halls of Hogwarts long after everyone had gone to bed. It was like walking along the edge of the Forbidden Forest at sunset, a hand trailing along the bushes and flowers. 

Harry’s eyes fluttered and his head tilted, trying to listen closer to the sweet dark song that sang to him. Malleus seemed to be waiting for something, along with the other two. All three of them were subtly tense, anxious, and Harry felt the urge to hum along to the song. He didn’t, because that would be weird, and why was he even thinking about humming of all things? But it really was a nice song and even as it began to fade, he could still hear it swirling around Malleus if he focused. 

“You do not know me?” Malleus’ eyebrows scrunched up just the slightest bit, frowning. Harry shrugged at him, feeling a good bit loose-limbed and relaxed from the song. 

“Am I supposed to?” Harry asked, tilting his head to the side again. Malleus’ eyes widened and his head positively snapped to look at Mr. Vanrouge. Harry looked over at the sole adult, somewhat hoping he could help their struggling conversation, but the man had gone pale as a ghost. Every ounce of blood had drained from his face, leaving him almost transparent and grey.

“And you may call me Silver,” the other boy suddenly spoke up, distracting Harry from Mr. Vanrouge and Malleus’ silent conversation. This time Harry had time to brace himself, but he still flinched when the sound of bird song began to echo around him. Wind rushed around him, rustling the branches of trees. Silver brought with him the sounds of animals and a bright forest of sluggish movement. 

Harry didn’t have a good comparison for it, but the best he could come up with was slow mornings walking through the woods behind his primary school, hiding from Dudley. The other kids didn’t dare go into the little patch of woods and that meant it was safe. Silver felt like the middle of Autumn and now Harry could find some resemblance to Mr. Vanrouge. It reminded Harry of the way the leaves turned orange and yellow and crunched underfoot. It was a different sort of peace than Malleus, but just as precious. Harry had never been given very much peace and he didn’t really know what to do with this peace he’d been given. The night and evening and the woods were safe, quiet, places and he loved them dearly.

Harry slumped into his chair, blinking lethargically. His bones felt like mush and his heart was beating a slow, heavy, war drum in his chest. Silver’s bird song and forest mixed and wove through Malleus’ lullaby. Harry was walking through a wood at dusk, a hand in his, leading him deeper into the trees. He hummed to the soft singing and crooning of owls. Bats twittered and squeaked through the canopy. 

A warm hand carded through his hair, cupping his cheek. He blinked his eyes open, not noticing they’d closed as he listened to the sweet symphony of Silver and Malleus’ songs. He leaned into the warmth. A deep cold grew in his chest, shaking through him, and he wanted to curl up next to a fire and sleep. Those songs lured him towards sweet dreams and entrancing peace. 

Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes danced with mirth and Harry smiled back at him, loopy and fuzzy. His eyes skittered to look at the two boys, Silver and Malleus. Peace and Dreams. Mr. Vanrouge had to have climbed over one of them to get to him and Harry almost felt embarrassed. He yawned, jaw cracking, and Mr. Vanrouge’s hand left his cheek. 

“You have really nice Names,” Harry murmured sleepily, speaking the word with more weight than he really understood but it felt right. Both boys blushed, faces burning red and Mr. Vanrouge cackled like a witch. Their songs faded into the background and the sleepiness slowly began to drain from him and he was left with the realization that he’d have to introduce himself now. Any sense of peace instantly fled and he bolted straight up in his seat. 

Name, name, name. He needed a name. He couldn’t tell them his name, not when it could be stolen again. Harry was his and he wasn’t going to let anyone take it from him. Not again, never again. So, he needed to tell them something, some name they could call him, but the only ones he could remember were Boy or Potter and he absolutely didn’t want to go by those. 

“You can call me whatever you want,” Harry stammered awkwardly, looking away from the three for a split second. Mr. Vanrouge’s smile grew even wider if that was possible. He practically vibrated in his seat, a hand lashing out to grab Malleus’ upper arm excitedly. 

“Anything?” Mr. Vanrouge asked, leaning forward with a shark-like grin. 

Harry leaned back in his chair. He wouldn’t hurt him, Harry knew he wouldn’t, but that smile looked way too much like Fred and George’s. He got the feeling Mr. Vanrouge would end up naming him something weird like Black or Green or something like that. Well, it’d at least be better than Boy. 

“Yeah, I don’t mind. Just- nothing weird.” 

“Excellent,” Mr. Vanrouge clapped his hands together, “now, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself, and then we’ll do the same, hmm?” 

Oh, icebreakers. Harry could do that. Only there wasn’t very much he had to say. There wasn’t anything very interesting about him after all. He could talk about Hedwig though. And Quidditch. He was good at gardening and cooking but he didn’t really know if he liked those or not. 

“Why don’t you start with your favorite color and food and we’ll go from there,” Mr. Vanrouge pipped up, apparently noticing Harry struggling. Harry didn’t think he’d ever had an adult ask him to talk about himself before or ask him for his opinion. It was a bit of a novelty really, but he liked it. His feet kicked back and forth as he looked at Silver and Malleus. Did they really want to know about him though? They hadn’t seemed angry at him at all, but shouldn’t they be at least a little upset? 

“I don’t really know what my favorite color is, but I really like purple. But not bright purple, only dark purples and that reddish kind of purple. Um- food? Does dessert count? ‘Cause I really like treacle tart,” Harry rambled a bit, glancing up every now and again to look at them. He didn’t want them to get bored or anything and Harry wasn’t really all that interesting of a person other than the magic and Boy-Who-Lived thing. 

But all three of them seemed riveted though, like every word he said was the most fascinating thing they’d ever heard. Harry ducked his head, his mouth twisting into an absolutely embarrassing smile. He’d never been listened to like this. Not once. He’d never had people who were so interested in him. Not even Ron or Hermione. All anyone ever cared about was Harry Potter but never Harry. Even Ron and Hermione were more interested in Harry Potter at first and they’d never actually talked about random stuff like favorite colors or foods. But by the end of their first year, they didn’t need to. They saved him a piece of treacle tart whenever he had Quidditch practice and they walked with him to the owlery whenever he wanted to see Hedwig. 

They did so many things for him and they’d never actually talked about it. They just saw that he liked something and did it. They all did things like that for each other and they just never really thought too much about it. 

“I love my owl, Hedwig, and my friends,” he had to pause to think here. Could he say their names? He already knew names were a big thing with Fae and you weren’t supposed to tell yours to one, but what about someone else’s? “Ron and Mione.” 

Hermione would absolutely deck him if she knew he’d called her that. She absolutely hated being called anything but her full name, but it was better safe than sorry. He didn’t think Mr. Vanrouge would hurt her or Ron if he knew their names, but he didn’t want to take any chances. There was no telling who was listening. If they knew who Harry was and knew how much he cared about Ron and Hermione, they’d be in danger. Everyone at Hogwarts already knew they were a package deal and there were enough curses and hexes thrown at them as is. None of them needed any more “accidents”. Especially if Harry wasn’t there to put the fear of Godric into the idiots who thought they could go after them. 

Harry glanced up to look at the family again. Silver had turned to Malleus, whispering to him lowly and Harry felt his heart drop a bit. His hand clenched in his lap. It was a bit stupid to think they’d want to know so much about him, but it was nice and it…hurt…just a bit. And it was stupid that it hurt. He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced back the sudden burning in his nose and the pressure behind his eyes. 

“Do you like dragons?” 

Harry peeked up at Malleus’ deep lulling voice. Silver was, for some reason, reaching over the back of the booth and rummaging through the plastic bags in the other booth. He looked between them. Did he like dragons? What did that have to do with anything? Harry looked up at Malleus’ horns and the way they shone in the light, glittering blues and greens reflecting from the smooth black. 

“Dragons are cool,” he whispered a bit quietly and then rushed to continue, “My friend Hagrid hatched one in our first year. Well, not Hagrid’s first year. Hagrid’s the groundskeeper and he takes care of a lot of animals and the Forbidden Forest. But anyway, he had this egg and it was all bronze and black. He had it for months and when she hatched she set his beard on fire. We thought she was a boy at first but the dragon keepers said she was a girl. But we had to smuggle her out of the castle because dragons are illegal and the Ministry already doesn’t like Hagrid, which is completely unfair.” Maybe he was rambling. Was he rambling? Should he stop? 

He looked up again and froze. All three of them were staring at him with laser-focused gazes. Harry shrunk back, swallowing thickly. The green of Malleus’ eyes blazed with repressed power and the song that surrounded him took a slight turn, rising higher. Mr. Vanrouge had taken to leaning against the table, his hands folded together. Silver had paused in his rummaging, turning to look at him with an impassive expression. 

“Well, then,” Mr. Vanrouge chirped with a slightly strained smile, “I would very much like to hear the full story of that.” 

“ And quite a few other things, ” Harry only just barely heard him mutter darkly under his breath. Malleus nodded absently, still staring at Harry. Silver, meanwhile, went back to the bags. 

Harry watched it all with a dreadfully twisted stomach and a strained forced smile. What’d he say? He went over everything he’d rattled off, but nothing seemed bad. He hadn’t even mentioned Ron getting bitten. What was it that had angered them? How could he avoid bringing it up? He didn’t think it was about the dragon. They were the ones to ask after all, so why would they get upset about it? 

“You’ve met a dragon? An actual dragon?” Malleus leaned forward. His ears, pointed and long just like Mr. Vanrouge’s, shifted up. Harry focused on those ears, tracing the subtle curve with his eyes, latching onto the studded earrings that glittered green along the shell of his ears. 

“Yeah, Hagrid named her Norbert,” he said slowly, switching from staring at Malleus’ ears back to his horns. Blue and green silvery light glinted off of them like Hermione’s favorite earrings. Her earrings had dark stones that glinted blue and green and yellow when the light hit them just right. Stone was too crude of a word for what his horns reminded him of. Jewel, or maybe gem, was a closer fit, but what were they called? He knew what they were called, Hermione had talked about it for days. It sounded like a dog breed, but what was it ? 

“What did she look like,” Malleus asked fervently, his eyes positively glittering. 

Harry looked at him oddly for a long moment. Most wizards he’d met treated dragons like they were the boogeyman. Understandably, really. Norbert was terrifying and she was just a baby . Personally, Harry thought they were pretty cool. Who wouldn’t like a giant fire-breathing lizard? With his luck though, he’d end up having to fight one or something. He really didn’t want to fight a dragon. 

“Well, she was kind of gooey,” Mr. Vanrouge snorted out a laugh, “and she made these really weird sounds like she was singing.” 

He tilted his head back as he tried to remember, but that night had been blurred and overtaken by the absolutely terrifying detention that followed everything with Norbert. Malleus was still looking at him like a puppy though and Harry didn’t want to disappoint him. 

“Um, well, she had bronze scales and she only had two legs. Her wings were massive though. They were nearly three times her size.” Ok, so maybe Norbert had been a bit cute. The way she’d flailed around, all covered in egg goop and shell, before setting Hagrid on fire had been hilarious. He couldn’t help his, only slightly helpless, smile. 

He loved animals, except dogs. Fang was the only dog Harry had ever met that hadn’t tried biting him and Harry just couldn’t forget how Marge Dursley set her dogs on him when he was younger. He still had the scars on his ankle from Ripper. 

Harry glanced up to see Malleus staring dead at him still. He didn’t really have an expression. He was just staring at him, face completely impassive and blank, other than his eyes. With his eyes so wide and focused, Harry could almost make out a faint yellow tint to the otherwise green irises. 

It was a bit intimidating, in all honesty. Harry could literally feel Malleus’ attention on him. He felt like he was staring down a predator, one that had no interest in eating him. It was almost like looking the giant squid in the eye, knowing it could kill him easily but wouldn’t. 

Why’d he want to know so much about Norbert anyway? Dragons were cool, obviously , and people didn’t really see them often, what with them being in dragon reserves, but it was a bit odd. At least, Harry thought so. Then again, all three of them were a bit odd, so maybe it wasn’t too weird. Maybe Malleus just really liked dragons. 

“Found it,” Silver said, dropping back down into the booth, with a faint pleased smile of his own. There in his hands was a massive, bright neon blue, dragon stuffie. 

A bit weird, but alright. Harry knew for a fact that Seamus slept with a husky stuffie and Hermione had a cat stuffie too. He’d never met someone as old as Silver with a stuffie, but maybe Fae were different? Maybe Silver was closer to Harry’s age than he looked? But then again, maybe not. He could absolutely imagine Mr. Vanrouge with a stuffie, one of those really big ones. 

He glanced at Mr. Vanrouge, but the man had placed his hands in front of his mouth. His eyes were wet and wide, his ears shivering. The Fae blinked rapidly, smiling so widely his eyes squinted. Ok, then, no help there. 

Then Silver was placing it in his lap, or at least trying to. The boy kept moving about like he wasn’t sure just how to put it without nudging Harry’s slung and bandaged arm. All the while, Harry sat frozen, unsure. Why was he giving it to him? Seamus and Hermione never let anyone see, let alone touch their stuffies. Why was Silver giving it to him? But that didn’t matter. Harry wasn’t going to be rude . So, he gingerly helped settle the stuffie on his lap as well as he could when the thing was nearly as tall as him. 

Silver scooted back into the booth, fiddling with his hands. Malleus tilted his head, watching him intensely. It was quiet for a long moment. Harry looked between the three of them, still wondering exactly why Silver gave him his stuffie. They seemed to be waiting for something and when they didn’t get it, Silver looked at Malleus, but Malleus was still staring at Harry. 

“Do you like it?” Silver blurted out, eyes wide like he hadn’t expected himself to say anything. And, ok, Harry could handle that a lot better than staring. Nervous people were leagues easier to handle than whatever staring thing they had going on. 

Harry smiled as warmly and comfortingly as he could, because if there was anything Harry could understand it was nervousness. Maybe Silver just wanted to show him his stuffie…for some reason? Silver was totally younger than him. Fae probably aged weirdly and that was why all the Goblins looked old and the centaurs looked somehow ageless. So Silver was younger than him. 

Harry softened himself a bit, because if Silver was younger than him then the other boy was probably even more nervous than Harry was. Harry wasn’t a Hufflepuff but he thought he could be pretty comforting. He’d never tried it before, but first time's the charm, right? 

“It’s a very nice stuffie,” Harry said, nodding with his best smile. It was a nice stuffie. All big and blue. A very nice stuffie. 

Silver relaxed into the booth with a faint smile of his own and Malleus’ eyes seemed to burn a bit brighter. Harry could see Mr. Vanrouge’s legs swing underneath the table. They were all being very weird, but Harry was beginning to think “weird” was actually their “normal”. 

“Malleus and I were unsure as to what you would like,” What? “Father neglected to tell us how old you were, but we’ve all had dragon toys since young and it felt right to get you one as well.” 

Harry stopped breathing, stopped blinking, stopped…just everything. His fingers twitched, brushing soft, soft, so soft, fake fur. His lip trembled and his eyes burned. This wasn’t happening. They had to be lying. They were lying! Harry clenched his teeth together and swallowed thickly. They were lying. They had to be. 

“Silver and I wanted to make it clear to you that you are welcome among us.”

Don’t do this to him. Please , don’t do this to him. Don’t do this to him, just to take it all away. Harry couldn’t handle it. He’d die. He knew he would. He was shaking. He was shaking and he couldn’t see. Tears blurred his vision and dripped down his cheeks. 

Shaking, spasming fingers trailed down the toy’s glossy black eyes like they were made of the most fragile of glass. He couldn’t do this. He bit into his lip. The underside of the dragon’s wings was a deep navy blue embroidered with bright silver stars. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this.  

Boys weren’t allowed toys like this. Especially boys like him. Boys weren’t allowed. His uncle would get angry and things were never good when he was angry. Boys weren’t allowed stuffies. His uncle said so. Even Dudley got his stuffies taken and thrown out. He’d cried and screamed about it, but his uncle didn’t care. Boys weren’t allowed to have stuffies . Boys had action figures and fighter toys. Dudley was a man and that meant he couldn’t have stuffies or any other sissy things. 

Harry never got anything. Harry was…just Harry. He didn’t get action figures or toys, but especially not stuffies . They all got taken away. Every time. They always got taken away. Harry never got anything soft or new or bright. 

He couldn’t have this. 

He wasn’t allowed.

Toys weren’t for him. Never for him. He wasn’t allowed. People like him didn’t get nice or new things. It’d get taken away. It was soft and blue. He’d never thought about how nice blue was. The stars were shiny and it had a smile stitched into its muzzle. He couldn’t have it. It couldn’t be his. 

His heart throbbed in his chest, twisting and painful. His hand was buried in soft fur and he wanted to bury his face into the toy. Its tail draped over his legs, thick and heavy and a line of squishy green spikes trailed down the dragon’s spine. 

He couldn’t keep it, but he wanted to. He wanted to so badly . He wanted to hug it and squeeze it and pet it, but he couldn’t . He couldn’t. Uncle Vernon will get mad. He’ll get mad and take it away like he took everything else. 

“Littlest One?” 

Harry looked up at Mr. Vanrouge’s call, meeting his no-longer-smiling eyes. He felt shaky and unbalanced and for some stupid reason, he couldn’t stop crying. He looked at the green makeup on Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes, all dark and metallic. 

“ Just look at me, I’m positively adorable,” that was what Mr. Vanrouge said earlier. 

Fae couldn’t lie, Harry had to remind himself. Fae can’t lie, so that meant Mr. Vanrouge was adorable, but boys weren’t adorable. So maybe that meant Fae weren’t boys? If Harry wasn’t a boy, did that mean he could have a stuffie? Harry was a boy though. 

Harry licked his lips, tasting blood and snot, but he kept looking at Mr. Vanrouge. He shook and trembled and choked on snot, but he didn’t look away. 

“C-ca-can,” he choked on a sob, blinking away the blurry film over his eyes, “boy-boy-s have st-stuf-stuff-stuffies?” 

Tell him the truth. Please, just tell him the truth. 

Mr. Vanrouge seemed to fall apart in front of him, his shoulders falling. His ears dropped, pointing downward.

“Oh honey,” Harry nearly broke then and there at the sheer heartbreaking sadness and understanding Mr. Vanrouge spoke with, “Yes. Yes, boys can have stuffed animals. You can have anything you want.”

Harry couldn’t keep looking at him, not with how sad and loving Mr. Vanrouge looked. He looked down at the dragon and squeezed his hand around one of its chubby little arms. He looked at the glossy black eyes and starry wings and soft fur and its long draping tail. 

Fae can’t lie. Mr. Vanrouge can’t lie. 

So, boys could have stuffies. 

“Even boys like me,” He couldn’t help but ask. There was a big difference between other boys and Harry after all. Maybe other boys could have stuffies, but Harry couldn’t. 

“ Especially boys like you,” Mr. Vanrouge whispered fervently, looking like he was shattering at the edges.

That was that then. Boys like Harry could have stuffies. So- so that meant Harry could have stuffies. Right? He could have them? He could keep the dragon? He’d never had a stuffie before. He’d never had a toy he hadn’t stolen. 

He curled himself around the dragon as best he could, still afraid someone would take it away.

“I love it.”

Chapter Text

Harry hid his face in the laminated pages of the menu. His dragon, his, sat in his lap, its tail blanketing his legs. He hadn’t looked at any of the Vanrouges. He didn’t think he’d be able to look them in the eye without dying of embarrassment. He was twelve, almost thirteen. He wasn’t supposed to be such a crybaby! 

Harry had never cried very much. He’d learned young that all crying did was make his relatives angry and make him feel tired and achy. There just wasn’t any point in crying, not when it didn’t help. Still, sometimes he just couldn’t help but cry. He liked screaming more though. It felt better somehow, like he could distract himself from how lonely he was, how sad he was. 

His Aunt would kick him out into the rain when he was younger because he wasn’t worth the water to draw a bath. Other kids might have hated it. They might have screamed and cried at the door, begging to be let in. They might have been afraid of the dark, afraid of all the imaginary monsters that lived in the shadows of trees, but not Harry. Harry had never been afraid of the dark. The dark kept him safe. The dark hid him from his relatives. The rain kept all the other kids of Privet Drive inside and that included Dudley. 

So, those rainy days and nights were the only time Harry had the streets to himself. He didn’t have to worry about getting chased by Dudley’s gang or getting sneered at by the other adults in the neighborhood. It was the only time he could relax. He’d wander and roam and eventually, without fail, he’d end up at the mouth of the wood that bordered Little Whinging. He’d stand there just outside the reach of the trees, soaked to the bone and practically blind with all the water on his glasses. 

Sometimes he could swear he’d see lights in the trees, glimmering like lanterns.

There’d be a moment, or an eternity, where he just stood there and stared, hearing nothing but thunder and rainfall. The rain was like a curtain separating him from a different world, falling between him and the trees. And then he’d take a step and the rain would almost seem to pause. He’d walk into the woods, not caring a bit about how muddy he got. He’d walk and walk and walk with the lightning as his only light. 

“He was just as strange, just as wrong, as his mother.”  

His Aunt had always hated him and he’d never known why. She never accepted him, and never would, but the woods welcomed him the moment his foot hit the leaf litter. He’d walk through the rain and time would pass him by like it didn’t exist. He’d cross streams he never would have thought ran through Little Whinging, he’d clamber over massive fallen trees, he’d watch as lightning burst through the sky. 

And then he’d stop. There was a clearing in those woods, one where a massive tree sat surrounded by a wall of bushes. Harry could remember how the bushes flowered despite the rain. There was nothing else in the clearing. Just the tree and its barrier of bushes. 

He stopped, right there at the edge of the wood, waiting almost and that very same wall of rain would separate him from the clearing. The first few times he’d found the clearing he’d walked around, not straying an inch from the safety of the trees. He’d edge around the clearing and the rain wouldn’t touch him. He’d feel cold and wet for the first time since leaving the house and the clearing would seem so very welcoming. 

It was a trap, something in the back of his mind would hiss, leave, and leave quickly.

Harry would obey as he had long since learned to do when that part of his mind spoke. So from then on for weeks or months, he’d edge around the clearing when he wandered with the rain. He’d step just a bit closer to that curtain of rain each time, toeing the line of just how far he could go. And step by step by step, he got closer to the tree in the center, until he crossed the wall of rain. And then, suddenly and without explanation, the rain came harder, falling like bullets from a black sky. It fell like a typhoon, like a hurricane, like the worst storm that had ever come to English soil. 

Harry drowned beneath it. His glasses would be knocked from his head and his clothes would whip in the wind. And then Harry would drown beneath anger and sadness and loneliness and grief. For himself, for the parents he never knew, and a thousand other things he couldn’t quite put into words. Lightning would flash and the tree would loom above and around him. Harry would drop to his knees at the tree’s raised roots and the wall of bushes with their brilliant purple bell-like flowers. His mouth would open and the sound that spilled from him was more howl than scream. He would scream and writhe and rage until his throat bled and sound could no longer flow from him, but even then somehow he still managed to roar. Thunder would crack with each break of his heart, shaking the world and echoing for leagues. 

He’d fall asleep in the pouring rain and wake days later cradled among the roots and trunk of the tree. He’d make his way back to his Aunt’s home, drenched but not cold, days after the last storm. It didn’t matter how long his Aunt always locked him up afterward. He was never hungry after visiting the tree and time passed him by so quickly he didn’t notice. 

“Have you decided what you want to eat?” 

Harry’s head snapped up and out of his memories. Mr. Vanrouge stared at him with a small smile and a questioning tilt of his head. 

Right. Food. He was supposed to be getting food. He turned his gaze down to the menu in his hand. Only, he couldn’t read it. The words blurred together and mixed into an indecipherable mix of black on white. He glanced back up at his adult and ducked his head again. His cheeks burned, heat traveling up his ears, and he just knew his ears had turned bright red. 

He’d have to say something, wouldn’t he? It’d just be even more embarrassing if he pretended to be able to see, but he didn’t want Mr. Vanrouge to get him glasses or something like that. Glasses were expensive. His Aunt had yelled at him about it often enough. It wasn’t like he had trouble with seeing everything else either really. Sure, people looked more like blobs of color sometimes but that wasn’t something Mr. Vanrouge would be able to figure out if Harry didn’t say anything. He could pretend to not be able to read, but Harry thought that might be even more embarrassing. 

“No, I,” Harry looked around desperately, avoiding Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes, “I’m still reading. The menu. I’m still reading the menu,” His voice went high and reedy, barely getting the words out with how his throat tried to close around them. Why did he say that? Merlin, he was an idiot! 

Why couldn’t he be a good liar like the twins? Well, the twins didn’t really lie per se. They just told the truth in interesting ways. Why couldn’t he do that? He knew he could. He’d done it all the time back at the Dursleys. It’d been so easy when he was younger but he’d gotten out of the habit when he went to Hogwarts. He was pretty sure Mr. Vanrouge would sniff him out anyway though. A Fae getting tricked by him? Yeah right, like that’d ever happen. 

Harry squeaked when a manicured black painted nail curled over the top of his menu. His hand shook as it slowly forced the laminated, leather-covered, menu down despite him fighting to keep it up. Gleaming red eyes stared him down and Harry, being Harry, stared right back. For a second they stared at each other, Mr. Vanrouge with one eyebrow raised and Harry with a stellar poker face, disregarding his burning red ears. 

Well, he couldn’t very well take it back. Mr. Vanrouge blinked, slow and cat-like and Harry mimicked him. He wasn’t going to back down. He could lie. Badly, but he could. Damn it all, this was why Hermione always talked to professors. They all knew Harry sucked at lying and somehow Mr. Vanoruge had picked up on it too. Harry could twist his way out of conversations and play with words with the best of the Slytherins but he just wasn’t used to Mr. Vanrouge. He could dance circles around his Aunt and Uncle, not to mention Malfoy, but for some reason, Mr. Vanrouge just sent his mind racing. Of course, he would! He was Fae for Merlin’s sake, words were their playground. Harry would never be able to beat him in that game. 

“Would you like to try again, Littlest One?” Mr. Vanoruge asked almost kindly if it weren’t for the tilt of his twitching ears and the sharp turn of his smile. Somehow, that was scarier than any adult or professor Harry had ever met. 

