Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aaand He Finally Snapped. 

Chapter 1: Seriously, what did you expect?

The car ride to Privet Drive was awkward, to say the least. Uncle Vernon was silent, which was a blessing but also a serious threat. Sirius. He had never wanted so badly for his godfather to come and take him away from this hell-hole. The silence also forced him to think about everything that had happened that year at Hogwarts. How much of it could have actually been avoided? If he hadn’t been so bloody compliant about the Tournament, maybe Cedric would still be alive. Maybe Voldemort wouldn't have returned. Maybe…

Harry was furious. Terrified. The "what ifs" weren’t helping. He needed to do something. He needed someone to do something. Vernon shifted in his seat, his eyes watching him through the mirror. He was probably waiting until they were safely inside the house to fully scream at him. Harry couldn’t care less. What had happened the summer before his fourth year was the least of his problems. In fact, whatever punishment the awful man had in mind would be nothing compared to what the world was going to become now that Voldemort was back in full force. Why had Dumbledore sent him back? Safety? Did he seriously think he would be safer on Privet Drive instead of Hogwarts? At least there, he could do some serious spell-casting training or, I don’t know, get ready for what was coming. 

Harry refused to spend another summer doing chores and being deprived of proper training.

One month in, Harry moved about with dark bags under his eyes. He was covered in bruises, and his mood—if previously moody—was now definitely full-on dark. Not a single phone call from Hermione. Not a single owl from Ron or anyone else. He felt like it was a repeat of the summer before his second year. But worse. Much worse. The nightmares were so bad he had taken to only lightly napping during the day. Apparently, his screams were so utterly devastating that even the Dursleys had decided to leave him alone. He would purposely leave the door of his room open, just in case he did fall asleep at night and the nightmares came, so they couldn't enjoy a peaceful night’s sleep either. Let them listen. Listen to what the magical world they hated had done to him, and maybe force a little sympathy from them. Obviously, none of his relatives had asked about it, but at least Dudley, who had attempted to make fun of him one morning during breakfast, had done so half-heartedly.

His aunt and uncle were never at home. It seemed that dealing with a broken magical teenager wasn’t part of their plans for the summer. But his cousin, who apparently couldn't stand the heatwave that had fallen over Surrey, seemed to be slowly becoming a recluse. And since Harry had decided that "unhinged" would be his new personality, he started sitting next to his cousin in front of the TV and talking to him about his miserable life. It was therapeutic in a way. Who cared anyway? His friends weren’t even writing, nobody was responding to his demands for information, and this way, there was a slight chance something in the Muggle news might show up about attacks happening. To add insult to injury, the Daily Prophet was spitting lies about him. No surprise there. 

Dudley didn't pay attention anyway, too engrossed in one of the three screens he always had on. From time to time, he would shush him or look up from his phone or computer game to give him a look like he had gone mental or something, babbling to himself on the sofa. And maybe he had. Who cared? Once, his cousin had asked, "Who the hell is Voldy-sport?" Probably thinking Harry had been talking about some athlete or something, and that had cracked Harry up somehow.

Their relationship didn’t improve after that, obviously. But Harry needed to numb his emotions somehow. Always tired, always restless. He couldn’t use magic. He couldn’t leave the house. And the anger was building up inside him. Knowing that he needed to cool down and think straight pushed him to exercise. Which caused Dudley to make fun of him for how skinny and scrawny he was. Which caused Harry to initiate a fistfight with his cousin. Which wasn’t a smart move at all, but the beating he took worked wonders for him. A painless body had time to focus on horrific memories. Apparently, a bruised body could only focus on the pain. And thus the routine of light but dreamless sleep, breakfast, therapy talks with his cousin non-stop until annoyance and the subsequent beating, took place. It worked for both of them.

Ah, the faces of everyone when they finally came to pick him up were priceless. At least it planted the seed in everyone’s mind about the wisdom of dumping him back there next year. A plus Harry hadn’t planned for but came to appreciate. If he was going to be left out and treated like a child, he may as well play the part of the defenseless victim and embrace it. Maybe Dumbledore would at least feel a tiny bit of remorse. Or get an earful from Molly. Either way worked for him. He was done being the perfect champion for Dumbledore’s side. He had decided. And the decision was final. He was going to be on his side and care only for those who were one hundred percent with him. He would give his all for them in return. But for everyone else? They could go fuck themselves.

Yes, furious. Harry was furious.

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Aaand He Finally Snapped. 

Chapter 2: Grimmauld Place Part 1

Harry entered Grimmauld Place in silence. In fact, he hadn't said a word to anyone since they first came to pick him up at Privet Drive and Moody had insisted on confirming his identity. As if a Death Eater would be capable of infiltrating a Muggle home, get super beaten up to the point their face was almost completely purple, and then pretend to be Harry Potter. They wouldn't have even been able to pull off wearing the baggy hand-me-downs properly.

Upon entering, Harry saw Sirius—well-fed and looking happy. Initially, he was glad for him, but he squashed that feeling, as he had numbed all his other emotions. His godfather, escaped convict, had the chance to hide from the Ministry in a big, comfy house, surrounded by magic and people who were apparently secretly meeting to discuss the upcoming war against Voldy-sport , while Harry, a minor, supposedly under his care, starved—literally and metaphorically—because Sirius wasn’t even telling him what was going on, and beaten up to a pulp.

