Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When he was five-years-old, Harry got to go with Dudley to a birthday party for one of the more well-off children in the classroom who had decided to invite the whole class to his party. It was quite an event, with a bouncy castle, cake, presents, and even a hired magician. However, for Harry, the best part was the “quiet room” where any of the kids who wanted to could go in and sit and watch a movie that the adults had put on. Harry, having never been allowed to go watch a movie, and wanting nothing more than to keep some distance from Dudley’s fists and Aunt Petunia’s watchful gaze, had stayed there for the whole party.

The movie of choice was one he’d never heard of before, about an orphaned boy raised in the jungle by animals, including wolves, elephants, a bear, monkeys, a jaguar, a snake and, most of all, a man-eating tiger. Harry had watched the whole thing with wide eyes, thinking first of himself as the same as that little boy, skinny and confused, alone in all the world, and being tugged from one thing to the next. However, by the end of the movie, Harry didn’t think himself much like Mowgli at all—he certainly wouldn’t have been lured away from his jungle home by some girl at the river. No, the one that Harry liked best was Shere Khan, the man-eating tiger, the one that everyone in the whole forest was scared of.

Harry liked to think that if he were a man-eating tiger, not even Vernon would want anything to do with him because, after all, Vernon was a man and that is what man-eating tigers ate.

From that day on, instead of wishing that his parents would appear magically at his front door and whisk him away, Harry wished instead that he could become a tiger. No one would hurt him then. They would be far too scared and Harry would finally, finally be safe.

Nine years later, when Harry stood, legs splayed in the dirt, with thunder rolling and dry lightning filling the air with static and the shadowy canine figure of his godfather capering around him, yipping with joy, Harry remembered the little boy he used to be and how desperately he’d wished to become a tiger.

Look at me now, Harry thought as he stretched out his long, limber, fur covered legs. He twisted around to look at the golden orange, black, and cream of his fur. His tail lashed through the air. His claws dug into the dirt. He turned ears first and then his head at the yapping of his godfather, once so surprisingly big as a shaggy black hound, but now not so big compared to Harry.

Sirius bowed before him, rump up in the air, tail wagging like a flag in the wind, mouth open and tongue lolling with excitement. An invite to play, to chase and run. Harry shook himself and crouched down, tail twitching, muscles bunching under thick, velvety fur.

Sirius barked and bounded away a moment before Harry pounced. Then they were off, chasing each other, running through tall grasses, down creek beds, among the sparse trees, and up the hill. It was the most glorious day of Harry’s life, filled with wonder and magic and freedom.

He was a tiger, a tiger!

He was free at last.

(He was a man-eater. He was finally safe.)

Chapter Text

Fifth year begins a lot like fourth year did—Harry slipping away from the Dursley’s in order to get his school shopping done with the shaggy black dog form of his godfather at his side. He feels some sympathy for Neville and his friends, who can only go out for one afternoon to Diagon together under the fear of You-Know-Who coming for them.

Harry, though he’s not allowed to stay at the townhouse with his godfather, is excellent at sneaking away from the Dursleys and more than happy luring Sirius out to join him, even in dog form. Whatever sympathy Harry feels is short-lived, though, and dries up when he remembers Sirius’s admission that not only was he staying with the Boy-Who-Lived in his house, under Dumbledore’s order, but Harry’s not allowed to join them at all, not even once. Also on Dumbledore’s order.

Apparently, his relative’s house was the safest place for him to be. Harry’s pretty confident that’s a load of rubbish, but he’s not about to directly contradict the Headmaster about it. The less the old man knows about his life with the Dursley’s, the better, in Harry’s opinion.

There are whispered rumors of some trial that Neville goes through at the Ministry, something about underage magic or whatever, but Harry doesn’t pay it any mind. Even if he’s spent the last four years sharing a dorm with the Boy-Who-Lived, they almost never talk to each other. Weasley’s pretty good at keeping Neville locked down in the friend department—a pattern Harry recognizes from his primary school days. He doesn’t think Neville’s popular enough for Weasley’s jealousy to be reasonable, but he’s famous enough that Weasley must think so.

Besides, Sirius tells Harry all about what happens when they slip into the muggle side of London to pick up lunch at an Indian place together. Apparently, Neville almost got his soul sucked out by some Dementors and was saved last minute when he sent off an alarm spell—one he’d learned for the third task during the Tournament last year—and one of his Auror guards came to save him. The fireworks caught some muggle’s attention, but it’s not like that wasn’t explainable.