Harry fought not to shrink beneath Mr. Vanrouge’s stare. He sent a quick glance toward the brothers only to find them both looking studiously down at their own menus, not sparing him a single glance. No help there. Harry could handle that, he wasn’t a coward. So, with the blank face he’d spent years perfecting at his relative’s house, he looked Mr. Vanrouge straight in the eye and lied like his life depended on it. Only this time, he did it the way he did best.

By telling the truth, just slightly twisted. 

“It’s just hard to choose. Everything’s so fancy looking and a bit confusing,” now Mr. Vanrouge’s other eyebrow joined the first, “I can’t really read some of these words. I don’t think I’ve ever seen some of these before actually.”

So far so good. Now he just needed to add a bit of emotion. Mr. Vanrouge was a bit weak to that, what with how he reacted to Harry crying. He could take advantage of that. It was like Quidditch. If he acted a certain way he could get the other Seeker to react how he wanted. It was just a different kind of feint. One with words instead of moves. 

“And well, I’ve never been to a restaurant before,” Hermione had acted like he’d been starved all his life when he’d mentioned that, “and how much is everything? I don’t want to cost you too much either.” 

His aunt would’ve flayed him alive if he ever dared to try to order food or even talk to other adults. How was he even supposed to pay Mr. Vanrouge back anyway? He had to, not just because he was Fae, but because Harry felt guilty. Mr. Vanrouge was spending so much time and money on him. He didn’t have to do any of that. His sons had gotten Harry a stuffie. He didn’t even know where to begin paying them back. 

Mr. Vanrouge folded his hands under his chin, calmly watching him run himself into the ground. Harry rambled, occasionally tripping over his words when Mr. Vanrouge’s ears twitched. Okay, obviously his usual methods were total and complete failures.

 Plan B: get Mr. Vanrouge to forget what they’d originally been talking about. 

“And anyway, how am I supposed to choose? There’s so much,” there had to be at least six pages in that menu, “I’ll eat anything really. It doesn’t even have to be cooked. What if something has something I’m allergic to?” 

“Are you allergic to anything,” Mr. Vanrouge cut in questioningly and Harry paused. Was he allergic to anything? There’d been a couple times food made him sick, but he didn’t actually know if he was allergic to anything. If it was food, then he’d eat it. That was what he’d lived by until Hogwarts. That was just the way things had always been. He’d even tried to eat grass before. It’d only been one time and he’d vomited almost immediately after, but he was seven at the time and hadn’t eaten in nearly three days. At that point, anything was better than nothing. 

“I…don’t really know,” he answered slowly, unsurely. Mr. Vanrouge hummed, deep and neutral and it made Harry squirm in place. 

“We’ll need to watch out for that then. Are you done digging yourself a hole? I’d like to continue our conversation.” 

Harry blinked, paused, and then slumped in his chair. His menu flopped down on the table with a dull thud. His shoulders nearly rose up to his eats but a burning tug in his injured arm stopped him dead. 

“Yes, Mr. Vanrouge,” he murmured sullenly. He didn’t even know why he’d tried. Obviously, he wasn’t going to get one over on him. Harry knew that from the beginning, but he’d still tried. 

“Good, then why don’t you tell me why you decided it was best to lie, hmm? I’m not angry at you, to be clear, I simply wish to understand your thought process.” Mr. Vanrouge rested his cheek on his hand, a long curved nail softly tapping just under his eye. Harry followed the sharp point of that nail with a wary gaze. 

His stomach churned and his mouth stung faintly. The thought of admitting he’d lied made his shoulders tense. His heart sped up, reaching a rabbit-quick tempo in the second it took for him to cast a quick look down Mr. Vanrouge. The adult hadn't moved since asking his question but that didn’t mean anything. His Uncle had gone from being still and calm to raging and swinging faster than Harry could blink. 

Oh. That was why. Mr. Vanrouge was acting like an actual adult because he was an adult and adults were threats. Mr. Vanrouge might have helped him, might’ve saved him, and might’ve even taken Harry in, but that didn’t mean anything. His Aunt had taken him in and look how that had gone. Helping someone did not mean he was kind and it most certainly didn’t mean he wasn’t a threat. How far could Harry go? How much could Mr. Vanrouge take until he struck out? How did he react when he was angry? Was he loud like his aunt, shrieking and yelling, but only rarely hitting? Or was he more like his Uncle, calm one second only for a hand to send him to the ground the next? 

Was Mr. Vanrouge a threat? Harry scowled down at himself. Of course, he was. Adults were never good for him. But he’d helped him. That didn’t matter. He was gentle. It could be a trick, the Fae were good with things like that. 

Stop. 

Just stop. 

He took a breath, long and slow, and forced his heart to slow. He’d figure it out, just like he always did. Freaking out again wouldn’t do anything good. He just had to think. He had to take a moment and just breathe. 

Mr. Vanrouge hadn’t done anything yet. He wasn’t a threat yet. Harry didn’t have to treat him like he was. He could test him. See what kind of person he was, not what that vision showed him, but what Mr. Vanrouge showed the rest of the world. That was what mattered here. He needed to see how Mr. Vanrouge would react, both outside and behind closed doors. He’d do the same thing he always did with adults. 

So with a trembling heart, because he really wanted to trust Mr. Vanrouge, Harry looked back up at the Fae. Red eyes met his and Harry was reminded of just how gorgeous that color was. They sucked him in, as red as cinnamon and as bright as stars. They were open and clear and the long slit pupils were slightly larger than before. 

There was a small part of him, hidden away in the back of his mind, that was still screaming that he was a threat. Harry pushed it further back. There was an easy way to test him. Hell, Harry might as well use the mess he’d gotten himself into to see where Mr. Vanrouge stood. 

He bit his lip, wincing when his tooth cut into it, and whispered, “I can’t see it.” 

Mr. Vanrouge continued to stare at him. 

“Is that all?” 

Harry frowned at him. Is that all? Was that really all he had to say? Harry nodded slowly, still very much confused.

“Oh, well, that’s an easy fix,” Mr. Vanrouge chirped happily, “We can get you some lenses after your vaccinations. Why you’d feel the need to lie about such a trivial matter, I’ve no idea. Children have such peculiar little minds.” 

Harry’s heart jolted in his chest, his throat suddenly clenching tight, and before he could stop himself he blurted out a denial. 

“You don’t have to get me anything! I only need them to read really and not even then really, only if it’s like close or small. Glasses are expensive! I don’t want you to have to spend that much on me.” 

Mr. Vanoruge waved his hand dismissively, “Never you mind, mortal money is of no concern to me.” 

Harry almost wanted to smash his face into a wall. He didn’t want that kind of money spent on him! His glasses always ended up broken or stolen or missing. It wasn’t like he even actually needed them either. He just couldn’t read things very well and if he wasn’t going back to Hogwarts then he wouldn’t need to read very much at all. 

“Now, how about I read some options to you,” Mr. Vanrouge didn’t give him a chance to say no. He picked up his own menu with an intent smile, “Now, have you ever had lobster before? Or perhaps a good bloody steak would be better? Growing children need plenty of protein and with how small you are you’ll never get taller than me if I don’t stuff you full.” 

Somehow, someway, Harry ended up with a bowl of rice with thick cuts of bloody steak and a glass of juice. He stared at the bowl of meat as the animal-eared waiter placed it delicately on the table. His chin dug into the spot between his dragon’s horns as he squeezed the plushie. Were people even supposed to eat meat like that? 

“Here, why don’t we put your dragon right here beside me? We wouldn’t want it to get dirty after all,” Mr. Vanoruge said as he gestured toward Harry’s dragon. Thankfully, for Mr. Vanrouge that is, he didn’t try taking it from him. Harry would have bitten him. He didn’t have his wand with him so that just meant he had to go back to the basics. His fists and teeth had gotten him into and out of a lot of fights back in primary school. 

Reluctantly, Harry opened his arm and let Mr. Vanrouge pluck his stuffie from his lap, watching him like a hawk all the while. He wasn’t going to let his first toy get meat sauce and juice all over it. Mr. Vanrouge placed his stuffie right beside him in the booth, sitting up like the dragon was a member of the group. Harry watched for a second, just to make sure the toy wouldn’t fall, before turning to his lunch. 

Silver had gotten a rice dish similar to Harry’s and was eagerly digging in. Malleus meanwhile took dainty, dignified, bites out of a piece of raw salmon. Mr. Vanrouge had decided to order tomato soup and practically downed the whole bowl before turning to the raw steak he’d ordered alongside it. Raw steak. Completely raw. More raw than Harry’s.

Harry looked at his bowl. Long slices of undercooked steak sat decoratively atop creamy rice. His steak looked like something a person might actually be able to eat. Harry had never had steak before, had never even cooked it, but he was pretty sure meat was supposed to be cooked all the way through before eating it. 

He kind of wished he’d let Silver order his food. He glanced at Silver’s rice and mushroom dish with envy. At least his looked fully cooked. 

Slowly, hesitantly, he grabbed his fork and poked at a slice of meat. There was a thin ring of cooked meat while the middle was almost completely red. The entire thing was generously seasoned and dripped juice. He still wasn’t completely sure it was something a human could eat. Oh well, he wasn’t going to pass up food. Food was food and Harry had eaten worse. This had nothing on the half-raw chicken leg he’d stolen from Ripper when Aunt Marge visited when he was six. 

He shoved the piece of steak in his mouth, not letting himself hesitate, and immediately swallowed it. If he didn’t chew then he wouldn’t have to taste it too much. But then he stopped. He licked his teeth, tasting pepper and something spicy. He stabbed another piece of meat but this time he looked at the steak and the juice that dripped from it. Slowly, so very slowly, he took a bite out of it. He grimaced, waiting for the disgust and gagging that usually followed him eating bad meat, but instead, flavor melted through his mouth. 

The meat practically dissolved on his tongue. Pepper and spices and a thousand other flavors he didn’t know overwhelmed him. Hurriedly, Harry scooped up a forkful of rice and meat and shoved it into his mouth. It was delicious. 

The food vanished in record time. All four of them devoured their portions like starving men, especially Mr. Vanrouge. Harry didn’t think he’d seen anyone but Ron eat so much so quickly. He didn’t think Ron would eat raw steak though. The other three ordered dessert but by that point, Harry was so full he could barely breathe without his stomach protesting. So he watched as Silver, Malleus, and Mr. Vanrouge shared something called a “lava cake” with a deep, instinctive, satisfaction. 

Soon enough they were done though and Harry had no idea what they were going to do or where they were going to go. He hunched into himself, tucking his dragon close once it was passed back to him, as Mr. Vanrouge took hold of his chair and wheeled him out of the restaurant. Fewer people were crowding the streets, but those that were stared at them with something between fear and reverence. 

Mr. Vanrouge hummed contemplatively and Harry nearly turned to look at him, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. There were too many people. All of them staring at them. His back straightened, shoulders pulling back. At times like this, it was better to be Harry Potter than it was to be Harry.  

A man a few feet away took a step forward. Harry’s fingers twitched. Magic, wild and uncontrolled without his wand, began to gather at his fingertips with a popping flare. One more step and Harry would blast him sky high. His luck had held out for far, far, far too long. Something had to give. 

“Father, perhaps we should teleport back,” Silver said and Harry could see him move to cover Malleus’ flank, a hand on a baton at his side. Good, Harry wasn’t the only one with sense. Harry couldn’t see Mr. Vanrouge but he could almost feel the Fae’s complete disregard for the growing crowd. 

“Yes, that would probably be best,” Mr. Vanrouge sighed despondently, “A shame, I wanted to take a look around. It’s not often we’re able to have an outing together.”  

The world rippled around him and magic pressed in close, smothering Harry’s own. Harry sucked in a breath as best he could with the overwhelming magic crushing him. And then it was gone and so was the sunlight. 

Harry gasped out a stuttering breath as a brush of cold wind blew against him. His eyes went wide, his mouth dropping. A castle loomed above them, spires and steeples piercing high, disappearing into the clouds. Green light flickered from thousands of massive arched windows. A massive stone staircase lead up to two symmetrical columns topped with black ravens. It was just as beautiful as Hogwarts but it held none of the welcoming aura the ancient castle carried. 

Towers, too many to count, grew from the castle like branches from a tree. A massive black gate, bordered by high pale brick walls, swung open at their arrival. A man stood, outlined by moonlight and flickering green fire. Glowing yellow dots danced within the skull of a bird worn like a mask. Long pale ears rose from a head of dark greenish-black hair.

Mr. Vanrouge rolled him to a stop only a handful of feet from the being. Magic, searching, deep, inquisitive, endlessly curious magic swept against him. Black feathers drifted to the cobblestone road as the Fae swept into a bow, one arm outstretched. 

“It warms my heart to see you well, young man,” A smooth sing-song voice rang out and Harry felt his heart start racing again, “I am Dire Crowley, Headmaster and guardian of this establishment.”

“Welcome to Night Raven College.”

Chapter Text

Pretty . 

He was so pretty. 

What was his name again? Harry didn’t know. He’d been too focused on the way his hair shimmered and the feathers on his cloak gleamed. Brilliant blues and purples and greens danced across the man. Fae , Harry corrected himself. His ears were almost hidden behind his hair, but Harry could see their points. 

His skin was even paler than Lilia and Malleus’. He held the same ethereal beauty the both of them had, that very same almost too-perfect look, like he was sculpted from marble. But what really caught Harry’s attention were the colors . He was colorful . There were colors Harry didn’t even know existed! The cloak draped over his shoulders was dyed in metallic blues and purples that matched the rest of his outfit. The silver embroidery on his waistcoat absolutely shinned. It was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic.

The mask was…a bit not good. It instantly raised Harry’s guard. Sparks popped at his fingertips again, little arches of electricity running between his fingers, before he closed his hand in a fist. He wasn’t going to blow up again. He refused to act anymore like a child. If Crowley was a threat then Harry needed to be ready to deal with him. 

Pretty things were deadly. 

Bright colors meant poison or venom. 

“Hello, Sir.” Be polite. Always be polite at first, make them drop their guard around him. He needed to make him think Harry was weak. That way he wouldn’t expect it. The moment he showed his true colors, Harry would go for the throat. 

“What was your name, Sir? It’s a bit windy and I couldn’t hear very well, could you repeat it?” Harry said sweetly, smiling up at the tall Fae. Merlin, were they all tall? Except Mr. Vanrouge. 

The adult melted and Harry held back a snicker. Worked every time. He was pretty sure only Professor McGonagall and Snape were immune to him. He didn’t think those two had souls though. He’d learned from the best after all. The neighborhood cats had taught him the best ways to get what he wanted. 

He could feel Mr. Vanrouge staring at him, but he didn’t look back. He could only hope his adult didn’t ruin his act. Potential threats needed to be handled as quickly as possible and things would be so much easier if Harry could cut the probably-a-death-eater off at the knees. And to do that Harry needed every advantage. He couldn’t take down an adult without some serious handicaps. All he needed to do was make him underestimate him. 

The only reason he’d managed to kill Quirrell was because the professor hadn’t been expecting Harry to be able to burn him. The only reason he’d beaten the Basilisk was because the thing had been blinded. The only reason Harry’d been able to kill Riddle was because he’d underestimated him. Who knew how much harder it’d be to kill a Fae? Harry needed every single advantage he could get. No chances. No risks. He wasn’t going in half-cocked this time. This time he’d have a plan . He’d never been the one to plan things though. That’d been Ron’s thing. Harry was good in a fight, when his mind could go quiet and he could just let his body guide him. 

If he could get that sword back-

“Oh, of course, young man. My apologies, I sometimes forget other species have difficulties hearing as well as Fae do,” the man said as he took several steps closer. If only Harry had that sword - “I am Dire Crowley, although most students simply call me the Headmage.”

Damn it! 

If he was the headmaster then he had to be powerful. Or maybe not. The headmaster before Dumbledore wasn’t really powerful. He was just really old . Alright. He could work with this. He just had to think. 

What would Ron do?

He could almost see a chessboard in his mind and Ron’s smug triumphant face grinning at him from the other side. He didn’t know what Ron would do. Chess, strategy, planning, that was all Ron’s. It wasn’t something Harry had ever done. He’d never been able to plan at the Dursleys, not when his Uncle could change at the drop of a hat. He’d learned to act and react to survive. Planning took up too much time. 

So, Harry would wait. He would wait and watch. 

“I’ll show you to your dorm, for I am gracious,” what was up with that? Praising himself? Really? 

“Malleus, Silver,” Mr. Vanrouge spoke up, making Harry jump in his seat, “go prepare your dormmates.” There was something to his voice, something that made the hair along Harry’s neck rise. Tension built in his shoulders, but Harry had had years of practice hiding it. Crowley was a threat then. There was no doubt about it, not with the way Mr. Vanrouge’s voice rumbled. 

His focus sharpened even further, turning his attention completely and totally to Crowley. Mr. Vanrouge was getting Malleus and Silver away from him, but he couldn’t do the same with Harry. Not with the damn wheelchair in the way. Harry knew he should’ve fought more back at the hospital. Being vulnerable sucked! At least this way Crowley would underestimate him. The moment he got close enough, Harry could go for his throat. He didn’t really want to hurt another person so soon after Riddle, but he would if he had to. Mr. Vanrouge wouldn’t let him get hurt.

 Probably. 

Crowley’s smile twitched a bit and the Fae stood up straighter. The feathers on his cloak ruffled and puffed up like they were real and Harry amended his plan. A downed bird was a dead bird. If he went for the wings, then Crowley wouldn’t be able to fly away and Mr. Vanrouge could finish him off quick. 

His ear twitched at a slight hiss of wind and the warmth behind him suddenly vanished along with the lullaby-forest songs that accompanied Malleus and Silver. He almost, almost , turned his head to see if Mr. Vanrouge had vanished with them. A hand clamped down on his shoulder, leeching out the tension building in them. Warmth folded over his shoulders as Mr. Vanrouge practically clung to him. An arm made its way around him and a thin, bony, chin rested on top of his head, enveloping him in warmth. 

A fuzzy feeling grew in his chest and Harry found his face twisting into an embarrassingly wide smile. How many times had Mr. Vanrouge hugged him just that day? It had to be more than a handful. Harry was pretty sure only Mrs. Weasley had hugged him as much as Mr. Vanrouge. He felt trapped but not in a bad way, almost like he was back in his cupboard. 

A fluffy lightheadedness overtook him as he drowned in a scent that was quickly becoming synonymous with safety. Rain and stone surrounded him, drenching him, burying him beneath Mr. Vanrouge’s possessive presence. The tension around his heart loosened, leaving him feeling untethered.

 Harry leaned back into his wheelchair and further into Mr. Vanrouge’s embrace and the shadow he cast. Mr. Vanrouge was a bigger, badder, predator than Crowley would ever be. He was safe as long as Mr. Vanrouge was there. He was safe as long as he was covered by his shadow. He was safe . For the first time in his life , he was safe. There was a predator, deadly and protective and possessive , all too willing to protect him. 

“I’m sure I can show him the way just fine, Dire,” there was something there, something in the tone of Mr. Vanrouge’s voice that sounded almost like jealousy. Harry blinked and his smile stretched even wider. He buried the lower part of his face into his dragon, hiding the absolutely, completely, utterly, foolishly giddy expression. 

Nobody had ever wanted him and nobody had certainly ever been jealous of someone being around him. He didn’t think that was a normal thing people felt, but Harry had never been normal so what did he know? And why should he care anyway? He liked it, liked feeling wanted and precious, even if he didn’t really like feeling fragile. 

“Oh I’ve no doubt of that, Lilia , but what kind of Headmage would I be if I didn’t escort our littlest student? Certainly, I’m a model educator! A perfect example for all to aspire to be.” 

What exactly was going on here? It almost reminded him of watching two little kids fight over a new toy. He almost wanted to see if one of them would start calling for their Mum or something. 

A deep vibrating rumble surrounded him, rippling from Mr. Vanrouge and setting Harry’s hair on end. His heart tightened in his chest, sinking to his stomach. Alarm bells rang in his head and he found himself wondering if the two adults were actually going to fight. 

He hunched down, making himself as small as possible. He’d heard that sound before. The cats back on Privet Drive were ruled by Mrs. Tibbles, formerly Mr. Tibbles, and he’d heard her growl and snarl and spit at would-be usurpers more times than he could count. You’d think a human boy would be able to break up a literal catfight, but those cats were surprisingly terrifying when they wanted to be. 

“Ah-,” Crowley took an abortive step back, “I’m sure your newest is quite tired from his ordeal. Perhaps the full tour could wait until he’s ready to attend classes, yes?” 

Oh good, at least Crowley had sense . Harry had never seen adults fight each other and he didn’t know if he really wanted to either. Mr. Vanrouge was clearly better anyway so Harry had no idea why Crowley would even try to start a fight. He wouldn’t pick a weak adult when there was one obviously stronger nearby.

“Yes, precisely,” Mr. Vanrouge purred in a deep, unsettlingly happy, voice. Harry could practically taste his satisfaction, “Now, if you’d kindly , step aside? I really must introduce our little friend to the rest of Diasomnia.” 

The taller Fae took a step away and to the side and Mr. Vanrouge swiftly began pushing Harry down the paved road. He could feel Crowley’s eyes following him, delving beneath his skin and searching. For what, Harry didn’t know, but it made him squirm in place. 

Mr. Vanrouge’s arm left him and the chin on his head lifted away, replaced soon after by a long-fingered hand. Harry sighed quietly, leaning his head back as Mr. Vanrouge’s nail scratched lightly at his scalp.

“If he approaches you I want you to call me immediately.”

A shudder ran down his spine at the deadly calm that lurked in the adult’s voice. The part of Harry that had dealt with the Dursleys and far too many adults ordering him around automatically hissed and spat with indignation and defiance. Another part of him though, the part that yearned to be protected and coveted, immediately surrendered. That was the part of him that won out.

“Okay,” he answered quietly, eyes falling closed when Mr. Vanrouge stroked his hair.

 Maybe he could obey orders, just this once. Maybe he could listen when an adult told him to do something. It’d never worked out in the past, but Mr. Vanrouge was different from every other adult he’d ever met. 

When Harry spoke Mr. Vanrouge listened. When Harry felt wild and out of control Mr. Vanrouge somehow knew. It was incredible. Nobody had ever understood him like that. Nobody had ever taken the time to try. And maybe Harry just didn’t want to be alone with another adult who wasn’t Mr. Vanrouge. 

“Ah, here we are!” Mr. Vanrouge said louder and brighter than before, his usual happiness infecting his tone again. 

Harry opened his eyes reluctantly, blinking at the giant mirror in front of them. The mirror was almost coffin-shaped and nearly twice the size of a doorway. Massive stone wings curled around the mirror, twisting thorny vines rising up around its base. A plaque rested at the apex of the mirror depicting a dragon and a pair of horns eerily like Malleus’. 

“Ready to go?” Mr. Vanrouge’s smiling face popped up next to his and Harry jerked away with a muffled shriek, a hand flinging out in a wild punch. Mr. Vanrouge ducked with a laugh, weaving around his punch and dancing back behind his chair. 

“Don’t do that!” Harry shrieked, face bright red and burning as he flailed to catch his dragon before it could topple off his lap. He gripped the chubby arm of the plushie in a death grip, heart thudding against his ribcage. 

Mr. Vanoruge snickered, leaning against his chair, rubbing his cheek against Harry’s head. Any thought of yelling at him vanished as the scents of rain and stone surrounded him again. Harry flapped his good hand at Mr. Vanrouge, trying to get him off, only to have the Fae snap his teeth at it playfully. 

“Well, dear? Are you ready to meet everyone?” 

Fae were so weird, not that Harry would ever say that out loud. He liked living, thanks. He glared sideways as much as he could with the fae practically hugging his head. 

“I still don’t know what’s going on, you know.” 

“Well, you’re about to find out!” Mr. Vanrouge laughed as he suddenly sprinted at the mirror. Harry clutched at his dragon and hooked his feet under the peddles, clenching his teeth together to swallow a startled scream. He squeezed his eyes shut just before they ran head-first into the mirror. Water rippled against his skin and in the next instant, the wheels of his chair bounced against cobblestone. 

His eyes popped open and a shocked breath left him. They’d teleported again. Or maybe it was something more like the platform wall at 9 ¾. Either way, they were somewhere completely different. The sky was a dusky purple-blue, mist flowed low to the ground out of a wood that bracketed a long dark cobblestone path. Green lanterns hung from metal posts, lighting the path in an eerie green glow. Fireflies danced, glowing and flickering. 

It was quiet. And that was wrong . There was something wrong with these woods and the path. It was empty and silent and held a stillness that wasn’t natural. There were no bugs buzzing, no owls hooting, no animals at all. 

There was nothing. 

Absolutely nothing.

But somehow, Harry felt more at home than he ever had before. There was nothing bombarding him, no sounds fighting for his attention, or sudden movements making him twitchy. It was peaceful. It was perfect. 

The air was crisp and cool and every breath sent a faint fog spilling from his mouth. Morning dew clung to him. Somehow it’d gone from evening to barely daylight. A blanket of stars glimmered above them, fading into the coming sunlight. 

“Do you like it?” 

He could barely hear Mr. Vanrouge’s quiet question. He spoke so softly, so quietly, like he was afraid he’d shatter the peace. Harry could swear he could hear his heart beating, deep and slow inside his own chest. It was hypnotic. 

“It’s beautiful,” he said just as quietly and a hand ruffled his hair gently. Slowly, they began down the path. His wheelchair didn’t make a sound on the stone path. Up ahead he could just barely see the silhouette of lanterns and candles, all flickering green. 

“Just wait until you see the castle. I’m quite pleased with it. I helped plan the interior when it was being built and all the furniture was picked out by me. I tried getting Malleus to pick some things out, but that boy just has no sense of interior decorating. Ah, here we are.” Mr. Vanrouge clasped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly before letting go. 

Harry’s breath whooshed from his lungs as he took in the massive thorn-covered gates that rose like towers and the castle beyond them. Everything was dyed in blues and purples and greys, highlighted by the green glow of the lanterns. 

Harry tilted his head back as they passed beneath the tower-like gates, gazing up at the towers with his mouth hanging open. It was amazing. It was beautiful. 

It was so similar and yet so different from Hogwarts. The towers were lined with gargoyals but they didn’t look anywhere near as large as the ones around Hogwarts. A draw bridge swung down slowly in front of them and a courtyard welcomed them. Roses bloomed in gnarly bushes, wicked thorns gleaming black and green under the dawn light. A large fountain topped with a statue took center stage. Harry tilted his head at the statue.