Alright, Harry knew he wouldn't be able to hold it against his godfather for too long, and he also knew Sirius would crack first and come to his side, never betraying him again if Harry held out long enough without speaking to him. So he did. Sirius smiled and hugged him as if nothing had happened since they last saw or spoke to each other. As if Harry hadn’t been sent to the worst place a traumatized teenager could be sent after almost dying and witnessing another student being killed in front of him. Not even mentioning the physical torture he had endured—all in one day. He focused hard on those thoughts, keeping his body motionless as Sirius hugged him. Slowly, he saw his godfather's smile evaporate as he took a good look at him. His expression turned to anger toward the Dursleys, and when he couldn't get Harry to say anything or explain what had happened, his face twisted with guilt. Harry had to focus so he wouldn’t try to mitigate or dismiss that guilt. He needed Sirius to feel guilty, to understand that there was no other side than Harry's side, and that simply allowing others to take control of every situation without stepping in meant endangering his godson's life.

Other people started walking through the hallways toward a double-door room. Some he recognized, like the git Snape, who, to his credit, didn’t cringe or show any reaction at the sight of Harry's face. Then Molly appeared, ushering him upstairs where his "friends" were, saying the meeting was about to start and he needed to get some rest and get healed. He didn’t even attempt to enter the meeting. He knew he was being treated like just a kid, and not the main reason these meetings were taking place. He knew they were going to talk about him—not just his injuries (which he was sure were the least of their concerns), but the fact that now that Voldemort was out and about, Harry was probably his main target.

Molly guided him to one of the rooms near the stairs, which was thankfully empty. She gave him a potion and a salve to apply to his face, saying she would be back later with something stronger. Harry imagined these were from a basic first aid kit, not really suited to his kind of injuries. Of course, they didn’t know the full story, but either way, Harry felt a sting of anger at the thought that the idea of him being physically hurt at the Dursleys' hadn’t even crossed their minds. He had told Dumbledore. In fact, he had told Sirius. His friends knew, and Ron's parents should have at least suspected something, given that he had escaped the house in his second year. Sure, this time he had "forced" his bigger and stronger cousin to play punching bag with him in order to numb his emotions and quiet his brain, but they should have known better.

Ron and Hermione decided it was a great idea to barge in just as Harry was stripping down to his underwear to apply the salve. He had started with his face, and the cold, slimy paste felt so good on his wounds that he began applying it everywhere he hurt—which was practically his whole body. To say that their smiles froze when they entered, ready to hug him like nothing had happened, would be an understatement. They stood at the door with horrified looks on their faces.

To their credit, they didn’t immediately fuss over him. Ron quietly closed the door, and Hermione approached him as if he were a wounded but dangerous creature. And Harry made sure to look dangerous. He wasn’t going to play indifferent with them. Yes, they owed him an apology and an acceptable explanation for why they hadn’t told him what was really going on in the magical world, but Harry knew them better than anyone else, better than Sirius or anyone at the Order. He needed them to be on his side, to choose him over Dumbledore, over the other professors, over the rules, and even over the law. Because Harry wasn’t stopping or accommodating for anything or anyone else. Sure, they had broken rules for him before, but now he needed more. He needed them to give what he was willing to give for them—everything.

The interaction didn’t last long, fortunately. While Harry finished applying the salve, Ron tried to explain how badly he had wanted to tell him everything (he had been living at Grimmauld Place since the start of summer break; he could have at least mentioned Sirius in code). Hermione said she had only arrived a few days before Harry, and that she had only learned about the Order then. They went on and on about how the Headmaster had made them promise not to compromise the Order by mentioning anything in letters. That even writing to Harry could have put him in danger now that “You-Know-Who” had recovered his body, and he could intercept any messages and ruin any advantage they had gained over him, etc.

Bollocks.

Harry wasn’t having any of it. He managed to control his anger—which, if you asked him, was an amazing achievement—and simply looked at them, disappointed. Let them come up with a better excuse over the next few weeks, he thought.

Then the twins came in, babbling about an invention to eavesdrop on the Order's meeting. Harry seized the opportunity to kick everyone out of his room and lay down for the night. His friends were incredulous that he wasn’t the least bit curious about the meeting. And, of course, he was. But he knew that at best they’d manage to catch a few words before getting caught. Dumbledore was in there, and the old man wasn’t stupid enough to let a secret meeting be overheard by some kids. Besides, if Harry’s plans worked as expected, he’d have an informant inside the Order by the end of the week who would report everything to him. Maybe even sooner, judging by the look on Sirius’s face after that hug.

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Chapter 3: Grimmauld Place Part 2

Harry believed Sirius would be the easiest target, considering the man saw him as a stand-in for James, and they had broken plenty of rules in their time. Having had so much time alone to think had given Harry clarity about things he had never given a second thought to before. For example, Sirius's imprisonment. Last year, Harry had watched Barty Crouch Jr.’s trial and saw Dumbledore advocating for Snape, a known Death Eater with a Dark Mark. So, what was it? Had Dumbledore used up all his “great wizard” points saving the Potions professor? Why had he never once attempted to visit Sirius and hear his side of the story?