(Harry doesn’t mention that he had learned the Patronus charm in third year. He doesn’t need to. Sirius was there when Harry used it and the silver tiger came roaring out of his wand to chase away dozens of Dementors.)

Still, summer comes to an end and with it his unfettered access to his godfather. Shortly before leaving for the train, they exchange a magical mirror with each other to communicate and Harry promises to call at least once a week, all while knowing he won’t last more than three days without checking in with his godfather.

He can’t really help himself. Sirius is the only family he has left. Besides, how else is he going to convince the man to let him move in for the summer against Dumbledore’s wishes if he doesn’t work at it all year?

Professor Umbridge is a bitch.

Harry rinse d the blood from the back of his hand into the sink, glowering at the scratched out letters there. I will obey my betters.

“What betters,” Harry muttered as he dabbed at the open wound to dry it. He’s got murtlap essence—sent from Sirius last month when things with Umbridge were getting worse—and that’ll help, but at this point in the year there’s no way that this isn’t going to scar. He applied a hefty glob of the stuff onto his skin, gritting his teeth through the sting of it, and then wrapped his hand tightly with a clean bandage.

He’s not the only one who has a regular bandage on his hand or arm. Harry’s seen even a few first years with similar bandages, though he has no idea if they’ve got the murtlap or not. What he does know, however, is that most, if not all of the other kids that are scarred are muggleborns, like him. Well. Not that he’s properly a muggleborn. And not all of them either. Some half-bloods have bound hands, he’s seen, especially the ones who live more on the muggle side like he does.

It’s not like Harry’s started some sort of half-blood muggleborn club or anything, but the signs are there if you know what to look for, like biros and spiral bound notebooks for note taking, highlighters and sticky notes for marking their books—something that drives Granger up the wall when she catches others doing it. As if their text books are sacrosanct or something. But then again, she thinks the professors’ word is law.

At least, as long as she agrees with it. Funny how that changes once the teacher starts telling everyone your best friend is a nutter, a liar, a traitor to the Ministry and that there’s nothing scarier out in the world than a half-breed monster, but not to worry, the cops will save you if you call them.

(Harry wondered if there’s some other lesson for how to actually call the Aurors or something. Are you supposed to owl the Ministry? Shout through the floo? He figures it must be the latter because its not like you can pull up the phone and dial 999 and then select the ‘magical cops’ option.)

Harry snorted to himself. His bandage was wrapped tight and the cut feels a little numb, just like it should. He really should go to sleep, but detention with Umbridge has cut into his essay writing time once again. So instead of going up to the dorms, he doggedly goes down to the common room to work on his charms essay by the light of the fire and the growing silence as others finish whatever they’re doing and trundle up to bed.

Granger is up latest of all, studying for her OWLs most likely, or prepping a lesson for the Defense Club that she’s trying to organize with Weasley and Neville. She keeps giving him little glances, longer and longer ones until everyone else is gone and they’re all that remain. Harry’s tempted to turn in for the night as well, to climb into bed and call up Sirius on the mirror. He was an Auror, once, right? He’d know how one was allegedly supposed to call the Auror and now that Harry’s curious, he has to know the answer.

But he needs to finish his charms essay. He’ll half-ass the potions one during history tomorrow. It’s not like Snape will give him better than an A anyway, not when his favorite letter for Harry’s essays is T.

Before he can put the final touches on his conclusion, however, Granger gets up and sits herself down on the couch beside him. He glances at her, quill poised over parchment, and then he went to scribble down the sentence he had in his mind. She at least waits for him to finish before asking, “Potter? Can I ask you something?”

“Let me finish my essay first,” he told her. He’d rather put her off entirely, but he’s got some experience with Granger’s persistence. She’ll corner him repeatedly until he talks to her and she’s not always thoughtful enough to do it alone when no one will see him talking to arguably one of the least liked girls in Hogwarts.

Not that he has much of a reputation to ruin, but whereas last year she only caught the occasional flack from Neville’s status as number-one-most-disliked-student, this year she’s more a target with Umbridge in the halls day in and day out. Harry would say that the woman has it out for Granger specifically, but anyone with eyes knows that the one she really hates is Neville.