A woman with elegant curling horns and a flowing cloak grasped a staff in one hand. Long pointed ears poked out from stone hair and massive dragon-like wings sprouted from her back. She looked familiar, somehow, like he’d seen her once in a dream. 

He knew her. He knew he did, but he couldn’t…remember. Who was she? Why did looking at her hurt? Whoever she was, he knew one thing for certain. They’d gotten her wings wrong. She wasn’t supposed to have dragon wings. That wasn’t her. Her wings were black and feathered and in the spring she grew long bronze feathers at the ends. There were supposed to be spurs at the elbows of her wings. 

They’d gotten her wrong. 

She wasn’t supposed to look so…mean. She was kind and just, even if she hated people sometimes. Most of the time, really. But she loved her people. She’d do anything for her people. 

Anything. 

She’d even die for them. 

“Diasomnia is a dorm built in honor of her. We, as her students, embody the spirit of the Thorn Fairy,” Mr. Vanrouge whispered to him and there was a reverence in his voice. Harry glanced back at him as much as he could and felt an aura of dread and foreboding come over him before he buried it, “Come. Everyone’s waiting for us.” 

They skirted around the fountain and the twisted roses, making their way to a large staircase. Mr. Vanrouge didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. Harry’s chair rose into the air as he continued forward. A pair of dark wooden double doors opened silently as they approached, spilling green light and laughter out into the silence. 

Harry took a deep breath as his chair touched back down and Mr. Vanrouge pushed him forward. An entrance hall welcomed them and Harry fought back the instinct to freeze as a hundred eyes latched onto him. 

Elegant black couches and chairs dotted the entrance hall, all occupied by teenagers. Or what Harry would have thought were teenagers if the air weren’t filled with the smell of apples and cranberries. There were people sitting on plush cushions on the floor, leaning back into other students sitting on the couches. Some were fed berries, others had glass chalices of wine pressed into their hands. 

Not all of them were Fae. But only the Fae were sitting properly. Harry’s fingers twitched and his eyes narrowed. His face blanked purposely. All of them were staring at him. Every. Single. One. 

A boy moved. Harry’s eyes snapped to him, meeting purple eyes and dark skin and equally dark hair. The boy, the Fae , smiled at him and Harry stared back. His hair, silky and long, was braided back with silver thread, leaving his pointed ears on display. Gold and silver earrings glittered like stars from them. 

The boy swept into a bow, proper and formal, and every inch something Harry was not . He was beautiful in a way that was both the same and different from Mr. Vanrouge, Silver, and Malleus. There was something more contained about him, more crafted . He looked like he belonged in Buckingham Palace, not bowing in front of Harry. And he most definitely wasn’t bowing to Harry , if anything he was bowing to Mr. Vanrouge. 

“Well met, Littlest One,” Harry’s eyes burned with sudden agitation. No one, no one, was allowed to call him that. No one but Mr. Vanrouge and maybe his sons, “Lord Vanrouge, the Prince ordered a table to be readied for you and your charge.”

Harry didn’t say anything about the nickname. Not yet. He needed more time to figure out how to act. So he said nothing. He stared and watched, refusing to tense. He killed off his thoughts and let his instincts guide him. 

Diasomnia was a den of predators and he was a rabbit. He couldn’t plan but that was perfect for him. Mr. Vanrouge followed the boy to a large rectangular table set in the middle of the room, two couches sitting on either side of it.  

Harry nearly squeaked when Mr. Vanrouge stopped his chair and suddenly scooped him up. He couldn’t and wouldn’t let any ounce of weakness out. He couldn’t let them smell blood in the water. He needed to act like he knew what was going on. He needed to focus. This was just like sneaking into the Slytherin common room. He absolutely could not mess up. Most of all, he needed to watch his mouth. No word vomit. No accidentally saying the wrong thing. He needed to think through every single word. 

He lifted his chin, holding his head high. He had to pretend everything was alright. Everyone could see them, could hear them, could get to them . 

Mr. Vanrouge set him down gently on one of the couches and Harry focused on a chessboard sitting in the middle of the table instead of the eyes on him. It was one of those special sets, the ones that had marble statues instead of regular muggle pieces.  His hand clenched at his side, missing the calming warmth of his wand. They were surrounded. Anyone could attack at any time. 

Mr. Vanrouge took a seat beside him with a pleased smile. He didn’t seem tense at all like he wasn’t worried in the least about all the people around them. There was no way they’d both be able to win if it came down to a fight. Not against so many. They needed backup. 

Harry glanced casually around the room, acting like he was just curious. Three massive arching windows lined one of the walls, but, from what Harry could see, they dropped off into nothingness. No good there then. There was no use escaping if they just ended up going over a cliff anyway. 

“Where are Malleus and Silver,” Harry spoke up, carefully keeping his voice as blank as he could. He looked at Mr. Vanrouge, “Mr. Vanrouge?” 

The boy’s eyes widened slightly, but his face remained otherwise polite and formal. Harry caught it though and filed it away in the back of his mind. He couldn’t think about it too much. He needed to act. Act and react, like he always did. He wasn’t a planner so he had to do what he could. He had to play their game. 

And it was a game.

He could see it in the way the Fae shared little glances with each other, their little smiles. Dark amusement lurked behind every smile, every twitch of a lip. They were watching him like cats playing with a mouse. 

Mr. Vanrouge looked up from where he’d been staring at his own “phone”. His eyes were a brighter red than they had been all day, the pupils shrunken into thin slits. 

“Ah, not to worry, my dear, they’ll be along shortly.” 

Harry almost frowned. His lips tugged down softly before he forced them flat again. He was out of practice. Back at the Dursleys, he’d been a master of hiding. His Aunt loved to play with his feelings so he’d learned to watch it all from somewhere in the back of his mind. It was easier to handle the pain of being hated when he could just…stop being him for a while. He could hide in his head and watch everything like it was a show on the telly. 

It was easier to take his uncle's slaps when he could barely feel them. It was easier to pretend the other children weren’t scared of him or rather that they weren’t afraid of being associated with him. 

“Would you like to play a game?” The boy with pretty, dark purple, eyes asked as he sat down slowly on the other couch. 

Harry looked at him blankly for a long moment. ‘Would you like to play a game?’ That could have different meanings. Was he talking about the chess set or another game? One other than the one they were already playing. His lips twitched upwards a bit and a spark of mischief danced through him. If they were going to play with him then why couldn’t he play with them? It was only fair. 

“I thought we were already playing a game?” He smiled at the boy, feeling that old maliciousness rise in him. Mr. Vanrouge giggled beside him, peeking over his phone at them. Maybe he could tell Harry wanted to have a little fun of his own. He wanted to see that pretty purple-eyed boy squirm . 

The boy smiled back at him and those eyes brightened, shifting shades in a way a human’s would never be able to do without magic. A few heads tilted and the Fae around the room turned their full attention to him. What’s a game he could play on them? He wanted them to know he wasn’t to be messed with. He wouldn’t let them bully him. He’d had enough of that at Privet Drive and he hadn’t been able to do anything about it. He wouldn’t let that happen here. Mr. Vanrouge no doubt knew they were playing with him so he couldn’t count on him to act unless it went too far. He didn’t think Mr. Vanrouge would let them actually hurt him but he wouldn’t get in the way here. 

This was a test. They were figuring out where he fell in the hierarchy. They were testing their boundaries, what they could do, and what they could get away with. So if they could do that then why couldn’t he? He just had to guide the conversation the right way. Give them a little warning. 

“Perhaps a quicker game? A game of chess?” The Fae lounged back, crossing one leg over the other. His earrings glinted as he tilted his head. Harry lifted his legs up, sitting crisscross, his dragon in his lap. He hid his smile in the plushie. 

“Alright, I like chess,” he leaned forward a bit, “My best friend, Ron, is a master at chess.” 

The boy’s ears twitched higher at the mention of Ron and Harry had to tamp down his grin. The chess board began to spin in place, black and white pieces a blur. Harry watched the board curiously for a moment before looking back at the boy.

“Really now? How good is he?” 

Sorry, Ron. Harry could soothe himself with the knowledge that Ron would probably never meet this Fae. 

“He’s really good. Nobody can beat him. Even the seventh years can’t,” Harry stretched a leg forward, stopping the board. 

Black. 

The Fae, who still hadn’t introduced himself, blinked at him, “Seventh years?” 

This was going better than Harry thought it would. Everyone here didn’t seem to know a thing about Hogwarts or Britain and that meant he could lure them in. He just had to spin his web the right way. Get them interested. Say just enough to stoke their curiosity. Harry knew how addictive a mystery was. He wasn’t good at planning, but maybe he could play them like he’d play himself. 

“Yeah, my school has seven years. We start when we’re eleven,” Harry said nonchalantly, glancing up from the board, “You’re White, you start.” 

The boy glanced down at the board for half a second, leaning over to grab a Knight. He moved the Knight forward in front of a pawn, the marble piece clicking as he set it down. 

This time Harry frowned openly, furrowing his brows. He looked up at the boy with open confusion and was met with a raised eyebrow. Why move the piece by hand? Why not just…order it to move? Like, you know, wizards chess ? Maybe it was just a preference. He knew Hermione didn’t like telling the pieces what to do. 

Whatever. Harry shrugged to himself, not caring that the Fae could see. It wasn’t his fault all of them were weird. He’d play like a wizard. 

He took a breath and straightened up, “C-7 Pawn to C-5.” 

He made his voice hard, uncompromising, commanding. He didn’t know how this set was but Ron’s set hated listening to him so he had to get forceful with them. Ron was actually the one to teach him that. Apparently, they hadn’t liked listening to him either when he first got them. 

If they didn’t want to listen to him, then he’d force them to listen. He narrowed his eyes at the board. They would obey him. He was their general, their master, their leader and they would do as they were told. 

The little soldier that represented the Pawn shivered as he glared at it, and then it took a step forward. Beside him, Mr. Vanrouge suddenly sat up straighter. The Pawn moved with smooth, orderly, steps, stopping on the C-5 square and falling into its default position. 

He waited a moment for the other boy to make his move and when it didn’t come he looked up with an impatient frown. The purple-eyed boy was sitting straight up, staring at the board with wide eyes. Harry waited some more, but after a solid minute of the boy staring, he cleared his throat politely. When that didn’t work he rolled his eyes. 

“It’s your turn.” 

The boy finally looked up at him, his eyes dark. He picked up a piece, a Pawn this time, and placed it down. 

“Eleven is quite young to start learning magic,” the Fae said as Harry surveyed the board. He shrugged.

“D-7 Pawn to D-6,” Harry commanded again. He wanted to get his Bishop out. That sounded like a good idea, “Not really. That’s the age everyone starts at school where I come from.”

When did they start learning magic in this country? He was pretty sure eleven was the usual age. Oh well, it didn’t matter. He just had to get the Fae to ask the right questions. 

“Is that right? How interesting! I’ve never heard of a school starting so young. Magic is dangerous for young mages.” 

Perfect. Start asking about Hogwarts. Harry knew his years at Hogwarts weren’t normal, but maybe he could use them here, even if he didn’t have his magic. The Fae didn’t know that though, so all Harry had to do was make sure they all knew Harry was dangerous. He needed to be too big for them to take on. 

“It’s not that dangerous,” he took a moment to think that over, “I mean, we do have a couple students die each year, but that’s mostly because of the staircases. They move and the steps vanish sometimes so you have to move quick and dodge them.” 

Okay, so maybe it was dangerous. Harry hadn’t ever actually thought about how many students die from the stairs. More died from the forest and lake than anything else. It just kind of became normal after the first few months. The older years all said only the weak ones died from stupid things like the stairs. If they got killed by those, then they wouldn’t survive the outside world. 

“But more students die in the Forbidden Forest.” 

The Fae blinked, long and slow, at him and blindly grabbed a piece, moving his Pawn away from one of his Rooks. Harry focused back on the game in front of them and not the one they were playing verbally. Oh, he could get his Queen out!

“Queen to A-5,” the Queen curtsied to him before gliding over to her place. He was totally going to win. The Fae wasn’t anywhere near as good as Ron. 

“Your school has a ‘Forbidden Forest’?”  

Harry almost wanted to cackle at the shell-shocked look hidden in the boy’s eyes. Yeah, he could absolutely understand that response. No other school had one like Hogwarts. There was a reason Hogwarts had it though. 

“Yeah, it’s one of the school's defenses from invasion.” They’d learned that in History of Magic. It was probably one of the only times anyone had paid any attention in Binns’ class. The Goblin Wars were interesting until you’d heard them thirty times with increasingly racist remarks from the professor. 

“Why would your school need defenses?” 

Harry startled as Mr. Vanrouge spoke up beside him. He’d completely forgotten he was there! How could someone be that quiet? It was so unfair. Harry wanted to be that quiet. 

“Well-” he stuttered over himself, taken off guard, “Um, well, she was built over a thousand years ago and you know how everyone was like way back then. So the founders made Hogwarts as a haven for magical children. But because of the wars and the hunts, the founders had to make her powerful enough to protect everyone inside, so the entire castle is a weapon. And I mean everything .” Everyone was staring at him. Everyone , even the humans and animal eared people. It wasn’t that shocking. Why wouldn’t Hogwarts be able to protect them? 

Harry might not hate muggles like the blood purists do, but he knew what they did to people who were different. They’d first learned about the witch hunts in primary school after all and it wasn’t like there hadn’t been a lot of wars in Europe. 

Mr. Vanrouge was still staring at him though, so maybe he should continue? Yeah, maybe if he kept going Mr. Vanoruge would stop looking at him like he wanted to burn the world to the ground. 

“But we don’t really have to worry about that anymore,” Wait, no. Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes narrowed and his lips began to pull down, “Well, actually, that’s a lie. We do kind of have to worry about stuff like that still, but it’s from other wizards instead.” 

Mr. Vanrouge’s eye twitched and he folded his hands in his lap elegantly. 

Bad answer! Bad answer! bad answer! 

How was he supposed to fix this? Everything had been going so well! He’d been leading the purple-eyed Fae right into his trap! How had it all spiraled out of control? 

“But it’s okay because the last war ended when I was a baby!” 

Mr. Vanrouge’s face went terrifyingly blank. 

Shit .

Chapter Text

The room was deathly quiet. Mr. Vanrouge placed his hands together in front of his mouth, breathing in slow and deep. He would’ve looked almost peaceful if Harry weren’t close enough to see the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. 

Okay, so, Harry usually wasn’t too terribly dense. 

That was a lie. 

A massive lie. 

He was oblivious to pretty much everything, but he usually didn’t mess up this badly . He knew he didn’t understand a lot about people, but war wasn’t typically something people liked to hear about. In his defense, everyone knew about the Blood War. Everyone magical anyway. Even muggles knew a little bit, even if they thought it was terrorist attacks. 

“And does this war have anything to do with the way I found you?” Mr. Vanrouge asked, voice tense and forcefully calm.

Of course, he had to ask the right questions. Why couldn’t he ask questions Harry could lie-not-lie about? Harry fiddled with his dragon’s tail as he tried to come up with a good enough answer. He didn’t really want to talk about the chamber or Riddle or Voldemort or…anything like that really, but Mr. Vanrouge was smiling at him like nothing was wrong and he didn’t want to disappoint him or push him away or worry him. 

Harry bit his lip, ducking his head, his shoulders rising to his ears, “Kind of.” 

That was a good enough answer right? It wasn’t a yes but it wasn’t a no either, so it had to be alright, right? 

“Do elaborate, dear,” Mr. Vanrouge crossed one leg over the other, folding his hands on his knee, and leaned back against the couch. He was still smiling, still bright and gentle. His smile was a bit like moonlight, Harry realized. It was bright but not searing, gentle but not exactly soft. It hid the shadows more than it banished them. 

It was scary. 

It was scary how Mr. Vanrouge could smile so convincingly while his eyes burned with something between calculation and curiosity. Every word that left his mouth was genuine and kind but poison dripped from every syllable. 

Harry knew if he’d met Mr. Vanrouge when he was younger he wouldn’t have been able to see it. Or maybe he would’ve been able to see more. Hogwarts had made Harry kinder and somehow crueler too. He’d been sneakier before he’d gone. It’d kept him safe but he was never safe at Hogwarts, sneaky or not, so there wasn’t any point in trying when people would attack him anyway. It was easier to fight back openly at Hogwarts. He didn’t have to bother with calculation when he could just do what he wanted. 

It was scary meeting someone who could be cruel and kind in the same breath. It was scary because Harry could see himself being the same. Maybe if the hat had put him in Slytherin or maybe if he hadn’t left Privet Drive. Even then, though, he’d only been going to Hogwarts for two years. He knew he was still cruel when he wanted to be, when he needed to be. 

He’d killed Quirell. 

He’d killed the basilisk.

He’d killed Riddle. 

Harry could be cruel if he really had to and sometimes he enjoyed it. He liked playing pranks on all the students who’d tried hurting Ron and Hermione. He liked knocking out Crab and Goyle and sneaking into the Slytherin common room. He still laughed when he thought about Dudley with a pig’s tail. 

He liked killing Riddle and he hated that he did. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural . There was a tiny part of him, vindictive and angry, that tittered and giggled when he remembered the face Riddle made when he realized what Harry was going to do. He’d smiled when he stabbed the diary. 

“My dear,” a warm hand cupped his cheek. Long, sharp, nails pressed lightly into his skin, “Tell me what happened.” 

He was angry. 

Mr. Vanrouge was angry . 

And it scared him.

Red, red, red, red eyes blinked down at him, sharp and intense with the need to know . They burned and swirled and twisted until Harry’s head was filled with the same red. He took a breath and suffocated beneath that haze of crimson. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t feel. All that existed was that red . 

He’d seen that red before, felt it before. Back in first year when Ron drank from his goblet on accident. He’d taken a sip, just a small one, and Harry could remember the way his eyes had gone wide. He could remember the way Ron had teetered, skin growing pale, before he’d slipped off the bench. He could remember the sound he’d made when he hit the ground. He could remember the smell as foam bubbled between his lips, pink and frothy, and carrying the scent of bile and acid. 

When all was said and done and Harry sat vigil at Ron’s bedside in the hospital wing, he’d seen that red. He’d gazed down at the grey skin of his first friend and felt something rot in him. There’d been poison in his goblet, meant for him, but Ron was the one in the hospital bed instead. He’d sat there in the moonlight, frozen and decaying from the inside out. War drums beating out a heavy rhythm in his mind and all Harry could see was red. Every breath he took was tainted with it. It consumed him, dyed him, became him. Some part of his heart curled into itself and died and the next morning Harry made sure to find the one who’d spiked his drink. 

Fred and George did most of the work, finding out who did it and all, but Harry was the one to sneak into the Restricted Section. Harry was the one to find the spell, though he wasn’t the one to cast it. He’d tried again and again and again and the twins had let him until he’d given up. In the end, Fred was the one to put the curse on the sixth-year Hufflepuff. 

The adults, the professors , didn’t do anything so it was up to them instead. They’d watched as the Hufflepuff starved. They’d watched as she grew ravenous, eating and eating and eating when nothing she ate ever made her feel full. She starved and lived and ate until her stomach consumed itself in its hunger. When food didn’t help, she turned to other things. Parchment, ink, clothes, and eventually her own skin. Harry had watched, a hand always clutching at Ron’s cloak, as the girl drove herself insane. He watched as she ate herself and felt nothing but satisfaction.

Everyone liked to say the red in the Gryffindor crest was for courage. Harry didn’t think so. No, red wasn’t for courage.

Red was for revenge. 

Slytherin was always the house everyone blamed. The snakes were always the ones people thought of when they thought of revenge and Harry thought that was a bit funny. The snakes would never do what they did, what he and Fred and George had done. The snakes would’ve ruined her life. They would’ve targeted her family, her friends, everything she cared about, and they would have done it so much stealthier. That was how snakes were, but Lions didn’t care about subtlety. 

Everyone forgot that lions had fangs and they were so much bigger than a snake’s. 

So when Harry looked up into Mr. Vanrouge’s red, red, red eyes and saw that same rot that festered inside him he smiled right back. 

“It’s okay, Mr. Vanrouge,” he smiled, “I killed him.”

Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes widened and for a moment he sat frozen before, with an explosive sigh, he sagged. His head dropped and the hand on his cheek moved up to his hair, giving a soft pat-pat, before he fell back against the couch. 

“Good. That’s very good, dear.” 

The Fae dragged a hand down his face and groaned dramatically. Harry laughed softly, awkwardly, with a lopsided, disbelieving, grin. 

“You don’t think that’s bad ?” Because Harry was pretty sure Mr. Vanrouge was the only adult that could be relieved about a kid killing someone. He wasn’t dumb . He knew he wasn’t right in the head. The Dursleys had told him he was twisted often enough. He didn’t think he was that bad though. Almost all of the Weasleys were like him and so was Hermione! Nobody at Hogwarts had reacted very much after he killed Quirell either, so it was probably a wizard thing. 

Mr. Vanrouge flapped his hand vaguely at him, but that didn’t really help any. What was a flappy hand supposed to mean anyway? Harry just kept staring at him, hugging his dragon close to his chest. 

“No, no, dear. Why would it ever be a bad thing? If someone intends to cause you harm then you are fully within your right to retaliate in whatever manner you see fit. I believe the kids nowadays say ‘fuck around, find out’?” Mr. Vanrouge covered his eyes with his arm. 

Well then. 

Harry relaxed, mimicking Mr. Vanrouge and flopping as best he could against the couch. If Mr. Vanrouge said it was fine then that was that. Harry wasn’t going to push his luck, not when things were going well for the first time in his life. 

“I think Gryffindor would like that saying,” Harry muttered, glancing back at the chess set and the boy who still sat across from him. 

“What is this Gryffindor?” 

Harry’s eyes jerked up and his shoulders went tense. Malleus strode across the room like a predator, practically floating, gliding across the black and white checkered floor. A large bowl floated after him along with a roll of bandages and various tubes. 

“ Oh thank the Seven, ” he heard Mr. Vanrouge whisper before he spoke up louder, “Malleus dear, fantastic timing. Our young friend was just enlightening us about his dramatic past.” 

Mr. Vanrouge sat up with a bright smile and manic eyes. Malleus’ pace paused ever so slightly before he continued, coming to a stop at the edge of the couch. Harry watched as Mr. Vanrouge’s son looked down at the couch like he didn’t quite know if he was allowed to sit or not. Which absolutely was not going to fly around him. Harry grinned up at Malleus and shuffled aside as obviously as he could. 

Malleus didn’t move. 

Okay then. Harry could work with that. 

He leaned over, ignoring the twinge of pain that lit up in his arm and shoulder, and patted the couch cushion. He smiled up at him but Malleus still didn’t move and at that point, Harry was really going to start questioning some things. Malleus stared at him, unblinking, lizard-like and Harry stared back because what else was he supposed to do? Look away? Obviously not. 

He resisted the urge to look around for someone, anyone , to help with the very uncomfortable staring contest. If Malleus was going to stare at him then he was going to stare right back. 

“Would you like to sit next to me,” he asked slowly, again forcing himself not to look around. He honestly couldn’t get clearer than that. Yes-no questions might just be the perfect way to get around Fae weirdness. What did he know? Harry was just a second year. He didn’t know how to deal with socially stunted- and that was coming from Harry of all people- teenagers. 

Malleus’ eyes widened, his shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly, but Harry had been watching people all his life and he knew how to read others. Malleus’ eyes jerked away from his, flying over his head to where Mr. Vanrouge sat beside him. Alright, that was a bit rude but Harry could forgive it. 

“You wish to invite me to sit with you?” 

Oh.

Oh, Harry was definitely going to do some very not-nice things to a lot of people. He wondered if he could’ve ended up like Malleus if he hadn’t gone to Hogwarts. Before Hogwarts, nobody wanted anything to do with him and he’d learned young that he was very much unwelcome . 

He hadn’t even known it was possible for someone to actually want to be friends with him. Why would anyone want to be friends with the creepy, freaky, boy with no parents? It was fine though. He’d been just fine on his own. And then he had Ron and Hermione so it didn’t matter in the end. 

“Yeah, unless you don’t want to sit with me,” his voice dwindled into a faint mutter, “that’s fine too, I suppose, but I’d really like it if you did.” 

Hook, line, and sinker. 

Malleus’ eyes widened even further and he took a quick jerky step forward. All he had to do was take another few steps and sit down. Harry smiled up at him shyly, laying on the dramatics. Malleus took another step, almost robotically, before he slowly sat down. The couch barely even dipped as Malleus sat on the very edge of the cushions, back stiff and nearly painful looking. 

Success! Who ever said he was bad at planning? Harry was bloody great at this. A self-assured smile stretched across his face as he preened. Beside him, Mr. Vanrouge had buried his face in his shoulder, muffled gleeful laughter shaking through him. Yes, Harry was absolutely great at this. He’d successfully made everyone forget that he’d just admitted to killing a man. Sure he probably wouldn’t have been able to do it if Malleus hadn’t walked in but that didn’t matter. 

Harry hugged his dragon and sat up straighter, turning his attention back to the chess board only to stop in his tracks. The purple-eyed boy had sunk into his couch, hunching into himself like he was trying to escape into the fabric. His eyes flicked wildly between Mr. Vanrouge and Malleus. 

“I’ll be taking my leave then, Mi’lord, Your Highness,” Purple-eyes began to stand, voice just shy of shaky. Harry’s fingers curled into claws around his dragon’s arm. 

He understood now. This was why Malleus didn’t know if he was welcome or not. They avoided him. They ran off like cowards the moment he tried approaching. And the worst part was that Malleus thought it was his fault. Harry could see it in the way Malleus' eyes went just a tad colder, just a tad blanker. He could see it in how he sat up straighter, looking down on the other Fae because that was the only way he could protect himself from how it hurt. And Harry knew it hurt. He knew it felt like Malleus’ heart was being twisted in his chest, like a pressure was digging into his shoulders. 

“ Sit down ,” Harry’s voice cracked like a whip, shattering the fearful air that he hadn’t even noticed had descended upon the room. He glared out from behind his hair as he ducked his head. He needed to calm down, he knew he did, but he couldn’t help the way resentment curdled in his chest. 