Sirius hadn’t even had a trial. A pureblood from a famous family, and he wasn’t given a trial. Harry understood that his godfather didn’t have the cleanest background, and the circumstances under which he was found didn’t exactly scream "innocent," but someone should have done something—tried something. Was Sirius truly alone? Harry couldn’t pretend to understand what the wizarding world was like back then, with the horrors and paranoia of war, but there had to have been laws. Somewhere.

In the first few days after his arrival, Harry was left relatively alone. Apparently, showing up skinny and beaten exempted him from the work Mrs. Weasley imposed on the others. The house needed cleaning, he heard. So, he spent his time “recovering,” away from everyone else. Food was either brought to him by Molly or appeared on his desk by magic. News of his reclusiveness and lack of interest in the comings and goings of the house seemed to have sunk in by the fifth day, because even the twins had stopped popping in unannounced, trying to startle him or get him to react in some way. Or maybe they got bored.

Sirius knocked on his door every day and asked if Harry wanted to talk. Every day, Harry responded with a dry “no.” Let him stew. The one who surprised him the most was Ron. Even though Harry counted on his best friend's loyalty, he knew Ron had a tendency to drag out cold shoulders and jealousy fits. But Harry also should have expected Ron to be there for him—to be the first to swear by him. Ron had been his first friend in the magical world, and the redhead had no problem defying authority, breaking the law, or keeping Harry’s secrets. Not once had Ron suggested Harry talk to a teacher or stayed behind when it really mattered—when no one else was willing to do what Harry had to do.

By the end of the first week, Harry had decided to venture out, if only to find a book or something to distract himself. He had spent too much time thinking about all the changes he wanted in his life moving forward, but there’s only so much thinking and planning one can do. Opening the door as quietly as possible, Harry was startled by an “Oof” and the sight of a body sprawled across the carpet outside his room. It was Ron. He had apparently dozed off leaning against the door, with half a sandwich in one hand and a bundle of letters on his lap.

Ron flushed slightly as he stood up slowly. Harry watched him, confused. A flood of questions rose in his mind, but, determined to stay committed to the changes he expected, Harry simply waited for an explanation.

“Here, I found them hidden in the kitchen,” Ron said, handing him the bundle of letters. His friend then sat down in front of him, looking expectant.

“How long have you been waiting outside?” Harry asked, the first question that slipped out before he could catch it.

“Just the last few days,” Ron answered dismissively, glancing at the letters with encouragement.

That wasn’t what Harry had expected. Even hearing “the last hour or so” would have surprised him. Looking at the envelopes, Harry saw that the letters were addressed to him, with dates going back weeks—the earliest from a month ago. ‘This proves nothing,’ Harry thought. ‘He could have written the letters recently.’ Of course, that was ridiculous. For all of Ron’s cleverness, he wouldn’t have tried to deceive him like this. The thought warmed Harry’s heart a little. Ron would never attempt to trick him; Harry was certain of that. It was carved in stone.

“I tried coding information here and there, but apparently, no matter how far apart I wrote the words, the wards wouldn’t let the letters leave the house,” Ron said. After a moment, he added, “We need to come up with a secret language or something, mate.”

And just like that, Ron won him over. How egotistical of Harry, thinking his best friend needed to prove himself to him. He should be grateful Ron wanted to stick around, especially after all the chaos Harry was about to unleash on everyone.

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Chapter 4: Grimmauld Place Part 3

The following morning, Ron came into Harry's room with Hermione. Harry had expected as much. Even though he had realised he shouldn’t have doubted Ron’s loyalty, things were different with Hermione. She had a thing for authority figures, and while she had lied for him before, she sometimes couldn’t seem to help herself when it came to following rules.

His expression must have said it all because Ron's greeting was, “We need her, and you know it.” And, gods, Harry knew. They would’ve been dead by now if it weren’t for her. He was completely aware of how much of an advantage it was to have someone as smart and strong-willed as Hermione by his side. But at the same time, he understood why she trusted adults so easily. She had grown up as an only child, raised by two loving parents. Even Ron, with all his large family, had a better grasp of the need to keep things hidden from parents or to share secrets with siblings.

Harry was contemplating all of this while staring at Hermione, trying not to let his love for her overshadow the betrayal he felt. She had gone to teachers behind his back before, and recently, she hadn’t even tried to call Privet Drive on the phone. She should’ve thought of that. He had. If the roles had been reversed and one of his friends was being isolated like he had been, Harry would have tried everything—he would have risked sneaking out to physically see them. But maybe that was just him.

“Harry,” Hermione said softly, pleadingly.

“I’m convinced that you, the smartest witch in our year—maybe in the entire school—should have thought of at least a hundred ways to contact me,” Harry replied. He wanted to sound neutral, or even angry, but it came out sounding hurt.

“I did! But Dumbledore made us promise—"

“Promises I would’ve broken in a heartbeat for you, Hermione. Nothing short of an Unbreakable Vow would’ve kept me away. Even then, I would’ve tried to find loopholes.”