Still, the good thing about Granger is that she just nods and keeps quiet with her own work while he finishes his own. She values school work almost more than anything, he figures, so as long as he looks like he’s busy with it, she doesn’t bother him too much.

When he finishes his essay, makes sure it’s dry and his quill is put away, Granger’s already sitting forward, eyes bright as she looks at him, waiting. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this conversation.

“So, what do you want?” He asked, pulling at the cuff of his sleeve, trying to ignore the tightness of the wrapping on his fist. Granger’s managed to escape Umbridge’s detention, but she must know whats going on. There’s no way she can’t, not with Neville in there almost as much as Harry is.

“You know how Umbridge really isn’t teaching us anything worthwhile in class?”

Harry nods.

“And how some of us are putting together a club so we can teach each other?”

He’s overheard Weasley and Neville talking about it in the dorm when they think he’s not there. It’s pretty clear to him that this is Granger’s idea, at least from how Weasley has talked about it. He nods again.

“Well,” she takes a deep breath, “You’re the best in the class, practically speaking,” Harry doesn’t smile, even though he knows it takes a lot for her to admit she isn’t the best. But it’s a solid fact between them and has been true for years. Granger might be the fastest with theoretical side of magic and more dedicated with practicing the spells, but Harry’s magic is stronger and his practical application to casting is faster than hers. He just nods along as she talks, not really wanting to rub her face in it. It’s not like he tries as hard as she does, after all. He’s just naturally good at it.

“We were hoping you’d help teach some of the others,” Granger plowed on, “We really need someone to take point and Neville’s, well,” She flounders. Harry just watched her. “Neville’s Neville, really, and while Ron’s not so bad, he’s not as good as you are and, well, we just thought you’d do the best job. I’ve seen how you work with some of the first years when you have time. Would you help us, too?”

Harry wants to say no. He really does. He thinks drawing Umbridge’s ire will only make things worse for all of them, for all the students really , but there’s a part of him that doesn’t really care how angry they make Umbridge.

It’s the tiger in his heart. Shere Khan. The man-eater.

Umbridge is so hateful because she’s afraid, Harry can see that easily enough when she looks at them with whites showing around her eyes. He knows if he turned into his tiger self, she’d be terrified of him.

And she should be.

He also wants to say no because it’s not like Granger, Weasley, or even Neville have ever done anything for him. She’s always been jealous of his skill. Weasley has coveted Neville’s fame to the point of excluding others from Neville’s inner circle and Neville...Neville really hasn’t done anything against Harry, per se.

At least, not directly, not himself.

None of them have helped Harry get into his godfather’s house, but they’re just kids like him. Not only that but Granger and Neville are a bit too rule-abiding for them to go against Dumbledore like that. Maybe Weasley but...not without backup.

“Please?” Granger leans closer to him, reaching a hand out for his arm, eyes big and hopeful. Harry gets the feeling that she’s really, really invested in this idea. To the point that it doesn’t matter to her if Umbridge catches on or not.

Apparently her grades matter that much.

“Sure,” Harry said, “I’ll join.”

She leaned back, grinning, relaxing a little bit. “Great,” she said, “We’re meeting at the Hog’s Head during Hogsmede weekend next week—”

Harry snorts. “That’s a stupid place to meet.” He shook his head at her, “No, tell people to meet at the Shrieking Shack instead. You can put up a perimeter ward to let you know when people enter and to turn away anyone without, say, a Hogwarts emblem on or something. Then you can have another ward up to disguise the area, so no one going by will see a bunch of students waiting around.”

She blinks at him. “Oh. That’s a good idea. Where’d you come up with that?”

Harry got to his feet, charms essay gathered up with his book and quill. He gave her a flat look. “How the hell d’you think I met up with my escaped convict godfather all last year when the school was crawling with people?”

He’d used a different ward filter to keep people out, but the idea was the same.

“That’s brilliant,” she said, getting up as well, “Where did you study the wards?” She asks and he knows she’s asking for a book. Harry didn’t study with one at first; it was Sirius who showed him how and he just copied it over each time afterwards. It wasn’t until that summer when he got a book on sigil warding that he learned any of the theory behind it. Still, he can let her borrow that book.