“We’re not done with our game yet. It’d be rude if you left now,” venom dripped from his tongue, soaking the words and filling the air. Like hell he’d let Malleus be treated like he had. The Fae was the one to start this game, it was only right that he stay until the end.

The boy froze halfway out of his seat. Wide purple eyes snapped to him then slid to either side of him, but it wasn’t Mr. Vanrouge or Malleus he had to worry about. No, Harry was going to make sure he knew not to mess with his friends. He didn’t know when or how Malleus had become his friend but he didn’t think it was very important. He’d only known Malleus for a few hours but Harry knew he got attached quickly. He’d barely known Ron for thirty minutes before he was ready to fight Malfoy for insulting him. When Harry decided he liked someone then that was that, no going back, and he liked Malleus. 

Slowly, the Fae sat back down, stiff and just as straight-backed as Malleus. Cautiously, he reached out, taking a pawn in hand. The marble statue clacked as he placed it back down and glanced at Harry. 

That’s right, be awkward, be afraid. Nobody got to make his friends feel bad without dealing with Harry. He couldn’t do anything to the other boy but he could definitely make him feel just as unwelcome as he made Malleus feel. It was only fair. 

“What is Gryffindor?” 

Harry flinched as Malleus asked again, his voice soft and whispery. He lifted his head, having to nearly tilt all the way back just to look Malleus in the eye. He stared down at him, head tilted to the side and hands delicately folded, but there was a certain cat-like curiosity to him. It wasn’t the question he wanted to ask, Harry could see that. He looked at Harry like he was a puzzle he couldn’t put together. 

“It’s my house,” Harry chirped with a grin, because Gryffindor was awesome and brutal and cutthroat and the longer he put off making his move the longer the purple-eyed Fae had to stew in his discomfort. 

Malleus blinked at him like he hadn’t expected to actually get an answer. Maybe he hadn’t. Lots of people ignored Harry when he spoke, muggle or magical. Nobody actually cared about what he said, they just cared that he existed. They looked but they didn’t see . Harry wasn’t going to be like that. Harry looked and he listened because he knew what it was like to be a phantom. 

“Ah, I see,” Malleus said slowly, brow furrowing faintly, “ the house your family belongs to. I was sure humans had done away with such things centuries ago.” 

“Gryffindor’s not my family,” he paused then, “Well, Professor McGonagall said our houses were like our families. I don’t really know what a family’s like though so I don’t know if it is or not.” 

Harry shrugged, looking over the chess board and his pieces. The Fae on the other side was as stiff as a statue and seemed to be trying to breathe just as much as one too. Good. Let him suffer. He deserved it for making Malleus feel bad. 

“C-8 Rook to G-4,” Harry snapped suddenly just to see the way the other boy stiffened even further. His rook came to life instantly with a shudder, marching across the board like a dutiful soldier. 

“Gryffindor’s my house at Hogwarts,” apparently his opponent had decided focusing on the game was his best choice to avoid the conversation. The Fae’s knight was placed behind his rook after a long moment of contemplation, “That’s my school by the way. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The best magic school in the world.” 

Harry’s heart soared with roaring satisfaction when Malleus smiled down at him. Yes, smiling was much better than frigid loneliness. Malleus’ smile wasn’t the biggest thing and it wasn’t entirely with his mouth either. It was more like his eyes softened at the edges and his lips only just turned upward. It was a faint thing, barely there, and anyone else wouldn’t notice it, but Harry wasn’t anyone. 

“A bold claim,” Malleus purred, tilting his head to the side, pointed ears wiggling. 

“Especially for a school that apparently has a deadly forest and staircases that kill students,” Mr. Vanrouge muttered.

Harry ignored him. Adults were weird and worried about stupid things all the time. He’d get over it. Probably. There wasn’t anything wrong with Hogwarts’ stairs and the Forbidden Forest was kind of cool if you ignored the giant man-eating spiders and threatening centaurs. 

“At Hogwarts, your house is like your family,” Harry copied Professor McGonagall’s voice as best he could, sitting up straight and raising his chin self-importantly, “Each house was founded by the four founders of Hogwarts; Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin.” 

“Gryffindor is the house founded by Godric Gryffindor. It was created to house the students that exemplified,” Harry hoped he used that word right. Hermione used it a lot in her essays and rants, “the qualities Godric Gryffindor valued most; bravery, chivalry, and nobility.” 

Harry preened under the concentrated attention from Malleus and Mr. Vanrouge, his chest growing warm and tight. He didn’t have a lot to talk about himself, but he could talk about Hogwarts for hours . 

“H-7 pawn to H-6.” 

He barely paid attention to the game, too busy basking in the opportunity to talk about Hogwarts. He’d never been able to talk about it to anyone. Everyone already knew what house he was in and how Hogwarts was, so there was no point in talking about it. But Harry had watched as Ron and Hermione both sent letters off to their parents when they got into Gryffindor. He’d listened to the first years whisper and tear open packages from their families. He’d never known it could be so fun to talk, to tell someone about his school. 

“What do the other houses represent?” Mr. Vanrouge suddenly asked, leaning closer to him and Harry felt Malleus relax slightly as he got closer. He could feel the heat wafting off of Mr. Vanrouge as he scooted closer and it was only then that he noticed how cold the air around Malleus was. 

“Well, Hufflepuff is loyalty and hard work,” Harry almost shifted closer to Mr. Vanrouge but he didn’t want Malleus to think he didn’t want to be near him. He really was cold though and it was making Harry cold. 

“Ah, a counterpart to Heartslabyul perhaps,” Mr. Vanrouge nodded and Harry wondered what Heartslabyul was. 

“Ravenclaw is intelligence and creativity,” at least that was what Harry thought, but he wasn’t actually too sure. The Ravenclaw doorknocker wasn’t a very good conversation partner. It just asked him questions Harry couldn’t answer. 

Malleus hummed and leaned against the couch, slow and languid in a sleepy way, “Perhaps Octavinelle?” 

Mr. Vanrouge nodded on his other side, “Or Ignihyde! There’s plenty of intelligence and creativity there, even if the students are so very anti-social.” 

Ignihyde, what a cool name! There was something to it that caught his attention. It sounded like fire and change in a way he didn’t understand. Octavinelle just sounded a bit odd and French. Hermione would probably like it; whatever it was. 

“And Slytherin is ambition and cunning,” Harry couldn’t help the way his voice sneered at the mention of Slytherin. He knew not all Slytherins were bad but the bad ones really outweighed the not-so-bad ones. He couldn’t really say he liked any of them. Greengrass was apparently not too bad according to Alicia Spinnet, one of the Gryffindor chasers, but Harry had never talked to her. Then there was Tracy Davis and she was a half-blood so Harry assumed she had her own problems in Slytherin. 

Mr. Vanrouge raised an eyebrow at him, “Do you not like them?” 

Harry shrugged, forcefully nonchalant. He didn’t want to bring up the war again and that would absolutely happen if Mr. Vanrouge pushed. He’d only just gotten him calmed down and he wasn’t going to undo all his work just to rant about the snakes. 

Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes narrowed at him and Harry crumbled like wet parchment. Damn him and his weakness to people he liked. He could never keep anything from Ron and Hermione either, just one sad look from either of them or, Merlin forbid, both of them and he folded. 

“There’s a boy in Slytherin who has it out for me,” that was an understatement. Nearly the whole house hated him. Granted, Harry had ended their seven-year winning streak the moment he’d made the Gryffindor team so that probably didn’t help. But Harry definitely wasn’t going to mention just how many of them had tried sending him off the staircases or how many times Ron and Hermione had had to catch him. 

“His name’s Draco Malfoy,” Harry hated how similar Malfoy’s name was to Malleus’. They didn’t sound anything like one another though. Malfoy’s name carried a muddy texture that dripped like sludge from his tongue. The steady ring of traitor, traitor, oath breaker followed it but somehow it wasn’t entirely bad. Harry couldn’t understand how being a traitor, an oath breaker , couldn’t be a bad thing. How could Malfoy be a traitor and not be evil?  

“Oh? A childhood rival?” Mr. Vanrouge asked teasingly and Harry bristled. Malfoy wasn’t a rival! He was- he was- Harry didn’t know what he was but he wasn’t a rival . 

“No way,” Harry spat out like the words tasted vile, “He’s rude .” 

He said it like it was the worst thing a person could be, like the very action of being rude was something evil. Like Malfoy deserved to be punished for it. 

“He insulted Ron and his family the first time he saw him! And then he acted like he was doing me a favor and said that some families were better than others and that he could show me which ones were good,” Harry rushed to explain himself and maybe he was still a bit insulted from that first conversation on the train, “Like I can’t find that out for myself. And I told him that too! The Weasleys are better than Malfoy’s family could ever be.” 

The chess pieces shivered, marble feet shifting on the board. Harry stared into Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes with resentment bubbling in his chest. 

“He said I’d end up just like my parents. He insulted Mione and called her something really bad. I hate him. He’s stupid and wrong and- and- and-” Harry floundered for a word that encompassed just how much of a prat Malfoy was, “-and he’s a cock !” 

Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes went so wide Harry could see the veins in them. A different sort of silence took hold of the room before the couch began shaking and the torches began flickering wildly. 

“Pfft-” Harry flinched as Malleus bent over, a hand over his mouth, his shoulders trembling. Slowly, Malleus lost his battle with his own laughter until riotous deep laughter spilled from him. It filled the room, consuming every corner until it was the only sound Harry could hear and then Mr. Vanrouge was laughing too. His own deep voice joined Malleus’ as he folded in half, slapping the table with tears building in his eyes. 

“Holy- oh my-” Mr. Vanrouge choked on his own words, his laughter going high and Malleus laughed even harder. Malleus tipped his head back, hugging himself with his eyes pressed closed. Slowly, other students began chuckling, giggling, until nearly every student was leaning against something, faces red. 

Harry watched it all with his mouth hanging open. Well, at least he hadn’t mentioned the war again.

Chapter Text

“Oh-oh dear,” Mr. Vanrouge gasped out between wheezing laughter. Harry watched it all with a frown and a tapping finger. He didn’t get why they were laughing. He hadn’t said anything funny, he didn’t think so anyway. Why would his insulting Malfoy be funny? Why were adults so… weird? 

“Oh,” Mr. Vanrouge sighed out, “I needed that.” 

Harry huffed softly, turning his head away from him. Malleus was much more rational. But Malleus was hunched over still, a hand placed against his mouth. Was it a Fae thing or an adult thing? Malleus wasn’t an adult though so that wouldn’t make sense. Maybe Silver- oh but Silver wasn’t there yet. Where was he? 

“Where’s Silver,” Harry asked Malleus, Mr. Vanrouge could be ignored for a bit. Just a bit. 

Malleus’ eyes widened, green bright and eye-catching and Harry couldn’t help but stare. Why were they all so pretty? Malleus, Mr. Vanrouge, Silver, the other purple-eyed boy. They were all so unfairly pretty. Even Dire Crowley had been pretty. They were pretty in the same way some of the plants in the Hogwarts greenhouses were. They were thin and dainty and fragile-looking, but the moment you got too close they’d spray out venom or launch thorns. 

Harry hadn’t ever had someone he’d looked up to, not really. There’d been Headmaster Dumbledore, but Harry didn’t want to be a professor and he definitely didn’t want a beard long enough to drag on the floor. He thought he might like to look like Mr. Vanrouge or Malleus though. He wanted to be powerful like them.

“Oh yes, where is Silver? I’d have expected him to come out by now.” 

Harry twitched, head jerking to the side before he stopped himself. No. No looking at Mr. Vanrogue. He could ignore him. He didn’t need to look at him. But-but- but nothing! He didn’t need to look! Mr. Vanrouge was right behind him, he didn’t need to look. 

Tension still built up along his shoulders, rising and rising. His hand clenched around his dragon’s arm. He didn’t need to look. Yes. He was perfectly fine. Mr. Vanrouge hadn’t gone anywhere in the five seconds Harry hadn’t looked at him. 

Malleus turned to look at the chess board, dropping his hand. The boy on the other side looked very much like he wanted the ground to swallow him. Too bad. Harry was still mad at him. 

“If you move your pawn here,” Malleus gestured to another spot, “you can lead him into an unfavorable position.” 

Harry looked down, mapping out the board and what the other boy could do. Oh. It really would work. He could take the purple-eyed boy’s knight if he did that. He nodded, leaning closer to Malleus’ side. Tingles ran up his arm and side the closer he got to him. Frigid and burning and Harry almost leaned away, but he wouldn’t. He wasn’t weak. He could handle a little cold. 

It wasn’t just a little cold though. It was ice, frost, crawling across his skin the closer he got. It sunk deep into his veins, crystalizing his blood. It spread across his skin, up his arm, to his neck, and then his cheek. 

His heart shuddered and a cold grew inside him. Harry tried not to shiver. It didn’t feel physical. It felt like it was coming from inside him, growing and growing. Like iced water had been spilled inside his ribcage. 

He could ignore it though. It wasn’t too bad. It was like those nights he’d slept out in the rain. He just had to wait for the cold to go away. 

“Malleus, where is Silver?” 

Harry’s ear twitched and he had to stop himself from looking back again. A tight, impatience laced Mr. Vanrouge’s voice. Malleus didn’t turn away from the chess board and neither did Harry. He couldn’t stop the anxiety that curled around his heart no matter how much he tried. 

Part of him wanted to look back and a part of him wanted Malleus to run. Angry adults were never a good thing. He could distract Mr. Vanrouge while Malleus got away. He’d just need to stall long enough for Malleus to get out the doors. 

His neck tingled, hair rising along his spine. There was the feeling of something pressing down on him, down on his shoulders. 

“Malleus,” Mr. Vanrouge drawled out long and slow, pointedly, waiting for an answer and expecting to be obeyed, “Where. Is. Silver?” 

Malleus’ eyes glanced away, meeting Harry’s, before sliding to where Mr. Vanrouge sat. Harry could feel his breath catch in his throat. If he was quick enough he could get up fast enough to take the hit for him. 

But Harry didn’t want to.  

He didn’t want to get hit. 

He didn’t want Mr. Vanrouge to hit him.

He wanted to believe Mr. Vanrouge wouldn’t hit him. Everything inside him said he wouldn’t. He promised. He promised nothing would hurt him. But maybe he wouldn’t count hits as hurting. His teachers had never thought much of his bruises and Harry didn’t know when punishments became abuse. But Mr. Vanrouge wouldn’t hurt him. 

He wouldn’t. 

“He was adamant that he accompany me to my rooms upon returning to the dorm,” Malleus spoke up, clear and fearless and Harry couldn’t understand. Why wasn’t he afraid? Why was Harry afraid? 

“Malleus, if you left that boy on the stairs again-”

He didn’t need to be afraid. He never needed to be afraid of Mr. Vanrouge. The very thought that Mr. Vanrouge would ever hurt him made something in his chest convulse in utter denial. He wouldn’t hurt Harry. But would he hurt Malleus? What would happen if Harry got in the way? Would he hurt him then? 

That thing in his chest lurched, hammering against his ribs and Harry gasped out loud. Beside him, Mr. Vanrouge let out a grunt followed by a hiss that made the hair on Harry’s arms rise. The iron band around his lungs vanished so suddenly Harry swayed, untethered and unbalanced. 

A warm hand cupped the back of his neck and Harry drooped. The cold in his chest grew with every beat of his heart and the touch felt scorching. He wanted to jerk away but his muscles wouldn’t work. 

“You’re so cold.”

 He could barely make out the words over the strange thrumming sound drowning everything else out. Then he was being moved and there was warmth next to him. The thing in his chest released a wheeze. 

Warm.  

He was so cold. 

He turned his head to the side, toward that warmth, crawling closer. What was he thinking about again? Something about Mr. Vanrouge. He took a deep breath, drawing in the scent of safety and warmth. Heat leeched back into him slowly, starting at his arms and inching closer to his heart. It hurt. The heat hurt. It bubbled and sizzled along his veins, through his muscles, etching into his bones. It hurt, but he couldn’t help but nuzzle closer. 

Harry snuffled, pressing his head harder against the soft, squishy warmth. It kind of smelled like sweat actually. A weight settled down over his shoulders, draping over him and darkness came over his face. 

The air heated quickly, stifling and thick with nowhere to go. It warmed his lungs with every pull until he was near gasping. Harry blinked, shaking the fog from his head. What? Why was he? There was something on top of him. His hand reached out, struggling through the air. Thick fabric slid through his fingers, black and green and completely covering. He blinked sluggishly, eyelids taking a century to flutter open again, shifting over to the thing he was leaning against. A person. He was leaning against someone. He would’ve pushed away, cursing and yelling, but he felt too loose-limbed and warm to do anything but lean deeper against the person. 

“I’ll get some tea, milord,” a familiar voice floated to him out from behind that thick black and green fabric. Harry followed the voice with a tilt of his head, tracking the shift of movement on the other side. 

“An excellent idea.” The chest he was leaning against rumbled and vibrated and the breath whooshed from his lungs. Oh. That made more sense. Mr. Vanrouge. Harry went limp, burying his head into the Fae’s side. His ear pressed to the chest, listening to the heartbeat that echoed to him. It seemed slower than his, a slow thudding rhythm that pulled his eyelids lower and lower. 

He was so stupid. 

Why would he even think Mr. Vanrouge would hurt him? That was impossible. Well, not really, but it may as well be. Mr. Vanrouge was violence but he was controlled violence. He was as tight and restraining as devil’s snare but only in his own way. He wouldn’t hurt Harry. He wouldn’t chain him either. Not in any way that mattered. 

He was so stupid. 

His jaw cracked as he yawned and nuzzled into Mr. Vanrouge’s side. His brain was stupid. The thing covering him protected him from the stares and he didn’t think he really wanted to leave the darkness quite yet. Maybe later, once the tea was done. 

He wanted Malleus though. His hand squeezed his dragon’s arm again and he pressed his side harder into Mr. Vanrouge, ignoring the pain that lit up his other arm. Slowly, very, very, slowly, he loosened his hold on his stuffie and reached his hand out under the thing covering him. His hand flailed around, patting the couch cushion before he let out a frustrated huff. 

“What is it, my dear? Do you want something?” The body next to him shifted and Harry’s teeth snapped warningly. He wasn’t allowed to move. Not yet. Not when Harry’s brain could still try being stupid again. 

The body stopped moving. Harry sighed out a short high note, butting his head up into what he was halfway sure was an arm. He flailed his hand about again. Where the bloody hell was Malleus? 

Harry sighed, shoulders slumping, because obviously nobody was smart enough to understand him. Where was Hermione when he needed her? He didn’t want to face the rest of the room, not after that embarrassing show. Merlin knows how much teasing he would’ve gotten in Gryffindor over something like that. 

He was acting like such a kid! 

Slowly, reluctantly, he drew away from the glorious living heat lamp and poked his head out. Light, dim and green, brushed across his face soothingly. He glared out at the nameless faces staring back at him before looking around for Malleus. They didn’t matter, but Malleus did. 

And he was there. 

At the other side of the bloody couch.

Harry desperately wanted to stomp his foot, but he wasn’t a kid and he’d already embarrassed himself enough that day. So instead he glared at Malleus, patting the couch cushion more forcefully. Malleus just looked back at him, all sad and droopy-eared and-

“Get over here , Malleus,” Harry hissed, his voice twisting. Malleus’ Name twisted and warped and sang. Harry’s voice rang out like a song, fire and ice colliding in it. It danced and rose and shivered. The world halted all movement. Time itself stood frozen. A lullaby came alive in Harry’s voice, inviting dreams and peace. 

Malleus moved, obeying Harry’s call. He sank down next to him, sitting gently, hesitantly. His eyes had gone wide and wondrous but Harry couldn’t care less. His side facing Malleus instantly went cold, but he snatched up Malleus’ hand in his. 

He squeezed as hard as he could because Malleus deserved a bit of punishment for making him wait so long. Merlin, did the Fae not know what cuddles were? Granted, Harry hadn’t known what cuddles were until he’d stayed at the burrow the summer before second year, but still!  

He was cold, but he didn’t care. 

His brain had done something stupid and he’d caused a scene. Harry drew himself up as much as he could. The thing around him fell down to his shoulders before Mr. Vanrouge fixed it. Harry chose to ignore how much respect he’d probably lost from the other students. All that work and set up just gone because his stupid brain couldn’t decide whether he could trust the one adult who’d ever cared for him. 

He groaned and ducked back under the blanket-coat-whatever, making sure to squeeze Malleus’ hand again just for good measure. 

“And back under the wing he goes,” Mr. Vanrouge snickered and Harry contemplated biting his armpit, but his head went fuzzy at the edges the moment he took in a breath of warm air. Time passed in an indistinct blur in the warm darkness and Harry found a large hand reaching out to him, a steaming cup clasped in moonlight pale fingers. 

He didn’t remember taking it, but the first burst of hot tea against his lips brought him closer to the surface. It was a berry tea, fruity and fresh. He could feel the hot liquid slip down through his chest, spreading like blood through him until the lingering chill in his heart drowned beneath it. 

Harry went limp, completely limp. He sagged against the couch and Mr. Vanoruge’s side. His legs drew up to his chest and his dragon flopped over. His head ducked slowly, eyes sliding to his plushie. 

Damn. 

He dropped it. 

He already had his cup in his hand, he couldn’t hold two things at once, but he wanted his dragon. 

Which dragon?

Harry blinked at the thought. Which dragon did he want? But he only had one dragon didn’t he? When had he let go of Malleus’ hand? 

Harry glared at his tea. He was pretty sure it was apple. Stupid apples. His brain was acting weird again. It was slow like he was swimming through glue. 

Apples and Malleus.

And dragons? 

Yeah, apples and Malleus and dragons. 

Harry giggled softly. Fae liked apples, didn’t they? He was pretty sure they did. Harry liked apples. Especially the apples Hogwarts had every Christmas. Those were always baked and marinated in cinnamon and soft and warm. It’d be weird if they didn’t like apples. Who doesn’t like apples? 

Harry kind of wanted an apple. 

He went to take another sip of his tea, only there wasn’t any. Harry blinked down at his cup, head drooping as he tried to look into it. He couldn’t have drank it all. He would remember that. He frowned down at the empty cup. 

Someone had stolen his tea. 

That was the only thing that made sense. 

Someone had stolen Harry’s apple tea. Mean. That was mean. And rude. Mean and rude. 

Harry huffed, leaning into Mr. Vanrouge’s side more. Who just steals someone’s tea? Malfoy. Malfoy would steal his tea. He absolutely would. Mean and rude. Yup, that was Malfoy. Harry frowned harder and turned his head into the chest next to him. He wanted more tea. 

Harry poked Mr. Vanrouge’s side. Then did it again. 

The body next to him moved, the cloth over his head shifting until a face could peer in on him. Burning red eyes pierced through the darkness and Harry spent a good moment just staring at them. 

“Yes, Dear?”

Harry shivered as cold air blew in and held out his cup.

“Mal stole my tea,” he slurred, tongue feeling oddly heavy. He licked the inside of his mouth, tongue wiggling and rolling. 

Mr. Vanrouge gently took the cup from him with a smile and a confused tilt of his brows. He had nice eyebrows. Could people have nice eyebrows? Harry didn’t know. 

“Oh I doubt that dear,” Mr. Vanrouge whispered, looking down at the empty cup before he drew back from Harry’s cloth cave, “How much did you put in this?” 

Put what in what? 

Oh well, it probably didn’t matter. Harry shrugged and reached for his dragon, pulling it close to him. 

“Not much, milord. I just used the same amount I give my siblings.” 

Harry’s jaw cracked as he yawned, pushing his head against Mr. Vanoruge. A deep, rolling, sound vibrated through Mr. Vanrouge’s chest. Harry’s eardrums twitched and spasmed and he hissed at them to stop. 

Light pierced through his cave, the cloth pulling back. Harry shrunk away from the light. The body next to him shifted, drew away from him, and stood, baring Harry to the cold air. He almost cursed when a pair of warm hands slipped under him. He was only in the air for a moment before he was plopped unceremoniously into his wheelchair. 

“Well then, I do believe it’s time for us to retire,” Mr. Vanrouge said as he took his place behind Harry’s chair. Harry shrunk into himself, glaring at all the faces staring back at him and a guiltily amused looking purple-eyed boy. 

Harry blinked and they were gone, a hallway replacing the common room. What? A cold hand clamped down on his shoulder as they moved slowly down the hall. Harry’s head tipped back, heavy on his neck, until he met Malleus’ eyes. 

“Awake now, Little One?” 

Something pinged in his head before it faded back. 

“I never fell asleep.” 

Malleus hummed and smiled at him, still that faint smile that showed more in his eyes than it did on his face. It made Harry’s chest heat anyway. It was nice to see Malleus happy. Harry got the feeling he was really lonely and sad most of the time, even if he was good at hiding it. Harry knew how it felt though. Harry yawned again, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth only to accidentally drop his dragon again. 

“Ah,” Malleus uttered, stooping down to pick the toy up. 

Harry didn’t pay much mind to his dropped dragon, too absorbed in the colors reflecting and refracting off Malleus’ horns. Blues and greens and yellows twisted and twined around each other, glittering like light off of ice. 

Harry reached out, hand heavy and fingers almost numb. His fingers grazed over cool ivory, trailing over the near-transparent stone-like horns. Light almost seemed to twist within them like opals, like jewels, like fractured glass. 

“Your horns look like labradorite. They’re like stars or black ice. It’s so pretty.”

Malleus stared up at him from where he knelt, dragon plush limp in his hand, mouth open and eyes wide. Harry giggled as red seeped across his cheeks, down his neck, and all the way to the tips of his ears. 

Swiftly, Malleus shot back up, almost tossing Harry’s dragon back into his lap. Harry wrapped an arm around it, grinning up at Malleus. He’d need to compliment Malleus more. He probably didn’t get real compliments often, Harry sure didn’t. Everyone always commented on things he couldn’t control, things that weren’t really him. Malleus probably got the same. He needed someone to see him. 

Someone snickered behind him and Harry twisted around only to have pain light up along his neck and arm. Mr. Vanrouge clicked his tongue with a smile and a shake of his head. 

“Malleus, would you get a blanket or two and bring them to my room? I don’t want to leave him alone after his episode earlier.” 