“Harry, you have to understand, it was too dangerous. The Headmaster—”

“Maybe you need to reorganise your priorities.” Harry felt the anger and hurt rising, slipping to the surface. His emotions were starting to take control again. So much for the calm front. Maybe it had been too long without the numbing pain. Maybe the nightmares were returning. And maybe, just maybe, in front of his two best friends, it wasn’t necessary to hide his pain, his trauma, his hurt. He took a deep breath. Not yet. There was still a chance Hermione would feel the need to tell someone. Her intentions were good, but that wasn’t enough.

“Hermione, I love you. You’ve been a great friend all these years, but last year opened my eyes. I can’t spend another year at school acting like a child, running around doing what I’m told, or following hints from people who ‘mean well.’ Something needs to change. I’ve already changed. Being face to face with Voldy-sport has changed me.” Harry's voice had almost no energy, as if the words had been practised. They had been. He had taken to calling Voldemort ‘Voldy-sport’ in his head to strip some of the fear from that bastard’s self given name. Unfortunately, he failed to stop himself from saying it out loud. At least his friends didn’t flinch.

“I—I understand,” Hermione said, with the seriousness of someone who finally grasped that this wasn’t about a tantrum over a few missed letters. This was war. And the slim chance they had of coming out alive. She was talking to the Dark Lord’s primary target, a boy who was being purposely kept in the dark by the very people meant to protect him. Many things could have been avoided if Harry had simply been told the truth. Without another word, Hermione left the room.

“We really do need her,” Ron repeated, though he stayed quiet after that.

“I know,” Harry admitted, though the smugness on Ron’s face was infuriating.

Sirius was nothing but a perfectly tamed dog after Harry’s silent treatment. The boy wished so much that he and his godfather could have lived together, acted their age, and been a family. If only things had gone differently in third year... But as things stood, Harry realised that no one would swoop in to solve his problems. Certainly not Sirius, a wanted fugitive and mentally unstable after twelve years in Azkaban. Harry had come to terms with that at the start of the summer when he had desperately wished for Sirius to rescue him.

Sirius needed time to heal. He needed help, not only to clear his name but to free himself from the guilt that trapped him—guilt that made him believe Dumbledore had all the answers. Young people always wanted to believe the older generation had everything figured out. Harry had felt that way once, too.

“Sirius,” Harry said, sitting at his desk with his back to his godfather.

“Harry, please. I need you to forgive me. If I had known it was that bad, I—"

Harry turned, half-annoyed, half-disappointed. That’s what he’s apologising for?

“I forgive you. It’s not a big deal. The Dursleys didn’t beat me.” Well, not all of them, or specifically during later years of his life, but that wasn’t the point right now. “I’m mad at you for choosing Dumbledore’s side over mine.”

Sirius looked confused, and Harry grew frustrated that he had to explain it. “You—the rule-breaker, the illegal Animagus, the first escapee from Azkaban—put all your trust in Dumbledore, who, sure, has good intentions, but not in me, James’ son.” It was a low blow, but apparently, words only worked if they hit hard.

Sirius looked defeated, sitting on the bed with his head down. All the fight had drained out of him. Harry almost felt guilty.

“You’re right, Harry. I should have come to you and done what we both wanted instead of going to Dumbledore for permission.”

What we both wanted. Harry felt a sting of pride. Padfoot wasn’t lost after all. He just needed a little nudge. Now, let’s get all the information about this Order business before Sirius started getting too overprotective.

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Chapter 5: Grimmauld Place Final 

Sirius told him everything. There was a prophecy, and suddenly, everything made so much sense. That was why a Dark Lord, who had been so successful in his campaign for domination, became obsessed with killing a one-year-old child. All this time, Harry had assumed Voldemort was after his parents. But in retrospect, that didn’t add up—especially when Harry considered his Dementor-induced memories of the night of the attack.

“Stand aside.”

The words echoed in his head. Sure, of course, kill the child, but not me? What was Voldemort expecting? On a side note, didn’t any loving parent instinctively try to shield their child from an attacker? Not that Harry was ungrateful for what his mum had done—Lily had given her life for him. But, if he were being brutally honest, wasn’t that what any parent would do? There was nothing extraordinary about it, no "magical blood-bonding experience" or "power of love," as Dumbledore liked to phrase it. Did the old man really expect him to believe that in all Voldemort’s years of killing and destruction, he’d never encountered someone throwing themselves in front of a loved one to protect them?

Harry paced the room, muttering to himself. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, and of course, there was a reason everyone had been so desperate to keep him in the dark. A prophecy.

Something that, for some reason, had convinced Voldemort that Harry, specifically, needed to die. It wasn’t just the grudge of a grown man who had been rendered incorporeal after attacking a baby. It wasn’t even the humiliation of being bested not once, but twice, in front of his followers—the second time in the graveyard. No, it all came down to a bloody prophecy.

Sirius didn’t know the exact wording of the prophecy, and at first, Harry felt a flicker of anger. He wanted to analyse it, to break it apart and brainstorm with his friends, searching for loopholes and theories. But then he reminded himself—he was done playing the perfect champion. Done being the obedient child who swallowed every word just because he had grown up away from the magical world, so desperate to fit in that he discarded all doubts and second thoughts without hesitation. Not anymore.