He tells her so, promises to get it to her tomorrow, and then heads up to his dorm. He has a godfather to call.

Chapter Text

Just a day or two before winter break, Neville wakes up the whole dorm screaming. Harry wakes up first after him, always a light sleeper, but just lies in his bed with the curtains drawn until he hears Weasley get up and try to calm Neville down. He pulls back a curtain to watch as Neville babbles something about Weasley’s dad and blood, lots of blood.

Speaking of which, there’s a fountain of it running down Neville’s face from his curse scar. The smell of it makes Harry’s mouth fill with saliva.

In all the flurry of activity, no one pays him any mind. Weasley manages to get Thomas up and he manages to get a prefect, who wakes up McGonagall in time to drag the pair of them off to Dumbledore’s office.

After they’ve gone, and everyone in the dorm is wide awake, Harry flops back on his bed and listens to Finnegan complain about Neville’s nightmares and poor sleeping habits to Thomas, who halfheartedly agrees until they both go quiet. Harry closes his curtains, puts his muffling charms back up and tucks himself back up under his covers.

Weasley and Neville don’t return in the morning and by the end of the day, Granger and the rest of the Weasleys are gone for the winter break. When Harry calls Sirius that night, he gets to hear all the torrid details of how Neville dreamed of a giant snake biting Arthur Weasley—the family patriarch. Sirius seems a bit morbidly fascinated about it, and Harry can relate.

He goes to sleep that night wondering what Neville would say if he told him he understood that feeling of warm blood spilling into his mouth, of meat beneath his fangs, of the animal bloodlust that fills a predator during a hunt. He’s dreamed of it before, a tiger’s dreams, the dreams of a man-eater. One day, he hopes to feel it for real.

He doesn’t think Neville would understand that part, so he keeps it to himself instead.

That Christmas, which Harry doesn’t get to spend with Sirius because he’s still not allowed at his godfather’s townhouse, Harry doesn’t expect many presents. He’s pleasantly surprised by the amount come Christmas morning. Sirius has sent him half a dozen things, everything ranging from an ancient muggle poster, a copy of his own student journal full of useful notes, a couple of shirts, a muggle style leather jacket, and a few books on some of the more interesting kinds of magic they’ve talked about over the year. Along with that he gets a planner from Granger—an utter surprise as a gift because he thought she didn’t like him—and most surprising of all, a cloak from Neville.

Not just any cloak, but a cloak of invisibility.

Harry sits on the end of his bed with the silken fabric pooled over his legs, staring at the folded note that came with it.

Harry,

I received this as a gift a few years ago, but it was always supposed to be yours. It belonged to your father. Dumbledore told me he was safekeeping it after he died. He gave it to me and I think it should go back to you. You deserve to have more from your parents than you do. Thank you for your help this year, I don’t think the Defense club would be half as successful without you.

Neville.

Harry didn’t know how to feel about this gift. He had no idea that Neville had had something of his father’s in his hands for years. He had no idea that Dumbledore had given it to Neville—he wondered if Dumbledore knew that Neville had given it to him now.

Harry ran his fingers under the cloth and smiled to himself.

He’d be able to get out and into the Forbidden Forest so much more easily, now.

For that, Harry thought he could forgive Neville keeping his cloak for so long. It was back now, where it belonged, in the hands of a Potter.

(In the claws of a tiger.)

Chapter Text

The rest of the school year is a slow build of tension and pressure. Things are only getting worse as the weeks pass. Students cycle through Umbridge’s detentions. She continues to put out more and more constricting edicts. Her little gang of student police patrol the halls with their eyes on everyone and noses in the air. No one, not even McGonagall or Snape, the most stubborn of the professors, seems capable, or willing, of acting against her.

Harry would describe it simply as Umbridge had gone mad with power and all the other teachers were, for some unknown reason, utterly useless against her.

He’s always known that adults in general were fairly useless. His muggle teachers could never see the truth behind Dudley’s lies. His neighbors never seemed to care to see the truth about him beyond Aunt Petunia’s gossip. He’s had plenty of experience of the nastiest, most bigoted, most fearful people having the most power over him and others around him. Umbridge is just the wizarding world’s version of that, but considering everything he’s seen, read, or heard about the Ministry, she’s probably just the most outspoken, but not the only one.