Just then as Harry was about to say something a door down the hall swung open and Mr. Vanrouge pushed him inside a smallish black and white checkered room. Instantly, Harry wanted to tear the room apart and put it back together again. 

It was messy.

So messy Harry couldn’t see a single spot that wasn’t covered in something. There were clothes all over the floor. Instruments laid in various positions all over the place. There was a bright red guitar on the bed and-

Were those bagpipes?

His aunt would lose her mind if she saw this room. He could almost hear her shrieking, or maybe that was just his own inner clean freak losing it. The moment he could move his arm he was cleaning this place. It was going to be organized and neat and he was going to make sure not a single smudge of dust remained. 

Harry had never really been able to handle dirty places. He was pretty sure it was actually because of his aunt and her shrieking. And maybe the cupboard. Definitely the cupboard. He still couldn’t stand the feeling of spiders on his skin. 

Mr. Vanrouge paused just in the doorway and hummed. Harry almost turned back around but then the warmth behind him was gone and he was being picked up again. He didn’t know if he hated or liked it. He wanted to lean into the arms around him, wanted to leech away Mr. Vanrouge’s warmth. He wanted to cling and claw and grip at him until he had no choice but to keep holding him. He wanted to wrap his arms around Mr. Vanrouge’s neck and hold on like Dudley used to do to Uncle Vernon. 

But he also wanted to rip and tear and bite until he let go. His skin sizzled and bubbled at the touch. Every inch of him rebelled against it. He hated it. He loved it. It was too much and too little and Harry wanted everything Mr. Vanrouge could give him. He wanted to be left alone.

His hand clenched in Mr. Vanrouge’s shirt as he carried him further into the room and plopped him down on the bed. There was a moment, just a small one, where he considered latching on to him. 

What was wrong with him? 

Because there had to be something wrong with him. Why did he feel this way? Why was he so cold? Why couldn’t he stop crying at the drop of a hat? It was wrong. There was something wrong with him and he didn’t know what it was or how to stop it. 

Harry looked down at his hand and let Mr. Vanrouge go, all the while screaming internally. He didn’t want to let him go. He was Harry’s. He belonged to Harry. But you can’t own a person. He knew that. He’d spent days and nights hating the Dursleys and the purebloods because they acted like they had a right to own others. 

But he owned Mr. Vanrouge. 

He didn’t want to not own him. How else was he supposed to be Harry’s if Harry didn’t own him? How else was Harry supposed to make sure everyone else stayed away from him? Mr. Vanrouge was his adult, his guardian. 

But then if Mr. Vanrouge was his, then why was he still afraid? Why had he acted so- so- like that ? He didn’t understand! Mr. Vanrouge hadn’t hurt him, had sworn to protect him, so why did he- 

“Dear?” 

There was black and green in front of him and candy red captured him. Mr. Vanrouge tilted his head to the side, his hair falling across his face. 

“What’s wrong with me?” Harry hated how small his voice sounded, how desperate he sounded. He hated the weakness and he hated how he didn’t think for a moment that Mr. Vanrouge would take advantage of it. 

Scarlet eyes narrowed slightly, hazing over.

“You’ll have to be clearer than that, my dear,” Mr. Vanrouge murmured softly. Long ears shivered and twitched and Harry caught sight of glimmering silver along them. 

Harry couldn’t find the energy to panic, to spiral as he usually did. A heaviness had settled over him, dragging him down. His head dropped and he bit his lip, not caring about the sharp feeling as one of his teeth scraped across the skin. 

“What’s wrong with me? I-I keep acting stupid and- and I’m scared and I can’t control it. I was scared of you and I don’t want to be! I shouldn’t be! It’s stupid,” his chest tightened, his throat closing around the words like his body didn’t want to let them go, “I made a fool of myself and- and-” 

“And you felt like you were drowning. It’s like you can’t breathe, like there’s a stone on your chest. You’re running with nowhere to go and no way to stop. Everything is an enemy and a threat, even the people you love, and that’s the part that hurts the most because you can’t control it. Your body takes control and locks your mind away and most of the time you can’t even tell something is wrong, that the way you’re seeing the world is warped and fake. You think it’s real and for you it is,” Mr. Vanrouge said softly, gazing at him with a sadness Harry had never seen in anyone before. Sadness and heartbreaking understanding and familiarity. 

“It feels like I’m being choked,” Harry squeezed out through the tightness in his throat. Mr. Vanrouge smiled softly, heartbrokenly. 

“Can you tell me what started it? If we know, then we can avoid it or work through it as slowly as you wish.” Mr. Vanrouge lowered himself to sit on the floor in front of Harry. 

Something about that action made Harry want to cry again. There was something about how he lowered himself so easily, like it was nothing to let Harry have the upper hand. Like he knew how Harry felt and he knew just how to make it better. 

And suddenly it was too much to look at him, to see him on the ground. He looked at his hand instead. He could still feel the basilisk’s fang, the smooth feeling of it against his fingers. 

“I thought you were going to hit Malleus,” Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat, forcing the words out, “I thought- I just- You-”

“Take a breath, dear, then speak.”

Harry paused and gasped in a breath, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. Why was it so hard to speak? Even little kids could do that, but apparently, he couldn’t. Merlin, why was he so weak?

“You sounded angry. You- just the way you said his name. I don’t know why- it just. I thought you were going to hit him,” and suddenly Harry couldn’t stop talking, it all rushed out of him in a flow of words he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, “and all I could think about was distracting you and making sure he got away and I didn’t know if you would stop but I didn’t want you to hit me. And I’m sorry, I know you swore. I’m sorry. I’m sorry-” 

Harry brought his hand to his mouth, biting down on the flesh like he used to do when he was younger. It was easier to stay quiet if his hand was in his mouth. His relatives couldn’t hear him crying that way. 

“Let’s not do that, hmm?” Mr. Vanrouge reached forward, wrapping a warm hand around Harry’s, and tugged his hand from his mouth. 

He wasn’t crying yet, but his eyes still burned. Long fingers grasped his chin, forcing him to lift his head. Harry’s gasping breaths stilled in his chest. Imaginary chains wrapped around his neck, silencing any sound. 

Crimson scarlet, shot through with vibrant pink, glowed as the Fae gazed at him with an insidious smile. Shadows crawled across the ceiling, writhing and squirming. Ancient, prehistoric, predatory fascination bled through Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes. Slit pupils convulsed, pulsing. 

“Never apologize,” his voice was deep, a feeling more than a sound, “fore you are righteous in everything you do.”

Mr. Vanrouge softened, smoothing over his darkness, pushing it back under his smile and Harry couldn’t decide if he was thankful or not. That darkness was the more real part of him. Not that everything else wasn’t real, it was just that it was the rawest part of him. No veneers shielded it from the world. 

Mr. Vanrouge stared at him pointedly until Harry nodded. He looked at Harry for a long moment before letting his chin go and standing. Harry watched, still shocked silent, as the Fae moved about the room. 

“You’ve no reason to be sorry anyway, dear. I know not of your past but fearing a stronger foe is rational, regardless of my oath. You don’t know me. You don’t know my triggers, my tells, or my general attitude, or mode of punishment.” 

Mr. Vanrouge dug through his desk, brow furrowed before turning around. He fiddled with a pair of clunky black and red headphones. Slowly, he knelt before Harry again, headphones held reverently in his hands. 

“Whenever you’re feeling like that, I want you to tell me if you can, and if you can’t then I want you to use these. Can you do that for me,” Mr. Vanrouge looked into his eyes, “I know how difficult it is to lose control of your body and I know the feeling of weakness that follows. These have served me well thus far, and I hope they continue to serve you as well.” 

Slowly, projecting his every move, Mr. Vanrouge pushed the headphones over Harry’s ears. Harry sat frozen as sound disappeared. There was a moment before the music started where Harry could hear his heart beating and his lungs pulling in air and then there was music. Deep, hard, and rhythmic. Heavy drums banged, joined by guitars, and a growling voice that took up everything. The world vanished under the sound. Harry could feel every beat of the drums vibrate in his bones, in his chest, as though they were in time with his heart. His hand came up, cupping the ear unit he could reach. 

It was beautiful. It was raw. It was emotion, complete and utter emotion, conveyed through sound and rhythm. He couldn’t hear anything else. It took up every ounce of his concentration just to listen. He couldn’t feel the bed beneath him, the sheets around him, his dragon on his lap. Nothing. The music consumed it all.

And Harry followed it, fell to it, into it.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t like the sun. He didn’t see it very often but when he did, it burned. It was too bright and too warm for someone like him. Someone who spent most of their time locked in a cupboard under the stairs. He didn’t have to worry about his eyes hurting from the light here though. 

Cool shadows swooped down from the treetops, chilling his feet. Pale silvery moonlight broke through in patches but did nothing to warm the dewy grass. Not that Harry minded. It was dark and cold, but it was welcoming, far more so than his relatives' house. It was far from the sterile cleanliness of number four Privet Drive. Crickets chirped and owls barked. 

Dirt stuck to his feet and the grass crunched as he dug his toes into it. It was peaceful. There was no Uncle Vernon breathing down his neck or Aunt Petunia watching for a hint of failure. Just him and the wood and the moonlight. Moonlight stuck to his skin, lighting him in edges of silver, leaving him a glowing beacon in the otherwise blue-toned wood. That was fine though, nothing here would hurt him. He belonged in the wood, though not in the moonlight. The sun and the light of day were where he was meant to be, but Harry was sure it would burn him to ash before he ever felt comfortable among the golden light. 

Occasionally, eyes would peek out at him from the leaves and flowers, from the bark of the trees. Something like him wasn’t meant to be out once the sun ceded to the moon and it was a curiosity to witness him. Harry didn’t mind though. He knew he wasn’t completely alone, he wasn’t sure what he would do if he were. They welcomed him because the moon did, and as long as the moon still favored him they would not protest. 

He wasn’t the only day-walker awake within the wood anyhow. There were others, tracing cautious, quick, steps through the underbrush. And they were watched too. Unlike Harry, however, the denizens of the wood watched them with hunger. They were not protected the same as Harry was and thus they were free for the taking. 

Harry scuffed a foot through the grass, delighting in the tickle, as an owl swooped down from above followed by the scream of a rat. A constant delicate cycle. The rule of the forest and all that dwelt within it. Prey consumed the grass, predator consumed prey, and energy was returned to the world again and again. A cycle as immortal and permanent as the passage of the moon and sun. 

Harry's ears twitched as the underbrush shivered. The others had let him be so far and he doubted they’d bother him, so that left him to wonder who had come for him. A black glossy nose emerged from the brush followed by brown, dewy, eyes peeking out at him, blinking wondrously. The stag stepped forward without caution, the wood parting for it without sound. Harry stared up at it, dwarfed by it, as its shadow engulfed him. Its pelt was as black as the night sky, though its hair was tangled and knotted. Its hoof sank into the dirt as it stepped closer, its head dropping low. For a second, Harry’s heart squeezed. Eight wicked sharp prongs rose from the creature’s head, ivory pale and as joined together as the limbs of a tree. 

It could skewer him if it wanted. But instead, it bobbed its head in something almost like a bow or perhaps a nod, and moved around him just as slowly as it’d entered the clearing. Harry kept an eye on it as powerful hooves trampled the grass. It moved so slowly, as though Harry were the prey-creature and it the wolf. Harry’s head craned back as the stag came to a stop behind him and just as carefully folded long legs to lay behind him. Warmth sunk into Harry’s bones where strangely wiry hair touched him. A strong heartbeat echoed with every breath the stag took. Cold and wet, Harry jumped as the creature’s nose butted up against his head, a tongue flicking out to lick a stripe over his forehead. 

Slowly, stiffly, like his bones were made of wood and metal, Harry leaned back. The stag huffed, the sound shaking Harry’s entire body. He almost tensed again when the bushes parted with naut a tremble, if it weren’t for the way the stag let out a soft enquiring snort. Harry watched as a rabbit, pale grey and limp, was lifted through the tangled limbs, clutched in a maw of sharp little teeth. Coppery fur followed, topped with tall slender ears and eyes of the brightest green. The fox sauntered into his clearing, paws bounding and gliding through as though it, she, was floating. The vixen pranced without a care straight up to Harry and sat, prim and proper, head held high. The rabbit was dropped at his bare toes, still warm and slickened with blood. 

The stag snorted behind him, shaking his head, tossing gleaming antlers and the fox simply sneezed at him. She rose from her place, nudging the rabbit closer to Harry, and bounded up to the stag. Their noses touched for a brief moment, gazing at one another like they knew each other, before the fox folded her own legs under herself. Warmth fell upon Harry’s legs as the fox flopped over onto him. 

And that was how the night passed, a stag behind him and a fox in his lap, until the sun rose. 

Harry woke up warm and heavy. There was something on top of him and he couldn’t even remember falling asleep. He was almost about to try to fall asleep again, but then the heavy thing on top of him moved. 

On its own. 

There was something on top of him.

Something alive and warm and it was all over him and-

Harry held very, very, still, breathing shallowly. He couldn’t see anything. It was too dark and his breath was oddly warm against his face. He tried not to freak out. Maybe Ron and Hermione had fallen asleep in his bed again. That had happened a good couple of times. Yeah, there was nothing to worry about-

Something moved. 

Something on his face.  

There was something on his face!  

Gleaming beady black eyes and a scrunched-up rat-like face looked down at him from a small fuzzy body. There was a moment of blankness, where his mind went utterly silent and any haze of sleep instantly vanished. 

Then Harry screamed. 

There was a thing on him and they were all over him and get them off get them off get them off!  

He flailed, panicked and spasming, legs kicking at nothing. And suddenly the things on him burst apart and Harry threw himself off the bed with all the desperation a twelve-year-old surrounded by flying rats could have. They surrounded him in a cloud of furry, squealing, writhing, black. Little clawed feet scraped at his arms and face, latching onto him until he frantically batted them away. 

Harry screamed like a banshee, until his voice cracked, and then he screamed some more. He only stopped screaming when one of the vicious little creatures latched itself onto his mouth and then he threw himself against the floor in a panicked mess. 

“What is going on here?” The writhing mass froze. “I know you’re all very excited to meet him, but give the poor boy some space. I know didn’t raise you to be so pushy,” A deep voice scolded and it took Harry a long moment to remember where he was. He wasn’t at Hogwarts or the Dursleys. He was at Diasomnia. 

Almost as one, the wave of black wings fled upward. Harry’s eyes darted after them, up to the shadowy alcoves above where thousands of black eyes stared down at him. A shudder shook through him. And then he was left, panting and shaking, on the cold tile floor of Mr. Vanrouge’s bedroom. 

“Oh dear, you didn’t hurt yourself did you?” Mr. Vanrouge asked, leaning over Harry’s trembling body. The only thing hurt was his pride apparently. And his arm. Definitely his arm, but there was no way Harry was going to tell him that. Not after that embarrassing show. Still, Harry couldn’t ignore the amused smile that gleamed down at him and the equally amused red eyes that somehow instantly went to his hurt arm. 

“I’m fine,” Harry gave a wobbly grin, trying to hide the burning heat that pulsed from his arm. It was far from the worst he’d had. If he just had a little bit to get used to it, he could ignore it the rest of the day. It really only hurt because he’d fallen anyway. 

Mr. Vanrouge cocked his hip, eyes trailing up and down Harry’s still trembling form. A sleek eyebrow raised up and Harry’s cheeks burned pink. He swiftly and only a little clumsily got off the floor, sweeping a hand down his trousers to smooth out the wrinkles. His legs trembled, jelly-like and weak, but he did his best to ignore it. 

“Uh-huh, well I suppose we’ll see about that when we get you in the bath and clean your wounds.”

Harry’s head jerked up, eyes wide because he could’ve sworn Mr. Vanrouge insinuated he’d have to have help getting in the bath. And that was just…no. No. Harry didn’t need help with something like that. 

“I don’t need help,” He blurted out. Mr. Vanrouge tilted his head and smiled even more amusedly at him and Harry suddenly remembered the way he’d looked before, when he’d apologized. “I mean, I don’t want to be a bother or something. I’m sure you have a lot of other things to do, right? So you should just do that and I can do everything else myself.” 

Being polite was surprisingly difficult. Especially when he kept thinking about how downright terrifying Mr. Vanrouge had looked. He really didn’t want to upset him again. But oddly enough, Harry didn’t think it was because he thought Mr. Vanrouge would hurt him. It was just…he didn’t want to see him like that again. Mr. Vanrouge had looked almost sad and Harry had been too caught up in feeling bad to see it. 

He didn’t regret it though. He was sorry. He was still sorry. Even more than before actually. He’d have to find a way to make it up to him. If Mr. Vanrouge didn’t want to accept Harry’s apologies then Harry would just have to find a way to make him.

Mr. Vanrouge flapped a hand at him, stepping closer and there wasn’t anything Harry could do but squeak when slender hands came up under his armpits and lifted him into warm arms. 

“Oh don’t you worry about a thing,” Mr. Vanrouge sang happily, “I’m more than happy to help. Things are just so difficult with only one arm and I can see those legs shaking, my dear.” 

Ok, so Harry couldn’t really say anything about that. His legs felt like jelly, like the bones had turned to sand, and just those few seconds standing had been a trail. But he still didn’t need to be held like a little kid! Besides, Mr. Vanrouge was barely taller than him anyway. 

An arm wrapped around his back and another settled under his bum, holding him up on a steady hip. Mr. Vanrouge was a warm, soft, weight against him. Instantly, Harry’s unhurt arm went around his neck like Dudley used to with Uncle Vernon. 

Let go. 

Just let go. 

But he didn’t want to.

He didn’t want Mr. Vanrouge to let him down either. Harry let out a breath, ducking his head under Mr. Vanrouge’s chin, pressing tight to him. This was okay. There wasn’t anyone else here. He could have this, just this once. It was okay, wasn’t it? If everyone else got to have things like this then it was only fair that Harry did too, right? 

Right. 

He could have this. 

It was just as he relaxed that Mr. Vanrouge stooped to put him down. Harry let out a yelp when the arm under him suddenly vanished and clutched at Mr. Vanrouge’s neck harder. Delighted laughter shook through the adult, thick with some emotion Harry couldn’t understand. 

“Come now, Dear, we really must get your arm seen too.” Harry could hear the smile in the Fae’s voice even as said Fae made no move to get Harry to let him go. Then that arm was back under him. The arm around his back tightened, clutching him closer. A weight settled atop his head and finally Harry just…let himself breathe. 

Things like this…

Things like this softness, this gentleness.

He’d never had them before. 

He’d never been allowed to have them. He could watch as others were given, gifted, rewarded, but never him. He was never allowed to press his ear to his parents’ chests, to hear his parents’ hearts beating. Not like now. With his head pressed against Mr. Vanrouge’s shoulder, listening to the steady rhythmic thumping.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, only to close it again when Mr. Vanrouge began humming softly. They swayed together, the deep voice sinking into his skin, his muscles, his bones. Down even deeper, until his very soul seemed to warm.

 His next breath shuddered and Harry let himself sink, just a little, just a bit. He could have this. He did have this. It was his now. Finally, after so long. So long alone and cold and now? Now he could have what everyone else did. 

He leaned into the Fae like he was his only lifeline, burying his head into his shoulder. He could be a child, just once. Just here, where no one could see him fall. He could let himself be weak. Mr. Vanrouge was his. And he wasn’t going anywhere. He was Harry’s. He wanted Harry. 

“Dear one?” 

The part of Harry buried and drowned beneath twelve years of Boy and Potter hummed back. The child Harry had killed inside himself crawled back up to the surface, to the moonlight that welcomed him so readily. He was here. He was still there. Buried beneath it all, still crying for someone to hold him. 

And now he had it. After twelve years. 

He’d lived for so long without this…comfort, this love that he didn’t know what to do when it was right in front of him. His skin burned and tingled and Harry bore it because the pain and discomfort was nothing when he’d spent a decade freezing in his loneliness. He’d never known what love had felt like, never for himself. He’d barely even known it could exist for something like him. Something wicked and evil down to the core, because that was what he was. He was wrong. There was something so inexcusably wrong with him, something that his aunt and uncle had seen and recognized and they wanted it gone. And maybe that thing, that something, was him. Maybe the thing that was wrong was just him. But maybe it didn’t matter here. To a creature that couldn’t care, that couldn’t disdain, human rationality any less than he already did. Maybe Lilia Vanrouge would see the things that lived inside of him and not care about how wrong they were. 

He nuzzled his head harder against Mr. Vanrouge. A part of him wanted to ask. Another part was too scared of the answer. It was stupid really. How could anyone love someone after only a few days knowing them? Hell, Harry had spent most of it asleep! How could anyone love someone they’d just met? But Harry wanted it. He wanted everything Mr. Vanrouge had, He would take and take and take until there wasn’t anything left. If Mr. Vanrouge wouldn’t give it to him then he would steal it. It was his right, wasn’t it? He hadn’t asked to be saved. Mr. Vanrouge could’ve just let him die and now that Harry was alive, he was never going to leave. He would have what he’d always wanted, one way or another. 

Selfish. 

He was so selfish. 

It was because of that thought that Harry leaned back. Mr. Vanrouge lowered him to the sink a second later. Harry didn’t look back up at him. He didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself from latching on and never letting go if he did. Harry was a selfish boy. One that stole and secreted things away, because he didn’t have anything of his own. He wanted and wanted and wanted and nothing ever filled the hole in his chest no matter how much he tried. 

“Let’s get your arm handled first, yes?” Mr. Vanrouge spoke quietly, tone as gentle and soft as velvet. Harry swallowed thickly and nodded. He didn’t do anything to stop Mr. Vanrouge from taking his arm. Thin fingers unbuckled his sling, cupping his limp arm in his other hand. 

It hurt. 

Not just his arm, but the way he treated him. 

Like he was spun glass, like he was precious, when Harry was anything but. He didn’t deserve this. But he wanted it. Desperately. Boys like him… things like him, they didn’t deserve to be treated like they were fragile. Harry broke and broke so many things, so many people. He didn’t know when he’d started or if he’d ever stop but he broke and he twisted and shattered so many. There was something devastatingly, horribly, wrong with him. 

He’d killed a man. 

And he hadn’t felt bad about it, not for a second. Quirrel deserved to die. He’d tried hurting Ron and Hermione. He’d tried killing Harry. But Harry had still killed him and he still dreamt about it sometimes. The way Quirrell burned and fell apart-

Mr. Vanrouge placed the wrap to the side, gently cradling Harry’s arm as he brought a pair of small, sharp scissors up. Harry tensed, the scissors paused. 

“I need you to stay very still for me, okay?” Mr. Vanrouge asked, looking Harry in the eye, ears twitching up. Harry took a breath again and nodded. He still didn’t think he could speak, but he could nod. For Mr. Vanrouge, he would try to let go just a bit. Not of the Fae, but of all the wrongness he hid. 

Slowly, methodically, Mr. Vanrouge slipped the scissors under the bandages and snipped. Harry looked away as fluff and cloth fell away. He didn’t look when cold air hit skin. But he did when icy cloth gently wiped down his arm. 

A startled gasp left him the moment he caught sight of purple, green, skin. His arm was a minefield of bruises and long straight cuts. Flashes of metal sewed the skin together in neat raised lines that made him nauseous. What had they done to him? The basilisk had only bitten him once. Those cuts weren’t from it or Riddle. They weren’t jagged or torn. They were methodical, purposeful. 

“The toxin in your blood was causing your arm to swell dangerously. The doctors had to make these cuts so you wouldn’t lose it. They’ll leave scars, but that simply means you survived,” Mr. Vanrouge spoke softly, almost reverently as he brushed a cold cotton ball down an incision. 

“What,” Harry couldn’t help but whisper just as quietly, because he had to of heard wrong. Scars being good? Scars were horrible things and the wizarding world went out of its way to make potions and creams and spells for them and Madame Pomfrey had been layering them all over Harry since first year.  

Mr. Vanrouge stopped his almost worshipful cleaning and looked up at Harry fully. His eyes stared, unseeing, looking past him to some place far, far, away. His eyes dropped back to the cuts, still hazy and Harry had no idea how to get him to come back from wherever he’d gone. It didn’t seem like Mr. Vanrouge was really there. 

“These scars show that you are alive,” his deep voice filled the small bathroom as he pressed a thumb gently against the bruised skin, “That you are here for me to behold. Cherish them, always. They are trophies of the hardship you’ve gone through. Eternal rewards for the suffering you endured. They are there to remind you that you are alive and that is a fact that I am so very thankful for .” 

Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t think he could, not after that. Not when all his life scars had always been a reminder that his parents were dead and he was alone. And then scars were a mark, something like a claim, that he could never get rid of. He could never wash it off, there was no spell that could make it go away. So he settled with trying to hide it with his hair. 

He didn’t even realize he was rubbing his scar until a long hand drew his away. He looked up for a second and ducked his head back down. Mr. Vanrouge didn’t know anything about his scar but Harry couldn’t help but want to hide it. 

He completely ignored Mr. Vanrouge sliding a plastic bag over his arm until he was lifted back up and dropped carefully to his feet. The ground swayed and shifted under him and his legs nearly gave out. He trembled, arms splayed out to the side, as he stumbled like a newborn baby deer. His knees knocked together and he would’ve fallen if Mr. Vanrouge hadn’t caught him again. The Fae clicked his tongue, bringing Harry back up into his arms. 

He hummed, deep and contemplative, “I had hoped to give you some privacy to bathe but I don’t think that’ll be possible with how much damage your nerves took. That venom was some nasty stuff.” 

Mr. Vanrouge looked down at him, Harry looked back with narrowed eyes. He was not a baby. He could bathe himself, thank you very much. Mr. Vanrouge sighed. 

“The tub has a shelf seat you can use, but you are not to attempt to stand. I’ll not have you slipping and cracking your head open. You’ll need help washing your hair too. Do not try to use your arm, at all, lest you wish to lose function completely. The nerves are in a very delicate state at the moment.” 

After that, his bath went by quickly. He tried to ignore the fact that he could barely move his legs, even if it grated at him. His head rushed every time he tried bedding over and, as Mr. Vanrouge had said, he’d definitely need help with his hair. It was an altogether very grumpy Harry that finally called the Fae back in. Mr. Vanrouge quickly bundled him up in at least three towels and Harry didn’t really have the heart to tell him it was unnecessary. It was nice anyway, to feel cared for. 