Why did he even need the exact words? Was he supposed to follow the prophecy like some kind of guide? No way. Not anymore. Anyone with common sense could see that believing in a prophecy is what usually makes it come true. Voldy-sport had already messed himself up because he was obsessed with it. And Dumbledore? Harry was pretty sure the old man had been planning everything around this prophecy for years. It was all so stupid.

But Harry had his own plans now. He wasn’t going to be what everyone wanted him to be. He wasn’t their chosen hero or anyone’s puppet. He’d decided he’d do things his way, not what people expected. He just needed to be ready. He just needed to be strong.

Hermione came through, and Harry couldn’t have been happier. She had disappeared for days after their last conversation, and though the thought of her siding with the Order—or deciding not to speak to him again after his ultimatum—had crossed his mind, he hadn’t had time to dwell on it. His thoughts were too consumed with the prophecy and the Order’s various, albeit ineffective, plans to slow Voldy’s advance.

But that night, Hermione knocked on his door while he and Ron were deep in discussion. Harry had just finished explaining everything he’d learned when she entered, an unmistakably smug smile on her face, and began unloading an armful of parchment and Muggle paper, scattering them all over the floor.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Ron said, grinning, and for once, Harry didn’t even feel annoyed.

“I’ve been doing some research,” Hermione began, and both boys stared at her, unimpressed. “And I’m not going to bore you with all the details.”

Ron looked relieved, but for the first time, Harry realized he wouldn’t have minded hearing every little detail. He felt a twinge of guilt for how unappreciative they’d often been of her relentless effort. It was clear she’d raided the Black family library and practically written her own book in the process, all of which was now spread across his bedroom floor.

“Go on,” Harry prompted, genuinely curious.

“Wizards and witches use parchment—not just because it’s durable or because they’re stuck in the past like I used to think. Professor McGonagall explained to me that Muggle paper can’t be enchanted to last longer. You can’t use complicated charms on it, like spell-check or translation spells, and you can’t use special inks like invisible ink. At first, I thought we could invent some secret language that couldn’t be revealed by magic or one that could bypass wards, but it turns out the solution was ridiculously simple. It’s so absurd I can’t stop laughing—but it works!”

She looked slightly manic, but Harry didn’t care. A secret language. A way to communicate that could outwit powerful magic and cunning wizards. It was exactly what he needed, and he couldn’t believe the smartest witch he knew was firmly on his side.

“Muggle invisible ink!” Hermione declared, holding up a very ordinary-looking purple pen. She uncapped it and began writing on a Muggle notebook. “I had to owl my parents and wait for this to arrive, but look!”

Whatever she had written disappeared almost instantly. Ron’s jaw dropped, clearly amazed that something so clever existed in the Muggle world. Harry hadn’t known about it either. This was incredible. But there was one problem.

“How do you read the message if you can’t use magic on it? Hold it up to the light?” Harry asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Well, some brands work that way, or you have to reveal the message with a candle flame—but those aren’t safe enough, obviously. So, I thought about something wizards don’t have access to, like electricity. Then I realized ultraviolet light was the answer.”

She flipped the pen, uncapping the other end to reveal a tiny built-in torch. “It’s battery-powered.”

Switching it on, she shone the faint purple beam over the notebook. The words our secret sort of magic appeared on the page, glowing faintly before fading again. It was brilliant.

“Wait—battery-powered things work around magic? I didn’t know that,” Harry said, taking the pen from Hermione to inspect it.

“Most electronics stop working eventually, especially anything with complicated functions. But simpler devices, like this one, work fine. This pen’s only job is to shine a tiny light, so magic doesn’t interfere with it.”

Harry flicked the ultraviolet beam across some of the parchments scattered on the floor. “So, what about all of this?” Ron asked, clearing a spot for himself on the floor.

“I tested it on all kinds of paper,” Hermione explained, “and I even had the twins help without telling them what it was for. They thought I was experimenting with a new type of invisible ink and tried everything they could to reveal the messages—spells, charms, you name it. None of it worked.”

“Brilliant,” Harry and Ron said in unison, grinning.

This was a game-changer. A real one.

Harry had everything packed and ready for the Hogwarts Express. The Order members pulled all kinds of security shenanigans to get them to the platform, but Harry chose to tune it all out—especially the funny-looking woman with the body-changing magic. She seriously needed a reality check.

He spent most of the car ride trying not to think about Sirius in his dog form or the curious looks the other Weasleys kept throwing his way. Instead, his thoughts drifted to something far more pressing: the need to practice duelling. Real duelling. Not the rubbish with all the bowing and pointless formalities. He needed lessons that didn’t hold back, no mercy. He needed to find someone willing to teach him properly.

They didn’t teach that at Hogwarts.

It couldn’t be anyone Order-related. No one who’d go running to Dumbledore. That meant no professors, not even Flitwick. Maybe a student? Thinking back to his only formal duel in second year, Harry recalled how well-trained the Slytherins had looked. They clearly had private tutors—probably Snape himself.

Harry realized he might have to tone down his hatred and distrust toward the Slytherins if he was serious about this. He needed someone like Dudley: Someone he hated, and hated him back. Someone he could use to train him in exchange for the glorious offer to beat The-Boy-Who-Lived up. No repercussions, no questions asked. It had to keep quiet to avoid attention. 

Malfoy would jump at the idea, but he also would carry on jumping towards his father to snitch on him. No, it had to be someone neutral. Someone without a close family connection to Voldy-Sport’s inner circle.