The Dursleys fear him, even though he’s never properly done anything to him. Umbridge fears Neville, for some unfathomable reason, because he hasn’t done anything either.

Harry figures it’s Dumbledore that Umbridge is really afraid of, but since he’s pretty much never around—except the occasional mealtime or two—she takes it out on all the students and teachers.

(Harry would love to show her something to truly be afraid of, but he’s a creature of secrecy and camouflage. He’ll wait until the perfect moment to strike and only expend as much energy as he must to reach his goal. Such is the life of a tiger.)

As summer hits and exam season rolls in, things come to a head.

Neville’s been worse than usual, in terms of, well, everything. Harry doesn’t sleep well himself but he’s still going to bed before Neville and waking up after him. Whatever is in his dreams makes him mumble and sometimes even shout, disturbing the rest of them while they try to sleep.

He also has some sort of extra lessons that he’s taking, on top of Umbridge’s detentions, that leave him pale and shaky in the evenings. He’s lost weight and appetite to the point that both Weasley and Granger are trying to help him manage his eating, and he has a pretty short temper, at least in comparison to previous school years.

Umbridge has gone from a nuisance and terrible teacher to an outright dictator, chasing even Dumbledore out of the school and appointing herself Headmistress. Harry can tell that even her police gang of students hate her guts, but, once again, it’s fear that keeps people in line. Fear of her, of what else she’s willing to do to them if she’s already willing to scar them with magic and try to throw out their professors.

That doesn’t stop everyone, however. Even students under the thumb of tyranny will fight back and Harry’s among that number. There are a number of pranks played on her day-in and day-out, most of them relatively harmless but a nuisance nonetheless. Harry’s own is a little less harmless and a little more curse-like in flavor, but it won’t physically harm her, so he doesn’t think anyone will weed out one more thing driving Umbridge to absolute paranoia and frothing outrage amid all the rest.

One day, the Weasley twins cause absolute mayhem on their way out of school—if anybody is going to be able to land on their feet after dropping out of school, it’s bound to be them—and Harry finds himself anxious and jealous of it. He wishes he had that choice, that he could leave school and have something else to fall back on. He loves learning magic, but this has been the worst year at Hogwarts yet, and that includes his second year where almost a dozen kids were mysteriously turned to stone.

There’s some sort of scuffle between the Gryffindor Trio and Umbridge not long after that which catches Harry’s attention—mostly because he catches Granger luring Umbridge into the Forbidden Forest while he’s headed out there himself. His heart beats hard in his chest when he watches the confrontation between the Trio, Umbridge, and the centaurs. He keeps perfectly still as he watches Umbridge be hauled away, even when at least two centaurs look over their shoulder in his direction. They might not be able to see him, but he’s pretty sure they can sense him in other ways.

He follows the Trio back to the edge of the forest, mostly to make sure they actually get out alive, but doesn’t reveal himself even after they’ve left, remaining in the oncoming darkness under the cover of his father’s invisibility cloak.

When he’s absolutely certain that there’s no one around him, Harry pulls off the cloak, hides it in his usual hollow log, scratches a rune to keep anyone from looking too hard and then smoothly transforms from boy into tiger.

Stretching out his long limbs and his flexible spine, Khan breathes in the damp forest air. It’s still warm from the summer sun, but the ground is cooler here beneath the trees than it would be out on the sandy shore of the lake. Khan begins a slow padding deeper into the forest, following the lingering fear-scent of humans and then the thicker musk of horse-man.

Eventually, the horse-men will tire of tormenting the wretched pink toad and will release her from their captivity.

Khan will make sure she doesn’t return.

Something is following her.

(Something has been following her for weeks and weeks.)

It’s the centaurs. It must be the centaurs.

(It followed her though the halls of Hogwarts, from the Great Hall to her classroom to her office to her bedroom. It cannot be the centaurs. It cannot be.)

With dirt under her fingernails and blood on her lips, Dolores scrambles through the underbrush towards that distant light of Hogwarts. Even through the heavy foliage overhead, she can see a spire, see the glint of a window.

(There is something golden ahead, bright and shining. It his her salvation away from this darkness that is following her.)

Her wand was broken, shattered under filthy hoof of a damned creature. When she gets another one, when she gets out of here, she is going to do everything she can to cut centaurs out of her proper, perfect world. And everyone and anything that supports them will go burning down with them.