There was a large chair situated in front of the sink, one tall enough for Harry to sit in. Bottles of all kinds lined the counter, filled with creams and shampoos and all sorts of things Harry had heard girls talk about. He kind of wanted to ask exactly what Mr. Vanrouge was going to do to him with all that stuff, but his dignity had already taken a blow, several in fact, and Harry didn’t think it’d survive another. 

Mr. Vanrouge set him down carefully, not bothering to unbundle him from his towel cocoon. Maybe this was how caterpillars felt, all wrapped up and warm and snug. Harry sunk deeper into his towels, still eyeing the soaps. He watched as Mr. Vanrouge pulled some tab on the back of the facet and turned the water on, turning to Harry with a smile. He always seemed to be smiling. 

“Alright, dear, lean forward over the sink for me.” 

Harry watched in the mirror as Mr. Vanrouge ran thin, long fingers through his hair. Sharp nails scratched idly at his scalp and Harry’s eyes fluttered and drooped. He barely noticed when Mr. Vanrouge dipped a cup into the steaming water that filled the sink. Then the water was tipped over his head and Harry couldn’t help but snort out a laugh when it didn’t do anything. It slid right off his hair, barely wetting it at all. 

“Oh this’ll take a while,” Mr. Vanrouge muttered, blinking wide eyes in astonishment at Harry’s dripping, mostly dry, hair. 

Harry tipped his head back, grinning at him in the mirror. An impish little spark of glee lit up inside him, flickering into a warm candle flame behind his heart. Mr. Vanrouge smiled wider at him, the red of his eyes burning bright and his fangs on open display. Harry almost wanted to say something about how rude it was to show his fangs like that, just to mess with him. 

“Bet it’ll still be tangled and knotty by the end,” Harry said instead, snickering all the while. Mr. Vanrouge raised an eyebrow, puffing up like an offended bird. 

“I’ll have you know I’ve dealt with much more wild hair than this,” He chirped with a smug smile, wet hands on his hips. 

“You should’ve seen Malleus’ hair when he was a baby. All curls that boy! And he hated bath time. I can’t count the amount of times he set fire to the bathroom.” Mr. Vanrouge shook his head with a soft smile and Harry found it hard to believe anyone could look as loving and somehow sad. It wasn’t right for Mr. Vanrouge to look like that. 

Harry squawked, eyes blinking shut as water suddenly splashed over his head. A deep burst of laughter erupted from the Fae and long hands ruffled his hair. Then another splash of water soaked him and Harry couldn’t stop his own laughter. It burst from his chest, bright and warm like sunlight turned to sound and Harry was almost startled that a sound like that could come from him. It petered out into soft giggles, so warm and…complete that Harry’s chest felt like it was fit to burst with it. 

Over and over, Mr. Vanrouge dumped water over his head, brushing his fingers through the strands. He separated Harry’s hair into sections, focusing on one after the other until his head was soaked and water dripped from his nose. 

“Soap time! Close your eyes now, Dear.” Mr. Vanrouge hummed as he reached over him and grabbed a bottle. Slowly, Harry closed his eyes, still giggling softly when the water tickled his nose. Slowly his giggles died and Harry relaxed against the counter, head dipped toward the sink. A smile, softer than any he’d ever had, forced its way to his face. Harry didn’t even try to stop it, he doubted he’d be able to. Not when his chest was full and light. He felt like he could float away at any second. 

Then Mr. Vanrouge’s hands were back in his hair, spreading a thick soap through it. Harry’s nose twitched and his stomach grumbled. It smelt like berries and sugar, like apple pie or maybe even a tart. Nails scratched gently at his scalp, deft hands separating his hair into sections, lathering soap through each handful. Harry lost himself in the feeling of hands petting through his hair. He was warm and clean and safe. He nuzzled into the towels wrapped around his shoulders, leaning even more against the counter. 

Long fingers brushed over his forehead, and Harry didn’t even mind when they ran over his scar. They brushed his hair back, plastering it with fuzzy soap and laying it thick against the rest of his head. Harry bet he looked a little like Malfoy with his hair all flat and weighed down. A soft, sleepy, giggle shook through him. 

An almost purring hum rose up, deep and hypnotic. Up above, Harry could hear smaller purring hums echo back in harmony with the Fae. Slowly, foreign words surrounded him, hummed and sang and purred. He couldn’t understand them, but he didn’t need to. It was like magic. It sank into him, into his soul. It sang to him a song of dreams and night and safety. Of roses and briars and moonlight. 

And then Harry was singing too. 

Light and soft, his voice vibrated in his throat like it didn’t really know what to do. He wanted to sing too and Mr. Vanrouge didn’t seem to mind in the slightest, slowly guiding him into finding harmony with the rest of the voices. It took a long moment until Harry’s voice clicked just right, rising high when theirs dipped low, softening when they grew louder. 

Water poured over his head slowly, the warmth sinking into him. Hands scrunched in his hair gently, coaxing the soap out with each pour of water. It dripped from his cheeks, down his chin, down the back of his neck to soak into the towels. Harry’s hair stuck to his skin, swept back with velvet gentle hands. 

Another bottle opened and Mr. Vanrouge’s fingers glided through his hair, the smell of honey and sweet cream following. All the while, a song of eternity and time and endless love was whispered to him. Infinity was laid out before him. Promises of safety and sweet oblivion untouched by time bled into him. 

“And now we let that sit,” Mr. Vanrouge whispered like he didn’t want to disturb the aura that surrounded them or the song still sung from the creatures above them. Those hands stayed in his hair though, sweeping around his ears, gliding across the round edges. His fingers pinched at them gently like he could pull and stretch them to match his own and maybe he could. Harry wouldn’t mind. Not if he could keep this softness, this dreamy peaceful place. 

Mr. Vanrouge could change him, could twist him and turn him whatever way he wished so long as Harry could keep this safety. Harry’s eyes fluttered, half dreaming, as the song went higher, louder, before falling again. 

Water washed over him again and his hair came free so much easier than it ever had before. Even wet it felt soft. Over and over again, more than before, Mr. Vanrouge poured the water through his hair. It somehow felt longer than it should be, the weight brushing against his shoulders. 

A heavy towel draped itself over his head and Harry came to with a jaw-cracking yawn. Slowly, Mr. Vanrouge sat him up straight, his legs dangling over the edge of the chair. He carefully wrapped the towel around Harry’s head. So different from how Harry usually just shook it out until the water stopped dripping. 

Blurrily, Harry opened his eyes, water sticking to his lashes. Mr. Vanrouge sat crouched before him, hands arranging the towel methodically, with a small devotedly loving smile. Harry’s cheeks warmed and a silly smile twisted his face before he ducked it. He pressed his head harder against his adult’s hands like a cat seeking pets. 

Mr. Vanrouge chuckled, brushing a strand of hair up into the towel cocoon on his head. Gentle fingers traced over his scar, sharp nails leaving tingles over the skin. 

“I think a nice breakfast is in order, what say you?” Mr. Vanrouge ducked his head under Harry’s, forcing him to look him in the eye. 

“That’d be nice,” Harry whispered, voice high and strangely whistle-like. He liked this. He hoped he got to keep it. The gentleness, the sweetness, the… everything that came with Mr. Vanrouge. Making a deal with the Fae was the best decision he’d ever made.

Chapter Text

Harry took it back. 

Making a deal with a Fae was stupid. 

He stared at the plate in front of him, half contemplating throwing it out the window and half wondering if he could use it as potion ingredients. How the bloody hell Mr. Vanrouge had managed to make a pile of pancakes look radioactive was a miracle. Not a good miracle, but still a miracle. It had to be magic. Harry was positive nobody could mess up cooking that badly. 

The pancakes were purple.

Actually purple. 

And it wasn’t from blueberries or something like that. 

Harry eyed the pancakes skeptically as he shoved his fork under one and lifted it up. It was black. The bottom of the pancake was black. How? How could anyone burn something that badly? It was practically ash. 

“You didn’t put poison in it did you?” Harry tapped the… thing… with his fork. Flakes of black fell off. He looked up at Mr. Vanrouge and almost winced. The Fae was watching him with wide eyes and a hopeful smile, looking from the plate of mutilated food back to Harry. He looked like Hagrid did whenever Harry came over for tea. 

Harry looked back at his food and sighed quietly. He’d have to eat it. He had to. What other choice did he have when Mr. Vanrouge was looking at him like that? He could do it. He’d eaten worse things. He’d eaten dog food before, this was nothing. He could do it. A shudder went down his spine as he started cutting into the pancake. Some instinct in the back of his head screamed at him when purple liquid seeped out from the middle of the stack. 

The plate sizzled. 

If he died from this he was going to haunt Mr. Vanrouge for the rest of his life. He’d never get away from Harry. Dying from a breakfast abomination would be utterly pathetic. He was so going to make Mr. Vanrouge regret it if it killed him. 

He speared a slice of abomination, fork shivering as he lifted it. His eyes cut to Mr. Vanrouge, hoping the man was just pranking him and actually had a plate of perfectly edible food hidden somewhere. No luck there. Mr. Vanrouge just continued staring at him with that bright, hopeful, smile. 

Damn it all, what was his life? 

Harry took a breath before shoving the fork into his mouth and chewing as quickly as he could and swallowed just as quickly. He could barely taste the pancakes that way. It was the same trick he’d used to eat the spoiled food he fished out of garbage cans or when he gave up and ate Ripper’s leftover kibble. He just had to swallow before the taste hit him. Simple. He cut up another piece and ate it as quickly as he could again. And then again. 

And- 

It wasn’t actually that bad. 

Harry paused as he chewed, brow furrowing as he contemplated the flavor. It wasn’t anything he’d ever tasted before. It was almost spicy and- vegetable-tasting? He cut another piece, bringing it up to look at it closer before eating it. It definitely tasted like cabbage now that he thought of it, but why would pancakes taste like cabbage? They were thicker than any pancake Harry had ever seen or made too. It wasn’t bad but it gave it a weird doughy feeling. Maybe it was just a weird kind of food in this country? 

Harry knew other countries ate different types of food but his relatives had never made him cook anything but English food. They didn’t even tolerate American food. Hogwarts only had traditional foods and more “medieval” foods. 

He took another bite, chewing slowly to get a feel for the texture and taste. If it was some odd, new, food from whatever country he was in then Harry wanted to really appreciate it. He’d never gotten to eat anything new and exciting before. Mr. Vanrouge had made it for him too! Nobody had ever made him food specifically for him so Harry was going to do his best to enjoy it. Even if it tasted weird. 

It was still better than dog food though.

“So,” he started between bites, glancing up at Mr. Vanrouge, “what happens now?” 

Mr. Vanrouge hummed. Half of his plate was already empty and Harry watched, a bit mystified, as he brought another forkful of abomination to his mouth. It had to be some kind of cultural food. He knew the Weasleys had a shepherd’s pie recipe that’d been in their family for generations. He’d wanted to watch Mr. Weasley make it, but he’d very kindly told Harry that it was a family-only recipe. 

“Why are we at a school? Are you a professor? Am I going to stay here with you or,” Harry hesitated for a moment, poking at his stack of pancakes, “or, I don’t know, stay somewhere else?”

The thought of Mr. Vanrouge leaving him somewhere made a tight band of anxiety wrap around his heart. He didn’t want to stay somewhere else, but if Mr. Vanrouge took him somewhere then maybe he’d go. Only if Mr. Vanrouge was there too though, or at least visited every day! Harry wouldn’t go anywhere if it meant leaving Mr. Vanrouge. Mr. Vanrouge could try to run away all he wanted but Harry would follow him wherever he went. 

“Ah,” Mr. Vanrouge breathed, leaning back in his chair, “You’ll be staying with me. I’ll occasionally leave you with either a friend of mine or with my mother, but that will be few and far between while you’re young. I’m most definitely not a professor, however, we’ll be staying here at the school for the next few years aside from breaks.” 

Harry let out a soft relieved breath before he tilted his head. Mr. Vanrouge mimicked him, tilting his head. Harry blinked. Mr. Vanrouge blinked. Slowly, Harry’s cheeks warmed and a smile began to grow the longer they stared at each other. Harry tilted his head the other way and giggled when Mr. Vanrouge did the same. 

Mr. Vanrouge smiled at him brightly, eyes squinting slightly as his cheeks pushed up. Harry ate his pancakes with his head tilted to the side, giggling when Mr. Vanrouge ate his the same way. He didn’t even care that he was being childish. Mr. Vanrouge was being just as childish as he was. 

“So what are we going to do today?” Harry asked with a snicker as a piece of purple breakfast fell out of Mr. Vanrouge’s mouth. There was a slow, gentle, air to the room that leeched the tension from him and left him feeling light and bouncy. 

He had new clothes, a new- well Harry wasn’t really sure what to call Mr. Vanrouge, but it didn’t really matter. He had new shoes and nobody in this country seemed to know who he was. For the first time in his life, Harry was free. 

Life was good. 

It was almost like a dream, one he never wanted to wake up from. It felt too good to be real, but Mr. Vanrouge was right there in front of him and the shirt and trousers he wore were soft and new instead of fraying at the edges and four sizes too big. His dragon sat in one of the other chairs, well away from the food, but close enough Harry could grab it if he wanted. 

“Well, we could go to class along with Silver and Malleus,” Mr. Vanrouge wrinkled his nose and snickered at Harry’s own scowl, “Or we could get to know each other and I can take you on a proper tour of the castle? I’ve already set up your appointments for your vaccinations and a general check-up. You’ve got an eye exam with a Fae doctor in two days as well. The boys will need their own checkups soon too, so I went ahead and scheduled those along with yours. We’ll have to go to The Valley for those so that’ll be very exciting for everyone involved.” 

There was a certain kind of hesitance to Mr. Vanrouge’s last sentence, like he really didn’t want to go wherever this “Valley” was or maybe like he was more resigned to having to go there. It was almost the same way Ron talked about potions. Harry had the distinct feeling “exciting” wasn’t the word Mr. Vanrouge wanted to use, but he didn’t say anything. 

“My mother is very excited to meet you,” Mr. Vanrouge gave an odd smile-cringe and shifted awkwardly in place. Harry frowned softly and stuffed another bit of breakfast in his mouth to disguise it. Why wouldn’t Mr. Vanrouge want him to meet his mother? It was a bit weird that she wanted to meet him. He’d never met an adult who actually talked about their parents. It was hard to imagine they even existed really. 

He tried to imagine what she might look like and could only come up with an older, grey-haired, Mrs. Weasley. Someone gentle and kind, just like Mr. Vanrouge. Maybe she’d have the same red eyes as Mr. Vanrouge did. 

“You told her about me?” Harry couldn’t help but whisper, ducking his head so he could look at Mr. Vanrouge through his hair. His hair tickled the bridge of his nose, brushing against his cheeks and Harry was sure it hadn’t been that long yesterday. Or had it? 

“I didn’t have much of a choice, my dear,” Mr. Vanrouge sighed, rolling his eyes skyward, “She would’ve been very upset with me had I attempted to keep you from her. The lecture I got for not telling her about Silver was more than enough for one lifetime.”

Harry gave him a commiserating look. Mrs. Weasley could lecture with the best of them and he’d seen Ron and his brothers get absolutely torn apart when he’d stayed the summer with them. It’d been brutal. Ron’s face had been red the entire day after and all the Weasley boys had skirted around her like she’d whoop them if they got too close. Harry didn’t think she would; she was way too nice to hit them. 

“What’s she like?” He asked as he stuffed another forkful of burnt onion pancake in his mouth. His nose scrunched up as the taste of horseradish made his cheeks sting and his tongue burn. Gross. The next bite got him a mouthful of soap, but Harry swallowed it and continued eating anyway. He didn’t think it was actually soap but it sure tasted like it. 

He glanced up at Mr. Vanrouge when he didn’t answer right away. His plate was empty, not a crumb left, but he still sat there watching Harry eat. He’d propped his chin up on his hand, a pen spinning between his fingers. There was an odd air floating around him, like he wasn’t all there, like his mind had drifted off. Harry waited for a moment, swaying between asking again or staying quiet before he decided to just bite the bullet.

“Mr. Vanrouge,” his voice came out much softer than he’d wanted, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mr. Vanrouge blinked, long split pupils widening before they shrunk into slits. Harry fought down a shudder, hand clenching around his fork. For a moment, just a moment, Mr. Vanrouge reminded him of Voldemort. There was something completely… Other…about the way his pupils expanded and shrunk, something that made the hair on the nape of his neck rise. Goosebumps trailed up his arms, but Harry forced down the squirming, wiggling, feeling that festered in his gut. 

“My mother,” Mr. Vanrouge hummed and leaned harder against his hand, “she’s a woman.”

Harry swallowed down the instinctive “you don’t say” that bubbled on his tongue. Mr. Vanrouge hadn’t done anything to deserve sass, but it was practically instinct for Harry to snip and push at adults. 

“She’s not kind or nice or gentle.” Unease twisted through him and Harry shifted in place. “She’s incredibly powerful but she doesn’t often use that power. If I had to describe her, I’d describe her as the ocean. She’s vast and powerful, but merciless in her ways. Often times she seems very calm, but that’s merely what she deems appropriate to portray herself as. Beneath that calm is a maelstrom of rage.”

Harry’s stomach twisted in on itself, any hunger instantly drowning under a sick pressure. His vision of a grey-haired Mrs. Weasley collapsed in on itself and left only a hollow anxiety. Why would someone like that want to meet him? Why, by Merlin , why did Mr. Vanrouge sound almost reverent ? 

“Oh don’t worry, Dear,” Mr. Vanrouge cooed gently, leaning across the table to sweep a gentle hand through Harry’s hair, “She’ll love you. Perhaps too much. You’re exactly the kind of child she favors. A wild little beast, you are, and she’ll adore that wild savagery.” 

Harry tried not to let his hands shake. Nobody ever liked that part of him. It scared people. It wasn’t natural. He could remember all the looks he’d gotten from the adults at his primary school, could remember how the other kids had edged away from him. He was always a bit Wrong compared to everyone else. 

“Are you sure?” He fiddled with his fork, stabbing his stack of pancakes half-heartedly. A hand reached out and plucked his plate up. Harry looked up, a pout twisting his face, but Mr. Vanrouge just smiled at him and took his plate to the trashcan. 

“Oh yes, Dear. I was just like you when I was small,” he snickered softly, “Actually, I think I was worse.” He sent Harry a playful grin and dropped the plate in the trashcan. Harry’s mouth dropped open, words stuck in his throat. Was he supposed to tell him he’d thrown away the whole plate? He decided not to. It wasn’t his responsibility to tell Mr. Vanrouge what he could and couldn’t do. If he wanted to throw the plate away, then Harry supposed he could. 

Harry didn’t think anyone could be worse than him but he kept quiet when Mr. Vanrouge picked him up and dumped him in his wheelchair. His dragon was placed in his lap and he instantly buried his face in its fur. 

There wasn’t anyone in the common room when Mr. Vanrouge pushed him through it, but he had said the others had class so everyone was probably out. It figured Harry would end up at another school just when summer vacation was supposed to start. Hopefully, they wouldn’t make him do anything. Everyone else was way older than him anyway, even if they were weird about magic. 

“I don’t think anyone could be worse than me,” he muttered as Mr. Vanrouge pushed him out of the dorm and onto the stone path. Mr. Vanrouge cackled and Harry twisted around to look at him. 

“Little One, if you think you’re bad you’d faint if you knew what I got up to when I was your age.” Well that sounded like a challenge and what kind of Gryffindor would Harry be if he didn’t rise up to it? 

“Oh yeah?”  He smiled smugly up at Mr. Vanrouge. “I bet you a chocolate frog I’ve done worse.” 

Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes lit up and a bright grin took over his usual cheeky smile. Bubbly excitement made Harry raise his chin with an equally mischievous grin. The only people that could come close to being as bad as Harry were the twins. Harry was still worse though. The twins liked playing pranks but they didn’t do much else, but Harry definitely did. He wasn’t proud of some of the things he’d done, but some things made a vindictive satisfaction crawl up his spine. 

“ Oh ho, is that so?” Mr. Vanrouge quirked an eyebrow at him. “Tit for tat then, my dear. You go first and I’ll follow.” 

Mr. Vanrouge was weird, but Harry liked it. He scrunched up his face as he searched for something suitably Bad. He had a lot he could use but he didn’t think most of it was Bad enough to really brag about. But there was that thing with Mr. Higgins. 

“Ok, so,” Harry began excitedly, “I had this neighbor, Mr. Higgins, and his wife and him lived down the way from my relative’s house. We had all these cats that liked wandering the neighborhood and Mr. Higgins hated them. There was this one time he tried running Fibs over, but he missed and Fibs was okay. But I really didn’t like him and neither did the cats. Which, duh , he tried running them over ! Of course, they didn’t like him!” 

Harry nearly bounced in his chair, twisting and turning to try to look at Mr. Vanrouge as he told the story. It was a really good one; one of the ones he was proud of. 

“But then one day we got let off school early and I saw Mr. Higgins's car in his driveway, but he wasn’t supposed to be home yet.” He’d memorized almost everyone’s schedules back then. There wasn’t really anything else for him to do. “And his wife wasn’t home either! But there was a car in his driveway that wasn’t hers or his. So me and Fibs went and snooped at his windows and he was kissing another woman.” 

Mr. Vanrouge listened with utter delight swimming in his eyes. Little giggles escaped Harry between every other word and his hand waved in the air in wide sweeps that almost knocked his dragon over. 

“So,” he snickered, “I snuck back to my relative’s house and snatched my cousin’s brand new Polaroid and then I snuck right back. They were doing gross stuff.” his face twisted and he stuck his tongue out for emphasis. Gross, gross, gross. His grin stretched wider though. “So I took so many pictures! Then the next morning I went out super early and put them under Mr. Higgins's wife’s windshield wipers. She always left earlier then him because she was a nurse.” Harry leaned forward, eyes practically sparkling . “You should’ve heard the screaming! They woke the whole neighborhood up! My Aunt’s gossip club was talking about it for weeks . She packed all her things that day and never came back!”

Harry wanted to cross his arms and only the tug of pain in his injured one kept him from doing it. He smirked smugly up at Mr. Vanrouge who nodded with a vaguely impressed look that twisted into a mischievous, vindictive, smile. 

“ Impressive , my dear, but I think I’ve got you beat.” He leaned down, close enough Harry could see the pink in his eyes. “When I was younger Maleficia thought the perfect way to force me to behave was by forcing me to go to these stuffy, self-important, galas. Oh, it was horrible ! All these old nobles looking down on me all the time and making snide little comments.” Harry nodded, utterly enraptured. He knew that feeling all too well.

 “But there was this one particular noble, Lady Tagetes,” Mr. Vanrouge sneered her name like it tasted like mud, fangs barred for a split second, “Well, I was just fine with them making snide comments about me, but she decided to bite her thumb at Revan. And nobody was permitted to mock Revan. He was far too kind, never fought back. It was like kicking a legless dog!” 

Harry decided not to mention that he didn’t know who Revan was or that he didn’t know what it meant to bite your thumb at someone. It probably wasn’t too important. 

“I waited, hidden like a snake, and followed her to the gardens. She and her paramour of the night were sharing champagne on this bridge that stretched over a small pond in the center of the gardens. I told Maleanor to keep everyone else busy in the ballroom, so there was nobody else out there. I waited until they were over the highest part of the bridge.” 

Harry waited on bated breath, leaning forward with every word. He clutched at his dragon with white fingers. 

“I waited in the shadows and when they stopped on the highest point of the bridge,” Mr. Vanrouge’s face was painted in dark glee, “I called my familiars down on them. They swarmed that prissy little bitch and her little-” Harry’s eyes went wide, mouth falling open with a startled gasp, and Mr. Vanrouge quickly switched whatever he’d been about to say- “Her paramour. Oh, the way they screamed . It was glorious! Her paramour flailed and shoved her right over the edge of the bridge into the pond.”

Harry was still too stunned by Mr. Vanrouge's cussing to laugh at the story. He still thought his was worse though. He’d pushed plenty of people into the black lake so he didn’t really think it was anything too bad. Mr. Vanrogue gave a soft reminiscent sigh, eyes distant and wistful. Harry nodded understandingly though. He’d cursed and fought loads of people when they made fun of Hermione or Ron. 

“Why was she so mean to him?” It was maybe a stupid question. Harry had learned that people bullied others simply because they wanted to, not because they had an actual reason to. 

 Mr. Vanrouge pushed his chair through the odd mirror thing that they’d gone through the other night. Harry shuddered from head to toe as a water-like feeling ran down his spine and a massive dark hall rippled into existence around them. The same green lanterns lit the hall, illuminating massive alcoves, each holding its own massive mirror-portal. Students milled around, some stopping to stare and others barely gave them a look. 

“This is the mirror chamber. Each of those mirrors connects to the other dorms and that big mirror above the fountain is the Black Mirror. It sorts all the freshmen into their dorms,” Mr. Vanrouge chirped before swiftly rushing through the growing throng of students and out into the daylight, “And this is the main interior hallway. It connects to the main portion of the castle.” 

It looked different in the daylight and Harry wasn’t even sure how it was day when just a second ago it’d been night. Massive windows arched along the walls and bathed everything in morning light. Students trudged this way and that, some disappearing into rooms while others dragged themselves elsewhere. Harry really hoped he didn’t have to go to classes too. He was so done with school and everything that came with it. No more exams, bullies, or homework! He was supposed to be on summer holiday. 

“To answer your question, dear, the dearly departed Lady Tagetes didn’t like Revan because he was Seelie,” Mr. Vanrouge said before pointing towards a hall that split off from the main one, “That hall leads to the cafeteria, kitchens, and furnaces. It’ll be packed full right now, so we’ll stop by at lunch instead.” 

Harry craned his head to the side to try to look down the hall but, just as Mr. Vanrouge had said, it was packed. His head whipped from side to side, mouth almost hanging open, as they kept going. Portraits snickered down at him and more than a few sent him little waves. He waved back of course; it’d be rude not to. 