As the train pulled away and everyone waved goodbye, with the dog running alongside the platform, Harry stayed lost in thought.

Stronger. He needed to be stronger.

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Chapter 6: the place where nightmares always find you

The nightmares were back with a vengeance, and since Harry didn’t know how to cast a Silencing Charm, none of his roommates were able to sleep peacefully either.

He noticed some anger from Seamus at first—something about him being a liar because the Prophet said so—but Harry couldn’t care less about the boy’s opinion. Now, weeks later, as he wandered around like the undead and screamed his lungs out every night, probably no one in Gryffindor Tower doubted him anymore.

Dreamless Sleep Potion wasn’t a long-term option. It was mentioned it had some very strong addictive stuff, so Harry took it strictly on odd days. Madam Pomfrey’s orders.

Ron learned the Silencing Charm before Harry even thought about it (not that he would have bothered, since he’d made it a habit not to pretend he was fine just to keep everyone else comfortable). But Ron clearly cared about Harry’s privacy—though not so much about his own sleep—because he cast the spell over both their beds and still woke Harry up every time a nightmare started. Sometimes, it was Hermione’s voice bringing him back. Maybe they took turns? He didn’t ask. He had too much on his mind.

As a result of the constant lack of sleep, Harry drifted through the castle’s halls with his eyes half-closed, struggling to think straight. Hermione and Ron told him the new Defence teacher had something against him, but he barely paid attention in class. The lessons were just reading from Ministry-approved books, so he let his brain rest during those mind-numbingly dull hours.

He barely acknowledged his surroundings anymore. He barely spoke, except to his friends or maybe grunted, he wasn’t sure.

Harry tried everything he could think of to help himself—short of trying his luck surviving in the Forbidden Forest again. He ran laps around the Quidditch pitch every morning. Sit-ups, warm tea, lavender-scented pillows, banging his head against his desk—everything.

Hermione called it PTSD and started reading psychology books. Ron—RON—was reading alongside her. Gods, he loved them.

By the time the first month of school ended, some of the teachers—especially McGonagall—started giving him worried looks. Harry felt like he’d had enough. The plans he had, the changes he wanted to make—everything was starting to crumble. Along with his sanity.

He was in the boys’ dormitory bathroom, shaving his head in front of the mirror, when he said to Ron, “What I need is a Slytherin with no connection to Voldy-Sport who’s willing to help me train to exhaustion.”

“I could beat you up,” Ron offered, clearly uncomfortable—whether with the sight of Harry’s now-bald head or the blood-stained cuts from his inexperienced hands, Harry wasn’t sure. At least Ron didn’t try to stop him. Harry had decided his hair had to go, so it had to go.

“Yes, we can practice magic together. But right now, I need someone who’ll attack me without hesitation, without remorse, violently. Even if they’re not at Voldy-Sport’s level, someone to force my survival instincts to kick in.”

Ron would understand—he wasn’t insulting his abilities, just stating what he needed.

The cuts on his head started to sting. A welcome distraction from his screaming scar.

Did he mention the scar to his friends? He’d make sure to. Later, after dinner.

“Zabini’s mother has a bit of a ‘black widow’ reputation,” Ron said out of nowhere one morning at breakfast.

Harry, who had slept for exactly one hour and twenty-two minutes, felt awful. He simply kept eating his porridge.

“Even if his real dad—who was never confirmed—was a follower of Sporty” (another hilarious variation of Dudley’s nickname that Ron had come up with), “his mum went through another deceased seven husbands after him. And she’s currently single, living outside Britain, because of the allegations.”

“How do you know so much about someone’s mum? And what are you even talking about?” Hermione shot him a reproachful look.

Harry briefly wondered if Ron was trying to play matchmaker. With a deathly widow.

“Ah, see, Harry sent me on a mission the other day.”

Harry, who knew for a fact that he hadn’t, looked up from his breakfast and frowned.

“And after some subtle digging—quite easy, really—I heard the story. Apparently, the boy loves to tell anyone who’ll listen about his mother. It’s not exactly a secret, you know.”

“Mission?” Hermione’s eyes flicked to Harry, who just shrugged.

“I think he’s the perfect candidate,” Ron continued. “Plus, he’s bloody good at offensive spells. I remember him acting all smug about it during Defence last year.”

Ah. It clicked.

“Ronald, I don’t—” She trailed off at the look on Harry’s face.

“Can anyone explain what is happening?”

Not here.

Harry said it with a gesture, not with words.

He was getting good at that. Or rather, he’d started avoiding talking whenever possible—to reduce headaches. To save energy.

They understood at once.

Did he tell them ‘I love you’ today?

He should.

Isolating Zabini and getting a chance to talk to him wasn’t exactly easy. Especially with everything else happening at school—Harry could barely keep up.

Apparently, the newest Defence teacher was enforcing crazy rules, and students were being strictly monitored. The woman kept interrupting his other classes with snide remarks about his lack of involvement. (The only class he’d made even a minimal effort in was Snape’s—if only to keep the man off his back and avoid detention.)

Another annoying problem? Slytherins moved in packs.