(It’s there, oh sweet Lady Magic, there’s something there. It’s right behind her.)

A noise, wet and soft. Laughter? Chuffing like that of-

A cat. Like a cat.

Dolores clings to the trunk of a tree, heart in her throat, Hogwarts looming in the distance, so close she can see the grounds, and she stops. Because she has an affinity for cats. She always has.

They like her. She loves them.

Dolores looks over her shoulder, panting for breath, looking for the cat in the darkness. She sees nothing.

(She sees something.)

There’s no movement.

(There’s a moving shadow.)

For a moment, for one fearful, horrible moment, she thinks it might be a werewolf. There are rumors they live in these woods, after all, rumors they bit students here, or tried to.

(But the moon is half-gone and hidden away behind clouds. And there was no howling. She would have heard the howling. The beasts can’t help themselves.)

Something glitters in the darkness.

First she sees the eyes. Green as jade. Darkened by shadow. Focused on her.

And then she sees the face. White around the eyes. Black and gold patterns.

(Tiger stripes are unique to each one, like a fingerprint, like the patterns in the eyes, like the signs of magic in the blood.)

Sleek and smooth, stepping out of the shadow as if it were a pool of India ink, the tiger stops before her, eyes fixed on her. It has a peculiar marking on the face, dark circles echoing the eyes like makeup, like glasses.

(Cats with face markings are so adorable. Dolores’s favorites have heart-shaped spots in their fur. The markings on this tiger are striking.)

Dolores smiles. Cats love her. All cats, big or small. Even the most finicky of kneazels. Clearly, this tiger has been drawn to her because of her desperation. Once, when she was little, a neighbor’s cat came running up and saved her from a mongrel dog that had chased her up onto the porch. It had been the most amazing thing, almost magical.

“Here, kitty,” she croaked weakly at the tiger. “What a beautiful kitty you are.”

The tiger moved closer steadily. Not at all wary of her, not at all afraid.

(Her hand shook as she reached out to it, but it was from the shock of being manhandled by centaurs, those filthy things. She could never fear a feline. They loved her. They loved her.)

“If only you could have come before,” she murmured, eyes locked with the gleaming green ones before her. “You could have scared off all those filthy creatures. Maybe even gored one or two.” She giggled to herself. The tiger was closer now. Close enough she could see the end of its body, the lashing of its tail.

(It lowered itself slowly to the ground, legs bunching with muscle. It reminded her of all the times she saw a kitten ready to pounce on a bit of string or a toy.)

The tiger licked its chops slowly. Its eyes never left hers. A trickle of trepidation ran down her spine as the muscles stilled, as the tail lashed once more and then stopped.

(All cats love her. Dolores knows this for a fact. All. Cats. Love. Her. They would never hurt her. Never.)

Dolores pushed herself slowly off of the tree. The tiger didn’t even blink. She took a step backwards, a step away.

(Minerva McGonagall can turn into a cat. She doesn’t like Dolores much in either form.)

The tiger began to growl. Deep and thunderous. All warning and no playfulness.

“Don’t,” Dolores whispered, “No.”

Her heel hit the root of the tree and she stumbled backward, caught herself with her other leg, almost fell to her knees. She lost sight of the tiger for a second, a second.

In the next moment she was pushed bodily to the ground, claws dug into her shoulders, into her hips, a scream lodged itself in her throat, chest compressed by the weight of the beast on top of her. It did not roar in her face, it made no sound at all as it stared down at her, green eyes bright as acid, bright as the killing curse, staring down into her.

Claws tore at her clothes, her skin, her flesh. Dolores gulped down air and let out a strangled cry.

(She could feel hot blood running down her skin, smell the foul breath of the beast.)

By some miracle, she scrambled free and rolled away, clamoring up to her hands and knees. She dragged herself up to her bare feet, already bruised, already worn from her previous running. She lunged for the forest line, turning only when the tiger was suddenly there, between her and her salvation.

And then she knew.

(It had let her get up.)

Turning away, Dolores bolted through the trees as fast as she could, feet bare, blood seeping through her clothes, breath tearing at her throat.

She ran.

(The tiger followed her.)

(Had it been following her this whole time?)

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t have much of an appetite when he headed down to breakfast that morning. He felt sleepy and full still, ready to lay down in a patch of warm grass and sleep off his heavy belly.