There were so many students. So many more than Hogwarts. The magic of everything was almost enough to distract him from how surrounded he felt. Almost. His hand still twitched with the urge to go for his wand and he found himself missing the warmth and movement of Ron and Hermione at his sides. Mr. Vanrouge was a good enough substitute or that was what Harry tried to tell himself. 

“What’s a Seelie,” He asked, absently tracking the swaying movement of an animal-eared boy’s tail. It was long and silky like a horse’s. He kind of wanted to grab it and give it a good tug just to see if it would come off. 

“A Seelie is a type of Fae, my dear. Most Fae these days are Unseelie, but there are a good few Seelie still roaming about. They’re a more,” Mr. Vanrogue paused with a hum, “let’s say diplomatic kind of Fae. The Unseelie are much more hands-on. In more modern times, people simply refer to us as diurnal and nocturnal Fae instead, however.”

Harry rolled that around in his head, face twisted as he chewed his cheek. They hadn’t gone over anything like that at Hogwarts. It was always just the courts they’d gone over. Even then they’d only talked about the Summer and Winter Courts. The fairies they used for potions were from the Summer Court and so were the Goblins. Cornish pixies were from the Winter Court, but that was all Harry could remember. He was pretty sure they’d gone over more, but that was all from History of Magic or first-year DADA. Lockheart was too much of a moron to ever teach them anything useful. 

“What’s that look for, Little One?” Harry jerked back with a smothered yelp when Mr. Vanrouge popped up barely a centimeter from his face. The pink of his hair seemed to glimmer almost metallically in the daylight. His skin seemed even paler, almost blue-toned. He snickered, floating back around Harry’s chair. Harry turned to look at him.

“We talked about Fae in class before,” Mr. Vanrouge’s ears hiked high. Harry tracked them like he would a snitch, head cocking to the side with every twitch they made.

“Oh? I’d wondered if you had Fae in your homeland. You didn’t seem to recognize me for what I am at all, but perhaps that was just the injury and blood loss.” 

But that wasn’t it at all. Harry didn’t think Mr. Vanrouge was like any Fae Hogwarts taught about. The closest Harry could come up with was goblins or house elves, but Hogwarts didn’t even teach about house elves. 

“The ones back home aren’t anything like you ,” Harry said, still staring at him. It was weird. He was sure Hogwarts would’ve taught them about Fae like Mr. Vanrouge if only to be racist and mean about it. That was the general attitude most wizards seemed to have for nonhumans. He could already hear Hermione’s rants and indignant speeches. A smile tugged at him at the thought. Hermione would’ve been all over Mr. Vanrouge. He’d never get away from her. Harry was pretty sure she’d harassed Professor Flitwick for weeks after finding out he was half-goblin. 

“We only went over the Summer and Winter Courts at Hogwarts,” Harry fought back a shudder when the full scope of Mr. Vanrouge’s attention settled on him a moment later, “but you said you’re from the Autumn Court, so maybe that’s it?” 

“No, my littlest one, that would not be a plausible reason for me to be different from those you know. There are plenty among the Winter and Summer Court that look similar to me, though I suppose it depends on how exactly I differ from those you know,” Mr. Vanrouge’s voice was soft as he spoke. It glided across Harry’s skin like a crisp October wind and settled in his bones. 

Something flew past the window and Harry’s head snapped to follow it. His eyes darted around from window to window trying to find whatever had flown past. 

“You- well- you’re big, I guess. You’re not small like the fairies and you’re definitely not a goblin or a house elf,” Harry muttered absently, still trying to find whatever it was that had grabbed his attention. He could’ve sworn it looked like a bird, “They’re ugly and you’re not.”

His chair jerked suddenly and Harry scrambled to catch his dragon as it toppled off his lap. He slowly turned away from the window, giving up on the bird, and glared up at the floating fae. Mr. Vanrouge stared up at the ceiling, face faintly pink and slowly turning purple. Slowly, he took a deep, controlled, breath and looked back down at Harry. 

“Let’s not call the Small Folk ugly, darling. Small they may be, but they have a particular talent for making life difficult. Although, I dearly appreciate the compliment,” he snickered and snagged Harry’s cheek, pitching and pulling, and Harry didn’t even think before snapping his teeth at Mr. Vanrouge’s fingers.

Chapter Text

Night Raven College was bigger than Hogwarts. Harry had never thought it was possible for a building to even come close to being bigger than Hogwarts. There was an entire garden and not a small one! It was a massive glass building with a domed roof and plants Harry had never seen before. It was insane. He’d decided to come back and explore the moment he could. He wanted to get lost in the trees and bushes and even if it wasn’t a normal, natural, wood, it still called to him. He wanted to climb up the highest tree he could find. He bet there were loads of frogs and lizards and snakes too. 

After a brief tour of the garden, Mr. Vanrouge pushed him to the largest library Harry had ever seen. Hermione would’ve lost her mind. Harry would never have gotten her out of the shelves if she were there. She would’ve devoured it. No corner would’ve escaped her. Harry didn’t really care all too much about it himself, though. Books were nice and all, but figuring things out himself was way more fun. 

That led them to where they were. Both of them stared at the wooden door in front of them. Mr. Vanrouge made no move to knock or open the door. The golden plaque above the door read out Headmage’s Office in a fancy script that only made Harry vaguely nauseous. 

“Do we really have to?” He did not whine. Harry was not a whiner, but he really didn’t want to be around that man again. He was like a flower riddled with thorns or a venomous creature. All bright colors and fake smiles. Luckily, Mr. Vanrouge seemed just as reluctant. 

Harry twisted in his chair, careful of his shoulder, and tried giving Mr. Vanrouge the most pitiful look he could. The Fae looked back at him with drooped ears and a frown that made a twisting sickness roil in Harry’s chest. 

“Unfortunately, my dear, it seems we do.” Mr. Vanrouge sighed and leaned back to look up at the plaque himself. Harry took a breath and squared his shoulders. If they had to do it, then he wasn’t going to look like a weakling. He sat up straighter and tucked his dragon closer before giving a stern nod. Right then, they could do this. Harry was strong. It didn’t matter if he was hurt or if he didn’t have his wand; he could still fight well enough. Mr. Vanrouge was strong, too, way stronger than Harry was. They’d be fine. 

A gusty sigh brushed against his ear and a weight fell on his head. Long nails scratched idly at his scalp, combing through his hair and slowly, slowly , the tension in his shoulders began to loosen. His eyes fluttered, struggling not to fall closed. He really shouldn’t feel as relaxed as he did, but he couldn’t help it when soft heat sank into his skin and bled into his bones. They were about to enter a room with another wizard, he couldn’t be distracted. 

“Relax, little one. Dire won’t harm you.” 

Mr. Vanrouge couldn’t know that for sure, though. People lied and cheated and tricked their way out of things all the time and even if the headmage was Fae, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to hurt them. Granted, Mr. Vanrouge would absolutely demolish him if he tried. Harry knew that like he knew the sky was blue. It didn’t stop him from worrying, though. 

Harry narrowed his eyes as Mr. Vanrouge reached around him and knocked lightly on the door. He’d need to be ready for anything. He didn’t think the headmage would go for a full-on attack right out the gate, he was trickier than that. He’d probably use poison or something more subtle. He’d go after Mr. Vanrouge first. That was obvious. He probably wanted-

The door swung open so quickly Harry jolted back with a startled sound, nearly jumping out of his chair if it weren’t for the hand that kept him steady. He felt like he was vibrating with how tense he was, like he was a live wire about to blow. 

He barely processed the movement in front of him, only the sudden blur of oil-slick blues and purples crouched in front of him far too close for comfort. He didn’t think. He didn’t even truly process what was in front of him. His leg lashed out lightning quick, but the blob of purples and blues bounced back away from him before it could hit. Bugger. Harry really wanted to hit him. 

He sat there, tense and shaking, fingers spasming around his dragon. Magic popped in arches around his arms. He blinked, slow and lethargic. His head throbbed, and trails of snow covered his vision before he forced it back. 

“Shh, dear, breathe. Take a breath, nice and slow.” Magic caressed his arms gently, coaxingly, but Harry couldn’t concentrate on anything but the blob of color that slowly began to morph into the colorful form of the headmage. 

“Quite the propensity for magic! Very good reflexes, much better than the average human, too.” 

Harry shivered in his chair and didn’t bother trying to calm down. He knew it. He knew it. He tensed, fingers flexing, and prepared to lunge from his chair. Every part of him screamed and shook, lashing out on instinct because what else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t think and he didn’t need to. His teeth snapped angrily, clacking against one another with force.

“Yes, I can see now what you meant about his magic, your highness. Quite the oddity. I don’t believe I’ve seen anything like it before.” The headmage cocked his head, the golden glow in his mask brightening as he leaned closer only to jump back as Harry lashed out with a snarl that shook through him. 

His throat burned , melting vocal cords straining against the sound, but he didn’t stop. The headmaster was a threat, just like every other adult in Harry’s life, and threats needed to be taken care of before they took care of him.

 An arm wrapped around his torso and brought him back into his chair and kept him there no matter how much he pushed and squirmed. Heat seared through his arm, but Harry couldn’t care less about it when the Headmage grinned at him with pearly white fangs. Venom pooled like acid in his chest. The bastard was taunting him. Him! Like he didn’t know who Harry was! Like he didn’t know what Harry could do and Merlin that pissed him off almost as much as Malfoy. Harry was not someone who could just be brushed aside and ignored. 

“Quite the savage little thing, isn’t he?” 

Harry froze as the smooth voice broke through his struggle. The magic pressing against his skin wiggled gleefully, playfully. Right. Right. Mr. Vanrouge was there. The breath rushed from him, and Harry just about collapsed into his chair. A hand dragged through his hair gently. 

“Be at ease, little one. I’ll not let him harm you,” he purred softly, soothingly, in that way that made Harry’s bones feel like mush and made all the anxiety swirling in his heart dwindle and fade. 

Yeah. Of course. Mr. Vanrouge was worlds stronger than the headmage. Harry was just being stupid again, like last night with Malleus. His brain was just being stupid. Harry dragged in a deep breath and leaned harder against his chair. He glared through his hair at the other Fae, far too wrung out to bother playing the innocent kid act he’d put on the first time he’d met the headmage. 

For his part, the headmage simply smiled at him. It wasn’t a good smile. Hell, it wasn’t even that cruel, condescending, smile adults usually gave him. It reminded him of Hermione when she got her hands on a good book. It was a manic, delirious, grin that stretched across the Fae’s cheeks like cracks in glass. Harry was a bug under a magnifying glass, and the headmage was just curious how long it would take to set him on fire. 

It was terrifyingly similar to the deep, ancient, look Mr. Vanrouge had given him in that infirmary room what felt like ages ago. There was something there, something not quite hidden beneath the surface. It gazed out at him from behind the colorful facade the headmage put up with eyes like a snake. There was something predatory about him, for all that he grinned and bounced around his office like a first-year on a sugar rush.  

Unlike Mr. Vanrouge, though, the headmage didn’t look like he knew what he was looking at when he stared at Harry. No. It was the opposite. He watched Harry like he was a science experiment. Like he was something to be torn apart and sewn back together again. There was no gentleness, no kindness, no sense of I-know-this . 

There was something devastatingly familiar about it. Something that made Harry’s heart throb and ache. He could imagine Hermione looking like that. He could imagine her so clearly it was almost like she was standing in the headmage’s place. He could see it in that familiar tilt of the head, the cock of a hip, the errant twitching of a hand that desperately wanted to reach out and turn the object of fascination. 

The headmage looked like Hermione when she found something interesting. Something curious. 

Harry hated it. 

“Now, Dire, I believe we have business to attend to before you get to your experimentation.” Mr. Vanrouge’s voice made his heart jump in his chest, and Harry forced his gaze away from the man. He couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. He looked down at his dragon instead. It was easier that way. He breathed and petted the soft fur of his first ever toy and tried not to think about her. 

“Right, right. Of course, your highness.”

Wait a minute.

Harry’s head picked up to blink at the Fae as he zipped around the office, grabbing this and that, but he didn’t care to figure out what he was doing when he had something much more important to wonder about. 

Was the headmage making fun of Mr. Vanrouge? But, no. No, he couldn’t be. There was no way he’d call Mr. Vanrouge ‘your highness’ as an insult, right? Sure, some of the other students at Hogwarts did that with Harry, but Mr. Vanrouge was completely different from Harry. He couldn’t imagine anyone being stupid enough to make fun of him like that. 

And now that Harry was really thinking about it, there was something different about how the headmage was talking to Mr. Vanrouge. There was none of that barely hidden challenge from the night before. Harry’s head tilted to the side as he watched, really watched , the way Dire Crowley moved. 

Harry knew how people moved. He knew how they acted. And he knew when something had changed. 

Crowley moved stiffly, a slight scuff of a foot here and there. His smile was just the slightest bit tense at the edges. Most of all, most tellingly, he avoided looking directly at Mr. Vanrouge. His eyes, those yellow lights within his mask, seemed to skitter away before they could settle on Mr. Vanrouge. 

Harry would’ve called it fear, but it wasn’t. Not really, at least. It was something he didn’t know. It was almost like when people looked at Headmaster Dumbledore. Something like fear, but not quite. 

Mr. Vanrouge had done something, but Harry didn’t know what or when. He didn’t really care either. What Harry wanted to know was why the bloody hell Crowley was acting like Mr. Vanrouge was royalty or something. 

“Here we are!” The headmage chirruped before he presented several large boxes, “Just as you ordered! I’ve gone through the trouble of faking-” he coughed dramatically, yellow lights darting down to Harry before he straightened up- “ahem, acquiring transcripts, passports, and a- completely legal might I add- certificate of guardianship! Aren’t I generous? We’ll have no issue enrolling your child in first-year classes as a student of Diasomnia.” 

Harry was 100% sure none of that was legal by any measure, then again, neither was driving a flying car, so. He shrugged to himself and settled back. Not his problem if the headmage got caught. He was an innocent bystander in all this rot. 

They were talking about him like he wasn’t even there. If it weren’t for Mr. Vanrouge’s hand on his shoulder, Harry would’ve snapped. He was right in front of them, right there, and they were making decisions for him without a single care for if he even wanted to go to their stupid school. 

“This here,” Crowley presented the boxes, “is his dorm and school uniforms. Four of each, as is usual, along with another four pairs of the winter uniform.”

Harry watched as Mr. Vanrouge took the boxes and made them dissolve into green wisps with a flick of his wrist. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to go back to class, and you know what? He wasn’t. Harry was on holiday. Mr. Vanrouge would have to drag him to class if he wanted him to go. Harry wasn’t going to make it easy for him either. 

“However, there is the matter of his vaccinations to handle. For the safety of all within this establishment, I simply cannot allow your child to attend classes until he receives all the required immunizations. Unfortunately, your highness, I will not compromise on this.” 

Harry took a moment to wonder if he should tell them about what shots he’d gotten back in the muggle world, not that he knew the names of them, but one had a particularly nasty needle. He still had the scar from that one. It was awful. He was pretty sure the only reason his Aunt and Uncle even got him his vaccinations was because his primary required it. He hadn’t gotten any when he went to Hogwarts. 

“Perfectly reasonable, Dire.” There was a smug sort of satisfaction in Mr. Vanrouge’s voice, a purring glee that seemed to fill the room. “Now, I believe you wish to discuss my end of our bargain, yes?” 

The headmage squirmed, and suddenly that predatory fascination settled back on Harry. He glared right back and scrunched his nose up like he’d smelled something foul. There was no way in hell he was going to make this easy for them. If they wanted a kid they could play with and not expect anything back, then they were out of bloody luck. 

The hand on his shoulder moved back to his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Mr. Vanrouge petted his head lightly, smoothing his hair down and grazing the shell of his ears. It was so unfair. Unfair because it made Harry want to lean back in his chair and ignore everything going on around him. But that was just stupid, and Harry was far from stupid. Still, the rhythmic brush of fingers through his hair was new. New and soothing in a way Harry had never experienced before. Not that anything Mr. Vanrouge did wasn’t new. The adults here were so weird. 

“As we agreed upon, I’ll allow you one supervised hour with him a day to conduct your investigation once he starts classes. I will, of course, be attending those sessions as well. Do remember your place, however,” Harry could feel Mr. Vanrouge’s grin, that sharp, deadly thing that spoke of fangs and nightfall, “we’d not like a repeat of last night, yes?” 

The headmage shuddered, smile straining even further. 

Harry’s adult was so cool even if he was pissing Harry off.

With that, Mr. Vanrouge seemed to decide they were done terrorizing the headmage and spun Harry’s chair around with a dramatic flair that forced him to clutch his dragon tight to his chest. Mr. Vanrouge pushed Harry out of the office with a jaunty tune and a mocking, “Good day, Dire.” 

The door slammed shut behind them. They were quiet as they made their way through the halls. Well, almost quiet. Mr. Vanrouge hummed cheerily. Harry was too busy stewing in his growing anger to care too much about his happiness, though. 

“You’re rather quiet, my dear. Madol for your thoughts?” Mr. Vanrouge’s voice swept over him in that comforting way Harry was beginning to associate with him, and it just made him angrier. Heat roiled in his chest and spread through his veins. His heart sped up and battered his ribcage with a hateful mix of fear and anticipation. Harry would never be able to stop himself from feeling that way when it came to adults. Never. It didn’t matter if Mr. Vanrouge had been nice to him, had treated him better than any adult ever had. None of that erased the decade he’d spent dodging fists and shouldering the unending loathing of his relatives. 

Harry turned his head away. Part of him didn’t want to start a fight. He didn’t want to upset Mr. Vanrouge when he was the only person Harry had ever met who looked at him and Saw Him. The other part, a much, much , larger part, hissed that it was all a lie. Harry just had to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, and Mr. Vanrouge would be just like every other adult in his life. Wasn’t he already? He was making decisions about Harry’s life like he had a right to. 

“Oh? Have I upset you, dear one?” 

He hated the amusement that bubbled in his voice, like Harry being mad at him was something trivial. This was all just a lie. A massive, elaborate lie. It was a dream, and Harry wanted to wake up . 

“What vexes you so, my littlest one? What have I done to earn your ire?” Eyes like red lilies, like death and blood, like over-ripened cherries, stared into his. Mr. Vanrouge lowered himself into a crouch in front of Harry’s chair and balanced his arms on his knees with a smile. 

It was so unfair. It was so, so, so, so unfair.   Fae couldn’t lie, but that didn’t mean what was in front of him was real. Mr. Vanrouge could act like he cared, could act like he wanted him , but that didn’t stop him from trading Harry off for one thing or another. It didn’t stop him from acting like Harry was an object. 

Slowly, the longer Harry refused to speak, Mr. Vanrouge’s smile began to fall. 

“Little one? Come now, dear, tell me what’s wrong?” And Harry just couldn’t stand how sad he sounded. If anyone deserved to be sad, it was him. Harry was the one being passed around like a bloody toy! 

“You talked like I wasn’t even there.”  

Mr. Vanrouge tilted his head, birdlike, curious, like he didn’t exactly understand why that was a problem . If anything, that just made Harry angrier. 

“ You decided I was going to school here, and if you think I’m just going to let you decide things for me, then you have another thing coming,” Harry seethed, nails digging into the fur of his dragon as he bared his teeth. He’d done well enough on his own, he didn’t need some adult, no matter how nice, coming in and trying to control his life. 

“Oh?” Mr. Vanrouge rested his chin on his hand and stared at Harry with twisted eyebrows and a confused frown. “You are upset because I kept you out of the conversation with Dire and made decisions on your behalf.”

“It’s my life -” Harry began, a panicky feeling rising in his chest the longer Mr. Vanrouge looked at him. 

“Yes,” Mr. Vanrouge nodded, “however, you belong to me.” 

And Harry stopped. His lungs froze shut, and the blood drained from his face in a cold rush that sent goosebumps rising along his arms and neck. Mr. Vanrouge kept looking at him, calm and curious, like he hadn’t just-

What did-

He couldn’t understand. Harry couldn’t understand. Some part of his brain just wouldn’t comprehend what he was supposed to mean and another, small and twisted and dark, knew exactly what he meant. 

And that part of him reveled in it. He loved it. He craved it. He needed it like he needed water, air, and sunlight. He needed it like it was the only thing keeping him alive, like he’d fall apart without it. 

It was like he’d been split in two, and those two parts were fighting each other. It wasn’t right for someone to own another person, but Harry owned Mr. Vanrouge . Fae were possessive, though. He’d read about it when he’d been trying to get Dobby to leave him alone. They were obsessive, protective at times. He’d known that from the start. He’d known what he was getting into. Or at least he’d thought he had. When he called Mr. Vanrouge his guardian, he thought he knew what he was doing. 

Mr. Vanrouge was the same as Harry. They were the same. They were both monsters, but Harry was something small and weak while Mr. Vanrouge was deep and black . They were the same, but Mr. Vanrouge was so much more. So, how did that fit? How did it work? 

Harry had stolen him. He’d taken Mr. Vanrouge from his sons and then decided his sons were Harry’s too, or at least Malleus was. He hadn’t talked to Silver enough to know if he wanted him, but Malleus was definitely going to be Harry’s. 

But had Harry stolen Mr. Vanrouge? 

Or had he been the one stolen?

“But,” he began, voice straining as he struggled to voice what he knew, “nobody’s ever-” 

That wasn’t right. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to say, but he couldn’t get the words out. Why would anyone ever want him enough to steal him? Why would anyone put in the effort? He’d been fine on his own. He hadn’t been good, but he’d been fine . He could handle it. But this? 

This he didn’t know how to handle. 

Mr. Vanrouge didn’t even know his name . And the whole of Harry’s being hissed at the sudden reminder that his name had been stolen and all that was left was him . Mr. Vanrouge didn’t know who he was . He didn’t know who Harry was, and he still wanted him. And that had never happened before.

“I don’t understand.” He wasn’t crying, wasn’t sad. He was just…confused. Harry was not someone people wanted if he wasn’t Harry Potter: The-Boy-Who-Lived. It just didn’t make sense. Why would Mr. Vanrouge actually want him? Why had he gone along with the whole charade? Why hadn’t he left him somewhere after they left the hospital? If Harry hadn’t been the one to steal Mr. Vanrouge, then what was he even doing here? 

He looked at Mr. Vanrouge desperately, looking, hoping, for some answer. Harry could steal people because nobody would ever want him, but if Mr. Vanrouge did want him, then what did that mean? 

Mr. Vanrouge sat there in front of him patiently, and no adult had ever been patient with Harry, and he didn’t know what that meant . 

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. He just needed to stop for a moment. He needed to stop thinking because thinking never got him anywhere. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and looked back at Mr. Vanrouge. If Harry could just pick him apart like he did every other adult, then maybe he could…figure something out. Something that didn’t make him feel like the world was falling apart and floating all at the same time. 

Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes were intent, never straying away from him, not for a second. He acted like Harry was the only thing in the hall, like Harry was the only thing that mattered- 

Harry instantly switched tracks.

He was completely still, like he had all the time in the world, and that had to be true with the way he acted. He’d probably lived longer than most wizards. Harry wondered who’d win in a duel, Dumbledore or Mr. Vanrouge. He had his galleons on Mr. Vanrouge. He moved like he knew how to fight, like he was a predator. Dumbledore didn’t move like that, even if Harry knew he’d fought against Grindelwald. Mr. Vanrouge was dangerous in a way Harry had never seen in someone before.

He was patient, powerful, and he loved his sons. Harry didn’t doubt that last point for an instant. When they’d been eating dinner, he’d positioned himself between the rest of them and the door. He’d been prepared to fight no matter how at ease he’d looked. 

But he’d also sat beside Harry when he showed him the dorm. He’d sat right beside Harry and hadn’t moved for anything. He’d let Harry sleep in his room. He’d given Harry his headphones. He hadn’t left him alone. 

Harry sat up straight, ignoring the sudden surge of pain in his arm from the movement. Mr. Vanrouge never left him alone with other people. He’d threatened the social worker, Mr. Schwartz, and he’d threatened the headmage too. He was willing to fight, physically and magically, for Harry . But- 

“ Why? ” He didn’t understand it. No matter how much he tried to pick Mr. Vanrouge apart, he couldn’t understand why he’d want him.

Mr. Vanrouge smiled, bright and dark and contradictory. “Because that is what it means to be a parent-” Harry’s heart stopped in his chest completely and then sped up. His eyes widened and his dragon slipped from his fingers- “Oh, well, I suppose guardian if you’d still prefer. It is the duty of a guardian to handle these matters for their charge. You gave yourself to me, freely and willingly, and I took that offer with both hands. That means I have a responsibility to you. I will feed you, care for you, train you, and love you just as freely and willingly.” There was a fervent light in his eyes, a feverish intensity. He would destroy countries for him if needed. He would spill as much blood as he wanted or needed. Harry could see it. He could see the snarling, hungry, Thing that squished itself into the skin of the man in front of him. 

And it wanted him. It didn’t care who Harry was. It simply wanted him. It wanted to secret him away somewhere nobody and nothing could ever find him. It wanted to covet him like a treasure. 

In that moment, Harry didn’t care about how weak he felt. He stumbled out of his chair, eyes wide and burning . He felt the wheelchair roll away from him, but he didn’t care. The world seemed to shift under his feet, and something inside him shifted in response. He needed to make sure. He needed - 

Mr. Vanrouge started to reach forward to catch him, but Harry moved too quickly. He snapped his hand out and twisted it in the collar of Mr. Vanrouge’s shirt. He was burning. Inside, deep below his flesh, he ignited. He glared into the burning scarlet of Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes. He was a raging fire contained in weak mortal skin, and heat bled from him like radiation. 

“ Promise ,” his chest writhed with the force, “ Promise you won’t leave me alone! ” 

Something inside him expanded and contracted and seeped through his skin to dye the air in embers. His voice was a command, an order, something he didn’t understand and didn’t need to because his magic knew more than enough to enforce it. He needed to hear it promise him. He needed the assurance of magic. He needed an oath. He wanted Magick to lock them together and make sure nothing could ever steal this from him. 

Harry had never had anything. He’d never been owned, never been loved, never been coveted. He had always been nothing . The only family he’d ever had had been stolen from him long before he’d ever had the chance to fight for it, to protect it. He would not allow the same to happen to this one. He’d been stolen from and cast into the dark until he was needed, not wanted , never wanted . He’d grown alone and unwanted, and now that he had what he’d always wanted in front of him, he was going to sink his claws in deep and Never. Let. Go.  