Zabini was already hard enough to spot, but he was never alone. He seemed to be a friend of dear old Draco, which at least meant Harry could observe him whenever Malfoy-darling felt the need to taunt him—whether it was about his latest hairstyle or whatever other idiocy fell from his noble mouth.

Harry couldn’t believe he used to fall for that childish nonsense. Clearly, he wasn’t in the same mindset now.

From his brief observations of the Zabini-snake, the boy didn’t seem to find anything Draco said amusing. He never really engaged with the group.

Maybe Harry was lucky.

Maybe his Dudley replacement wasn’t actually a friend of the Voldy-Sporty followers’ scions.

Harry normally avoided the Gryffindor common room. Too many sounds, too many people staring at him like he was insane. As if.

But today was different. The entire Quidditch team was in a dark mood.

According to Hermione, they had lost—horribly. The new Keeper had done terribly and quit immediately after the match. The twins had gotten into a fight with Malfoy and were banned from playing. Ginny, the new Seeker—since Harry had refused, profoundly, to even attend tryouts—had been the target of every Slytherin’s mockery from the stands. Now, she was hiding in her room and refusing to talk to anyone.

It was a disaster.

He couldn’t help but feel sympathy for them. Even if the competitive spirit had long since fled him, replaced by the dark phantom of the mass murderer out there, planning to take over and kill him personally.

Ron was talking to Angelina, this year’s captain. He threw Harry a worried look—as if asking for permission for something Harry didn’t quite understand.

Harry nodded anyway. Whatever Ron wanted, Ron would get. It wouldn’t make a dent in the debt Harry owed him for everything he’d done these past few weeks.

Harry closed his eyes, taking a long moment to register exactly how tired he was.

A whole lot.

Things were happening around him, and for the first time ever, he didn’t feel the need to be at the center of it all. He reflected on that for a second—then pinned it for later thought.

Then, suddenly—a flash of anger.

It rose up out of nowhere and vanished just as fast.

It had been happening more and more often. Before, the old—younger—him would have blamed it on the current state of his team, or his House, or his friends.

But the new—older—him? The one who couldn’t care less about schoolyard quarrels and petty rivalries?

He immediately knew.

They weren’t his feelings.

They belonged to someone else.

And he couldn’t keep ignoring them. Couldn’t keep blaming it on exhaustion.

Something needed to be done.

And fast.

He made eye contact with his friends, silently telling them he was heading to bed.

Planning needed to happen. He couldn’t afford to let his night terrors and exhaustion delay him any longer.

He had to talk to Sirius.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

The talk with Sirius was brief, to the point, and a bit daunting. He explained Harry's mood swings and told him they weren’t just due to a lack of sleep—which could have explained them if not for how "out-of-placey" they felt. Sirius promised to see into it  unsuspiciously to find out if this meant he and Voldy were opening some sort of connection.

Then Harry asked for advice on how to approach a Slytherin without being noticed by the other snakes, and Sirius had quite a few ideas, which he shared while sounding extremely pleased about Harry finally “making the Marauders proud.” Whatever that meant. (He wasn’t sharing all his plans with his godfather just yet.)

Before ending the mirror call—can it even be called that? It resembled a video call if he wanted to compare it to something—Sirius gave him an update about Order movements. Remus was off trying to convince the werewolves not to join Darky-pants, Hagrid was doing the same with the giants, hence the daunting part. Who thought it was a good idea to send a single person to a massive, organized group to try and convince them not to join a Dark Lord who hadn't even made his move yet? Or worse—what if he already had? The group would definitely attack the messenger.

Was the Order really that short on personnel? There hadn’t been many members at the meetings, sure, but if they were stretched this thin, how did they expect to stand against a well-prepared, bloodthirsty army? Harry’s head wasn’t exactly clear these days—thoughts and reasoning didn't come without a great deal of headaches—but he felt like he was the only one realizing that this so-called vigilante group was making all the worst decisions.

Did Dumbledore give the orders? Was this some kind of "let's brainstorm here, all ideas are good ideas" kinda situation? Did they take turns trying new, reckless strategies? Sirius had shared all their "advances" as if they were doing something brilliant. But when he saw Harry’s unimpressed expression—one that probably betrayed every single thought he wasn’t voicing—his enthusiasm deflated.

Hermione was complaining, again, about this Umbridge professor. Apparently, teachers and authority figures only lost credibility in her eyes when they tried to interfere with her studies. It checked out—classic Hermione.

She said they needed to prepare. Not just for exams, but for the upcoming war. Harry didn’t disagree; he too worried about their general lack of preparation. But unlike Harry, she seemed to think it was their personal responsibility to make sure students weren’t deprived of a proper magical education.

“Think about it,” she was saying. “You, Harry, have the experience and ability in Defence. I can do all the research, and Ron can shout instructions to large crowds. We just need to form the club and find a secluded place where no one—especially Umbridge—can find us.”

Ron looked at her like she’d handed him the least impressive job and opened his mouth to argue, but Harry cut in.

“Why do you think it’s our job to train kids to defend themselves? Isn’t that what the teachers are for? This is supposed to be a school. Sure, Dumbledore is busy with Order business—which, by the way, is practically sending people off to maybe die—but isn’t he still the headmaster?”

“Harry, the Minister is trying to discredit him—maybe even remove him. He’s being watched. He can’t—”

“Are you justifying Dumbledore not doing his job?” Harry looked at her, clearly exasperated. “Isn’t he, like, a hundred years old? Don’t you think if someone like him really wanted to ensure we had proper Defence training, he’d find a way?”

“Now that I think about it…” Ron was counting on his fingers. “Final exams were cancelled more than once, house points are given and taken with no real rules, and the Defence teachers always had it out for Harry. Even Lupin tried to murder him when he transformed.”

“More reason to take action ourselves!” Hermione insisted.

“Oh, like a secret vigilante group under the noses of another secret vigilante group, hidden from the government and its opposition... kind of like our own little army.” Harry said it with fake enthusiasm, though his energy faded as the sentence went on. Was he really considering creating a third party in the war? One loyal to him, that could actually help him push forward with his plans? He’d already wasted a full month. It wasn’t his job to make sure everyone else got through the school curriculum. But if he could handpick the most promising students—and show them a different option, one that wasn’t just Voldy vs Dumbly?

Voldy vs. Dumbly.

He chuckled.

His friends looked at him, both with different expectations.

He needed to level with them. He couldn’t keep every thought to himself.

“Voldy vs Dumbly, that’s what made me laugh.” Hermione raised an eyebrow. Tough crowd. He carried on. “Thing is, I’m not making the changes I planned—but at least I’m not letting everything that’s happening around me decide my path. Like I told you before, I’m not on Dumbledore’s side anymore. That doesn’t mean I think I’m stronger or smarter than him—I’m just tired of being herded around like a sheep.”

So here I am, stuck at school, while everyone pretends things are normal and there’s not a madman out there building an army. Is it our job to fix it? No. Are we supposed to make the world a better place? Also no—we’re fifteen! No one should be looking at me for salvation.”
It was turning into a speech—or a rant. His friends were watching him seriously. Great. At least he wasn’t rambling.

“But,” he continued, “there’s reality. He’s out there, and he wants to get me. So I need to be stronger. And I’m only stronger with you two around.”

“My scar’s been killing me lately,” he added.
They immediately looked concerned.

“I talked to Sirius. We’re trying to figure out if it’s possible that Voldy and I are connected through it. If that’s true, maybe I’m feeling his emotions—like they’re mine. It’s weird.”

“It sounds horrible, Harry,” Hermione said gently.

“It could be useful,” Ron said, before Hermione smacked his arm.

“Don’t be so insensitive!”

“Sorry.” Ron met Harry’s tired eyes. “It’s true, though, Harry” he said. “Think about it—if you really are connected to him, and you can feel or see what he feels and sees, that’s basically free intel. From both our enemies.”

 Sirius was his spy for the order, he could be his own spy for Voldy. 

Both our enemies. How lucky Harry was

“Connections go both ways, Ronald,” Hermione said tightly. “The problem is that Harry’s suffering. And what if Voldy finds out everything we’re doing?” She clearly wasn’t impressed.

“Well, lucky for us, we haven’t done anything important yet. And Harry can learn to block it. You need to shield it, Har. There’s got to be a way.”

“I’ll look into it, of course. But Harry—” Hermione’s concern was evident in her voice “—maybe you should take it slow, for now. First we need to sort out the nightmare problem. Then we can figure out how to make you stronger.”

“Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone. Solve the nightmares and the connection at the same time. I’m sure it’s the exhaustion that’s letting him into my head so easily.”

“The Hogwarts library probably won’t have what we need,” she said, and both boys stared like she’d grown a second head.

She gave them a “oh, shut it” look as she started pulling out parchment.

“There’s a library in magical France that sells obscure and rare books. I might have better luck there than in a place curated for children. Don’t you think?”

And just like that, movement.
It had started.

Harry smiled to himself.
Only one more thing left at the top of his list.

Zabini was waiting on an isolated aisle next to the Restricted Section of the library, just like Harry had asked. There were no other snakes in sight, but it was still too early to let his guard down. For all he knew, this could be a trap. Zabini had no reason to trust a crumpled, unsigned note delivered through a strange series of magical hand-offs and subtle enchantments—one Harry hoped had been obscure enough to avoid catching anyone’s attention but the snake boy’s. Too obscure, maybe. Too bold. But he had no other options.

Harry approached the shadowed corner of the library without making a sound. He paused just short of the final bookshelf and did a quick but thorough scan of the area, checking behind bookcases and under nearby study tables, just in case other Slytherins had decided to tag along for a laugh—or an ambush. Paranoia was necessary. It kept him alive.

Zabini must have sensed the movement, because he raised his wand toward Harry’s general direction, his posture sharp and his expression immediately alert. Not startled. Just ready. Good. That was promising. At least the boy wasn’t careless.

Harry, still wrapped in his invisibility cloak, tried not to look ridiculous as he stepped out. It was hard not to, since removing the cloak always turned into a strange show of body parts flickering into view—first an elbow, then half a knee, then his hair, all disjointed and ghostly. Not exactly the most dignified entrance.

Once fully visible, he raised both hands a little to show he wasn’t armed, then offered the closest thing to a nonchalant greeting he could manage.

“Hello,” he said, keeping his voice low but even. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Just needed to make sure you were alone.”