Harry did not know how to love softly. He did not know how to be soft. He had never been taught what it was to be gentle, but Mr. Vanrouge didn’t need to him to be because Mr. Vanrouge was just like him. He would understand. 

And he did. It didn’t matter how deep Harry sunk his claws into his shirt, how aggressively he twisted his hold, how predatorily he snarled. Mr. Vanrouge knew. He understood. And he reached up, slowly, and pressed his palm to Harry’s throbbing chest, right over his frantically beating heart. 

“I promise you I will never willingly leave you alone. I will fight to remain here to care for you. As long as I am alive, you will never know what it is to be alone. I will not cast you aside.” 

There was a spiral of gold, a wisp of lava red, a ribbon of crimson, a spark of ember, and above all, burning luminous green. The strings holding Harry up, the magic keeping him on his feet, fell away with a suddenness that left him swaying dizzily. The air was sucked from his lungs and, like a rubber band snapping, magic surged back into him. The world spun as his chest filled and cracked, and the fire in his soul was snuffed out, only to whoosh back up thrice as strong. The air he dragged back in felt frigid compared to the heat in his skin. 

Harry swayed, blinking, dazed, before his legs collapsed under him. Black consumed him instantly. 

“ Why do all my children push themselves so hard? ”

Chapter Text

Harry couldn’t bring himself to look at Mr. Vanrouge. He’d woken up on a couch in the Diasomnia common room sometime yesterday and hadn’t been able to so much as look in Mr. Vanrouge’s direction without feeling his face burn. 

He’d acted so… childish. So needy. He’d acted like Dudley when his cousin hadn’t gotten what he’d wanted. If anyone from Gryffindor had seen him act like that, he’d have never heard the end of it. He would’ve been dealing with taunting and teasing for the rest of his life. However long that was.  

None of that changed how Harry could feel a fire bubbling in his soul whenever he thought about the very one-sided demand he’d made. Mr. Vanrouge wanted him. Actually, really, wanted him. Harry didn’t really know what to do with that information now that he had it. Nobody had ever wanted him for anything. Besides that-

Mr. Vanrouge called himself his parent, or at least he’d insinuated it, and Harry personally thought that was just as good. Not that Harry knew what to do with… that. What did people with parents even do? And that was the main thing he was stuck on. What was he supposed to do now? Did he have to call Mr. Vanrouge Dad? He didn’t know how he felt about that. On one hand, he’d never had a Dad, but his actual Dad had died for him. Harry had never known James Potter, though so did he have to think about him as his Dad? He hadn’t even known his Dad’s name until Hagrid showed up before first year, not that he’d ever told anyone that, but the point still stood. 

Did he even want to call Mr. Vanrouge Dad? 

Harry huffed to himself and rubbed at a smudge on his dragon’s eye. He resolutely ignored Mr. Vanrouge fluttering around the room, grabbing this and that for their trip, and his sons, who stood by with matching blank looks. 

Mr. Vanrouge had done so much more for Harry than any other adult in his entire life, but that didn’t mean he wanted to call him Dad. It just didn’t feel right, no matter how much Harry liked how the Fae treated him. But it also didn’t feel right not to do something about the whole thing. Didn’t Mr. Vanrouge deserve something for everything he’d done for Harry? Harry thought he did. It was only fair that Harry give him something back. 

He sent Silver and Malleus a sideways look. Silver’s eyes slid over to him immediately and Harry jerked his eyes away. His arm throbbed and ached and burned and itched, but Harry just sighed and tried to ignore it. 

“Did you take your medication?”

Harry ducked his head and scrunched his shoulders up as much as he could because no. No, he had not taken his medication, but Silver didn’t need to know that. Silver sighed softly and Harry felt him move closer and tried not to lean away. 

He hadn’t really gotten the chance to talk to Silver. They’d all eaten dinner together the previous night after Harry woke up, but he hadn’t spoken much at all and neither had Harry. The whole thing with Mr. Vanrouge in the hallway had brought back the fact that Harry had tried stealing their dad from them. Tried and succeeded. He wasn’t going to give Mr. Vanrouge up for anything; he was his now, but he still couldn’t stop himself from feeling a little wrong about it. 

“Your shoulder is bothering you,” Harry ground his teeth together as Silver continued, “it would not be if you had taken your pills. You will upset Father-” 

Silver needed to back the bloody hell off because Harry sure as hell didn’t need anyone telling him what he should and shouldn’t do. Harry was just about to say that too, but Malleus’ concerned look made him snap his mouth shut. 

He didn’t really know what to do about Silver. There was a part of him, a part he’d buried deep, deep, down, that whispered all the ways he could get rid of the older boy. It wouldn’t be easy, but he was sure he could do it. Mr. Vanrouge and Malleus would get over it after a while. He could push Silver out, could make him feel alone and lost until he left, until Harry had Mr. Vanrouge and Malleus all to himself. How many kids did Mr. Vanrouge need anyway? Two was enough; they didn’t need a third. 

The other part of him recoiled and gagged at the thought. It made him feel like maggots were crawling just underneath his skin and snakes had replaced his intestines. It tied his tongue in a knot and forced the hateful, venomous, words, words meant to hurt, back down his throat where they couldn’t hurt anyone but him. He didn’t want to hurt Mr. Vanrouge or Malleus and he knew if he pushed and shoved Silver out of the nest, they’d hate him. Maybe they’d get over it eventually, but they’d still hate Harry for at least a little bit and just the thought made him want to crawl into a hole and let himself die. 

He wouldn’t give this up, not for anything. Even if it meant shoving his urges down into the pit where his heart should’ve been. 

“I’m fine without them.” The words felt like glass against his throat. He’d dealt with way worse than this before and he didn’t need muggle medicine to help. It wasn’t like they actually did anything anyway. He hated taking them, hated the chalky, gross taste of them, and the way the flavor would stick to his tongue. 

Silver gave him a blank look, far too pretty eyes swirling with something before-

 “Liar.” 

Harry felt his soul shrivel into a ball of scorn. This time he didn’t stop himself from barring his teeth because how bloody fucking dare he! If there was something he hated more than the pills and the Dursleys it was that . His teeth cracked painfully from how hard he clenched his jaw.

“ I’m not a liar!” He hissed, seethed, just short of shouting, but even if he hadn’t, everyone in the common room was already looking at them, and that just made Harry angrier. His face burned. He should push Silver out of one of the windows and down into the gorge below. Forget pissing off Mr. Vanrouge and Malleus, Silver would deserve it.  

Silver lifted one metallic eyebrow and hummed disbelievingly. Malleus stared between the two of them with wide eyes. Harry was going to curse him. He was going to put spiders in his bed. He’d put worms in his morning coffee! Silver would regret pissing him off. 

“If you were not a liar, then you would not have lied,” Silver said, voice deadpan and even. Harry’s blood boiled. He lashed out with a leg, chair squeaking as he rocked it forward with the motion. Silver stepped back and dodged the kick, lifting his own like he was going to give just as good as he got. 

“ Boys.”

Both of them tensed and Silver quickly lowered his leg, widening his eyes like he was bloody innocent. Harry sent another kick at him and this time it landed. Silver hopped back with a quiet curse, rubbing at his shin. A grin stretched across Harry’s face, sharp and vindictive and he had to reel in the impulse to kick Silver’s face while he was bent over. 

“Boys!” Mr. Vanrouge’s voice cut through the air like a whip. Harry winced, but he still couldn’t help his smile. He was going to count this as a victory. Mr. Vanrouge was much less pleased with the situation, though. He stood, hip cocked, arms crossed, with a deep frown and dark eyes. Oddly enough, he reminded Harry of Mrs. Weasley. 

“Silver, explain yourself.” His voice was tight, controlled, and Harry straightened in his chair, smile falling. His finger tapped at his arm, the sound almost loud enough it drowned out the awkward shuffling of the other students. 

Silver straightened up and folded his hands behind his back, staring ahead like Mr. Vanrouge wasn’t standing right in front of them. Harry felt just a little bit of respect for him. Just a little bit. Mr. Vanrouge could be scary. 

“He did not take his medication, Father, and his arm was bothering him, so I intervened. I did not anticipate it leading to anything physical. Although, he brought physicality into the exchange.” Oh yeah, just blame it all on Harry! That little bit of respect he’d felt snuffed itself out right then and there.

“You called me a liar!” 

Mr. Vanrouge raised a hand and Harry flinched back, shoulders hiking high and mouth snapping shut with a click. He watched, silent and tense, focused on that hand until it dropped and Mr. Vanrouge sighed. He dragged a hand down his face, raising his eyes to the ceiling, muttering under his breath too quietly for Harry to hear. 

Finally, he let out a breath and leveled the three of them with a deadpan look that made Harry’s heart twist and judging by the faint turn to Malleus’ lips the other boy felt it too. Harry didn’t know why Malleus was getting in trouble, too. It wasn’t like he’d done anything, but it didn’t seem like Mr. Vanrouge would take well to being questioned, so Harry stayed quiet. 

“So,” Mr. Vanrouge tapped his foot slowly, each click echoing in the eerily silent common room, “You,” he motioned at Harry with his head, “purposely neglected to take the medication I gave you for your pain, attempted to kick Silver, and when I distracted him you proceeded to do so again. You,” he turned his disappointed gaze on Silver and Harry almost felt bad about how he shivered subtly under it, “proceeded to taunt him under the guise of concern and then insulted him.” 

Silver stared back. Mr. Vanrouge watched him for a long moment, his face growing stony with each second that passed without Silver saying anything. The red of his eyes deepened, darkened, and his jaw flexed before he nodded and turned to Malleus. Harry watched, shrinking into his chair as Malleus stared impassively down at Mr. Vanrouge. 

“And you, Malleus, made no move to intervene or curtail their disagreement before I had to get involved.” Silver opened his mouth and Harry sent him a wide-eyed look. They’d already gotten reamed out; they did not need Silver making it worse. Mr. Vanrouge cut a Look at them that could’ve dissolved stone. 

“Be silent, Silver,” He said, voice frigid. Silver’s Name hissed from his lips like the rasp of a blade against steel.

Silver closed his mouth. Harry shivered under that look. It was worse than the basilisk. Worse than Snape’s disdain. The Fae’s eyes almost looked black. Each movement looked mechanical, almost puppet-like, clipped and economical. Harry’s heart shuddered as that black stare slid over to him. It stayed locked on him for a long second, long enough for Harry’s lungs to burn and it was only as it turned away that Harry realized he’d been holding his breath. He was grateful when the Fae turned back to Malleus. 

Mr. Vanrouge was terrifying. 

“When I leave them to you, I expect you to handle them as I would. Their actions reflect upon you as surely as yours reflect upon me. If they quarrel, you will put an end to it. As the eldest, it is your duty to hold them accountable for their actions while I am busy with other matters. Am I understood, Malleus?” It was pretty clear it wasn’t a question. It was a demand. One spoken with uncompromising expectation. Despite that, despite the near-scorn it was spoken with, Malleus closed his head and nodded calmly. 

“Yes, Lilia,” Malleus spoke softly, calmly, like the burning cold of Mr. Vanrouge’s anger was nothing. And then Mr. Vanrouge turned away and Malleus’ eyes opened, pale green and almost sickly, before he seemed to push the pain away. He was hurt. Harry could see it, feel it. It was so very obvious. It shone like a beacon and Harry couldn’t do anything but watch as he pushed that pain down. 

It wasn’t his fault. So why was Mr. Vanrouge so angry at Malleus when he should be angry at Harry and Silver? 

But then Mr. Vanrouge turned to them and Harry didn’t have time to wonder because he was right there, right in front of them. He stared at Silver, lips pulled back from his fangs in a sneer. Silver didn’t react, but Harry had to force himself not to bolt out of his chair. His legs shook and twitched with the need to get up and run. Was this what Ron always felt when Mrs. Weasley got mad? But Harry had never seen Mrs. Weasley look as terrifying as Mr. Vanrouge. 

“I am disappointed in you,” Silver flinched like he’d been struck, but Mr. Vanrouge kept going, “out of the two of you, I expected you to be better than this. Attacks, I was prepared for. Postering and territorialism, I was prepared for. Blatant insults, Silver? Had that boy been Fae, you’d likely find yourself missing a tongue, if not dead.” 

Silver looked away and Harry caught the movement of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he forced down tears. His eyelashes fluttered as he blinked quickly. Before any of them could react, fingers flew up and gripped Silver’s chin and jerked his head down. Harry tensed, every muscle tight and ready.

“You will look at me when I speak to you, Silver.” Mr. Vanrouge’s voice could’ve made paint peel with the pure acidity it carried. “You will not resort to such things again. You will not disappoint me like this again, or you will find yourself removed from Malleus’s guard until you can learn how to comport yourself.” 

Silver’s eyes went wide. Malleus snapped his head to stare at Mr. Vanrouge and Harry was stuck wondering what exactly all that was supposed to mean. 

“You have not earned the right to underestimate an opponent. He may be a child years younger than you. He may be unskilled in martial combat. He may be bound to an aid, but you will not presume to think you are of adequate strength to ignore what he is capable of. I will not have you getting yourself killed or cursed because you were arrogant. That boy will go for your throat without a moment’s hesitation and I will not be forced to clean your blood from the tile because you decided to provoke him. Am I understood?” 

Harry could hear Silver’s teeth grinding, but he nodded against the fingers holding him. 

“I understand, Father,” Silver said in a deadly calm voice with an equally blank stare. Mr. Vanrouge held him there for a moment longer, staring into his eyes with that black iciness, before he turned to Harry. 

The moment he did, Harry felt his heart go cold, but he refused to shrink any further. If Malleus and Silver could take their scoldings head-on, then so could he. Mr. Vanrouge wouldn’t hurt him only a day after swearing he wanted him. Even so, Harry couldn’t stop himself from patting his leg for his wand even if he knew he didn’t have it. The look in Mr. Vanrouge’s eyes made him want to disappear. It made him want to hide under his cloak and hope he couldn’t be found. 

But his cloak was up in his room. The room Mr. Vanrouge had shown him the night before. The room looked plain and bare with black and white tiled floors and a stone hearth, but it was his. He wouldn’t get rid of him. Harry told himself, again and again in the quiet of his own mind, that Mr. Vanrouge wouldn’t get rid of him. None of that stopped his throat from closing up as Mr. Vanrouge leveled him with dead eyes and a cold that left him feeling empty. That coldness seemed to seep into him like frigid water. It ran through his veins and wrapped around his heart until he felt like he’d been plunged into the Arctic. 

Slowly, Mr. Vanrouge lowered himself into a crouch in front of him in an odd mirror of the previous day. This time, though, there was no joking smile or concern. It was all just cold. Mr. Vanrouge was quiet for a long, long, moment. His head tilted like a vulture. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but no less biting. 

“I can understand your anger over Silver’s words and provocation. However-” Harry struggled to breathe under the pressure pounding against his chest- “if you react with hostility towards Silver again, then I expect you to do so in a far wiser manner. If you have the audacity to react in such a way towards Malleus, however, I will not hesitate to punish you.” Harry felt his stomach drop and his hand shook. Pain pulsed up his arm in time with his struggling heartbeat. 

“You will take the medication I give you and follow any orders the medical professionals give you. You are a remarkably polite child, and I expect you to maintain that politeness. The Valley is not kind to those who are rude. Any hostility will be returned tenfold, whether you are a child or not. My mother, especially, will not tolerate such things without recourse. Am I understood, Child?” 

Harry shivered and didn’t look away from him for an instant. 

“Yes, Sir,” his voice came out even and Harry could only thank Merlin he hadn’t stuttered or choked on his tongue. Mr. Vanrouge paused, head tilting again and eyes narrowing before he gave a curt nod and stood. 

Mr. Vanrouge stretched as he stood, shoulders popping obnoxiously in the complete silence that dominated the room. Harry chanced a glance around, only barely able to turn away now that Mr. Vanrouge wasn’t looking at him. 

Every student stood like statues, like they could avoid drawing Mr. Vanrouge’s attention if only they stood still enough. The Fae students didn’t dare look at any of them, all of them holding their heads low, eyes to the ground. 

“Now then!” Mr. Vanrouge clapped, smiling widely, not a hint of the cold scorn from before. “We should get going. Your appointments are at midday, and I’m sure Her Majesty is rather impatient.”

Just like that, it was like the overhanging fear and stress vanished and Harry sat up straight in his chair. The mirror in front of them swirled with a mix of green, black, and purple. Right. Yeah. They were supposed to go to Mr. Vanrouge’s home country.

“Wait,” Harry blurted out, “who are we meeting?” 

Nobody had explained anything that morning. One moment he was asleep, the next he was being pushed through the dorm with his stuff and a pack of suitcases floating behind him. Mr. Vanrouge had mentioned doctor appointments, but Harry hadn’t thought they’d be so soon. He thought he’d have time to think of a way out of going. 

Malleus blinked at him silently and Silver simply closed his eyes, looking almost like he was trying to sleep standing up. Mr. Vanrouge just about skipped behind his chair and began pushing him towards the swirling portal.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, dear!” 

Oh, he was worrying! Very worried, in fact. Why did everyone keep mentioning royalty? His luck couldn’t be that messed up, right? Harry was more than aware that his yearly adventures weren’t normal. He was even more aware that fate seemed to have it out for him. He wouldn’t put it past his luck to get him tangled with royalty. More people would probably, definitely, try killing him. Joy. 

He wanted to throw his head back and groan . Really, what was his life? Did things like this happen to other people? He really hoped he wasn’t the odd one out and the world wasn’t conspiring against him. 

He wanted Hermione and Ron. And Hedwig. He’d even take Dobby.  

Silver made a sound, soft and amused, almost musical and Harry had to stop himself from staring. Staring was rude and Mr. Vanrouge had already made his stance on rudeness quite clear. One scolding was enough for one day. Though, Harry hoped he wouldn’t make Mr. Vanrouge angry again. 

“Alrighty then.” Mr. Vanrouge waved his hand and their luggage began floating through the mirror. “Now, everyone, Malleus and I will be gone for four days. Tyrion,” the purple-eyed boy stepped forward, “you’re in charge until we return. No wild parties.” Mr. Vanrouge grinned as a chorus of disappointed mutters rang out. “Mind our human and human-adjacent students. I expect everything to be in its proper place when we return.” 

The purple-eyed boy, Tyrion, nodded back sternly, earrings jingling softly as he bobbed his head. Mischief swarmed through every inch of his body, sparking behind bright eyes and a brighter smile. Harry had absolutely no faith in any of them. He wondered how much they’d destroy by the time they got back and, by the look on Silver’s face, he was wondering the same thing. Harry shrugged. It wasn’t like he’d have to clean it up if they did mess up the dorm. 

Mr. Vanrouge waited a moment, eyes sweeping across the gathered students, before he turned and pushed Harry through the portal. Harry squeaked, clutching at his dragon, but he couldn’t do a thing as the Fae shoved his chair through the mirror and straight onto cobbled stone.

 The change in light was staggering. The air was cold and misty, settling on his skin like a film. It smelled like rain and trees. Harry blinked up at the cloudless sky in awe. He didn’t even notice Malleus and Silver walking up behind them and the train of bags that followed them. Every ounce of his attention was caught by the sky. The clear, black, sky lit with countless stars. A valley stretched below them, lit faintly with green flames trapped within lanterns. There were no cars, no street lights. Everything was dim and shrouded in misty twilight. 

It was supposed to be morning. Harry knew that. Mr. Vanrouge had even said their appointments were at midday, but it didn’t look anywhere close to sunrise. High mountains rose around them, houses and cottages and little clusters of homes shining like miniature havens among the trees. 

The stone beneath their feet was dark and speckled, overlapping like the scales of a massive snake. Mr. Vanrouge let out a soft sigh and Harry turned enough to see the utter peace stretch across his face. Stress seemed to fall away from him instantly. His skin glowed blue-white in the dim light, hair blending into the shadows of night. His eyes shone when he opened them, the slit pupil expanding into circles that looked far more human than Harry had ever seen them. 

Silver was just as relaxed, though he didn’t glow as much as Mr. Vanrouge. His normal, blank, calm expression was overtaken by a soft smile as he gazed up at the night sky. His hair almost sparkled, what little light there was bounced off the strands and left him haloed in eerie silver- white. 

Malleus wasn’t anywhere as peaceful. Instead, he straightened, lifting his head high. His horns caught the green of the lanterns and sharpened under the prevailing shadows. Where Silver and Mr. Vanrouge softened under the hold of the valley, Malleus grew taller, harder, sharper. His eyes swept along the valley below them like he was trying to find anything amiss. 

Harry shuddered, his chest quickly growing cold and achy. His bones trembled and he huddled into himself. It was beautiful. A cool comfort settled over him, cradling him, and when Malleus’ eyes came over him, it only seemed to grow stronger. But it was cold. It was cold and wet and dark and as much as it comforted him, it chilled the fire in his heart. It reminded him of the clearing and the tree and the endless rain that held him on those nights he was kicked from the house. 

“Grandmother is coming.” 

Malleus’ deep voice rumbled through them. Instantly, Silver and Mr. Vanrouge came alive. Silver’s eyes snapped down, glowing blue-purple, and he moved to Malleus’ side with a smooth surety. Mr. Vanrouge moved to Malleus’ other side, pushing Harry front and center. Anxiety jolted through him, striking his heart and sending his stomach tumbling over itself. 

He felt like a sacrifice and by Mr. Vanrouge’s, very obvious, nervous twitching and shifty eyes, he was beginning to think he actually was one. 

Which-

Well, that’d just be par for the course really.

The courtyard the portal spat them out in was a massive expanse of black stone. Harry felt his jaw drop open as the towering walls of a castle rose above him. Towers upon towers upon towers embedded themselves into a cliffside. Arched windows shone with green light. Flags flapped silently from flagpoles atop each tower. 

Harry swallowed thickly as he noticed the eerily still figures around the yard. They stood completely frozen, like statues, dressed in dark metallic green. Masks covered their faces, each depicting a different animal and Harry shrank into himself. He clutched his dragon tight, bringing it up to his face and tried ducking his head. His hair fell over his forehead, just as he’d intended, and swooped into his eyes. 

He was pretty sure they weren’t Death Eaters, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Merlin, what if Mr. Vanrouge’s mum was a Dark Lady or whatever the girl version of a Dark Lord was? It would really fit the whole dark and mysterious feeling of the castle. 

The soldiers, and Harry was absolutely sure they were soldiers, nearly blended into the shadows, but Harry had spent entirely too long shoved into his cupboard or kicked out into the night to miss the minute gleam of their armor. Their masks were almost hidden beneath dark cloaks that swept the ground. Spears, the blades transparent and green, were held steady by each soldier. Silver-white metal wrapped around the blades like vines, glowing and gleaming, humming with magic in a way that made Harry’s head ache and his ears ring. It was like he was standing in the center of an orchestra, violins and cellos. Cymbals clashed in his ears and he let out a slow, shaky, breath as he tried to hear past the overbearing sounds. 

He tried to focus, but the world seemed to vibrate, separating like oil and water. His breath came shallow, straining against the vibration and sound. His mind swam with silver and green, red and gold. Night and Day. Cold and hot. There was a screaming in his mind, a shrieking that consumed every thought. 

He was not supposed to be here.  

This was not his home. This was not his territory. He was not supposed to be in this valley, this country, this haven. It was not a haven built for him. It was no home to him. He was not welcome in this place.

He was trespassing.

He needed to leave. He needed to run, to fly, away from this place. This place was built and nurtured for the Night and those who dwelt within it. Why was he here? Why had he dared to invade such a place? Did he have a death wish? Stupid child.  

Harry sucked in a breath as his head went light and black began to bleed into the edges of his vision. A grind echoed through the courtyard and silenced the ringing of instruments. The thrumming in his mind went silent, hiding, afraid. He was going to die. This place would kill him. He was not meant to be here. 

The massive doors to the castle slowly swung open and a parade of soldiers marched down with a steady drumbeat of metal feet. The metal sang, flags snapped, and as they exited, the soldiers separated into two files. They turned and filed along the walls, the soldiers already there melting into the ranks like shadows. And there, left in the doorway, was a circle of soldiers. There was no difference Harry could see between them and the others. They waited until the lines of soldiers stopped and, in unison, turned, heels snapping together with a sharp clap like thunder. Spears struck the ground with a deafening bang and Harry’s legs thrummed. 

Only as the sound faded did the circle of soldiers begin to move. Slow, methodical, each step measured. 

Mr. Vanrouge’s hand tightened on Harry’s shoulder and it was only then that he noticed how close he was to throwing himself from his chair and bolting. It felt like an execution. Like an axe hung above his neck, slowly swinging, dropping lower with each second he remained in that courtyard. 

Slowly, slowly, Harry forced himself to sit back, head still lowered. He couldn’t run. Running would be impolite, would be an insult. He couldn’t afford to insult Her. Images flashed through his mind, all the possibilities laid out before him. All ended with a spear through his chest and his blood spilling across the cobblestone, seeping between the cracks in rivulets of dark red. His wings would be mounted like prizes alongside his heart. 

The soldiers halted only a handful of paces from them and Harry couldn’t breathe. Silver shifted, arms folding behind him, feet shoulder-width apart. Malleus laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder and a bit of the terror festering in his heart eased, even if ice ran through his veins at the touch. 

The soldiers at the front stepped aside in synch and Harry felt his heart stop. He felt the beating muscle cease, felt sharp pain through his chest, and then he felt it jump back into motion quicker than he’d ever felt it. He choked silently on his own lungs. A woman, inhumanely tall, terrifyingly beautiful, stepped from the circle of soldiers. She was a mirror of Malleus, taller, older, dangerous. Long, shadow black hair flowed down her back, braided like water and threaded through with gleaming metal and jewels that sparkled like stars. She was a reflection of the sky above them. Cold, beautiful, eternal. Ever changing and yet stuck in a singular moment. 

Long horns curled from her head, wreathed in gleaming jewelry like a crown. Silver dangled in arches from them in chains, interspersed with white and purple jewels. That same silver-white metal curled around her pointed ears. Dark green shadowed her eyes like Mr. Vanrouge’s own, though hers were the same luminescent green as Malleus’. 

What had he gotten himself into?