Still, he didn’t want to be caught out doing something abnormal, so he headed down and picked at a scone and sipped tea, watching the students fill in the Great Hall around him. There were a few absent faces, mostly from the Gryffindor table around him, but the one that drew the most attention was the empty Headmaster’s chair. Or Headmistress, if you were being generous (or weak willed).

Since she’d been here, Dolores Umbridge hadn’t missed a single meal at the Great Hall, not as lowly Professor, not as High Inquisitor, and certainly not as Headmistress. Still, it was only one meal and so there wasn’t any outrage at her being missing, just some gossip murmured around the tables wondering where she was and what horrible thing she was doing now.

Harry listened in to the gossip, but didn’t really participate. He was both too sleepy to care and too content to bother, feeling comfortable in his human skin for just this morning at least.

However, he did notice when Neville and his little band of intrepid heroes dragged themselves in for breakfast. They looked rattled and a little beaten down, like their jaunt in the woods and then elsewhere hadn’t gone as well as they’d hoped.

They dropped into their usual places nearby and mechanically began to eat. Harry watched them for a while, determining who would be most likely to tell him how things went with any sort of honesty. His eyes flicked to Granger. She was almost brutally honest with everyone but herself, yet she was secretive—if this is something too important for the common folk, she wouldn’t tell him.

Weasley would be similar, but for different reasons. He was possessive of their little Adventures and though he was willing to boast, it usually took a day or two for him to settle. And even then, sometimes he wouldn’t talk, for whatever reason.

When Harry turned his gaze to Neville in consideration of his likelihood to talk, their gazes accidentally met and, not unusually, Neville dropped his gaze down and hunched his shoulders. This made his friends bristle around him, Granger turning a glare on Harry that she dropped almost as quickly, face pale as she, too, looked away.

Harry arched an eyebrow. “I take it things went poorly on your last little adventure?” he asked.

They shifted uneasily. Weasley’s throat was red with some withheld emotion as he shot Harry a sharp look to shut up.

Harry leaned back a little. He could be patient with his questions, honestly. There was no reason to ruin his own day with their emotional nonsense.

Shortly after, Harry decided to leave the breakfast table and head out of the school. There were only so many days left of term and even though he planned on staying with Sirius this summer, it wasn’t like they would be able to go out into the woods as often as they liked in their animal forms. Sirius was still a fugitive, after all.

On the last day of the school year, Shere Khan roamed the woods at a lope. He was in a new area, thick with undergrowth, heavy with the rich smell of earth and greenery. He was looking for something to eat—preferably something that wasn’t a medium sized spider—and had picked up the scent of blood some time ago and had begun to follow it. There was a hidden path through here that had human scented footprints along with various animal prints.

Khan was curious to see who would travel out this far into the woods, and for what. His human mind posited various theories—someone trying to escape the crush of people in Hogwarts, someone gathering plants for potions, someone out here looking for a secret place to practice magic.

His sensitive ears heard a strange sound up ahead and he slowed his movements down to a steady, patient stepping. It was—odd. A chuffing, breathing sound. The shifting of many bodies. The sound of many feet on the ground.

An odd dusty, metallic sort of scent in the air. Something sweet too, not like rot but similar-- Oh. He’d scented this before.

There must be a thestral herd ahead. Khan’s ears pricked up and he lifted his head, taking a deeper breath. Where there were thestral’s feeding, there was meat. Fresh meat, potentially, though he’d seen them eat things that were less-than-fresh as well. They were horse shaped vultures, in a way. Such peculiar creatures.

Khan came to the edge of the clearing and watched the heard shifting in front of him, searching for the thing they must be feasting on.

There. A rather large corpse, it seemed. Off on the other side of the meadow. The haunches spoke to some sort of deer or elk, perhaps, and the sweetness of the rot in the air told Khan it would be unwise for him to eat any himself. If he were to stay as a tiger to fully digest it, he’d perhaps be okay, but to transform back into a boy with rotted meat in his stomach probably wouldn’t go well.

However, the thestrals weren’t alone. There was a human out there, unrecognizable from behind—wearing a dark robe and with dark hair, Khan really couldn’t tell humans apart like this—but they were slender, tall, and young. A student, not a professor.

What a shame. If he’d run into Snape out here in the woods…

The human had a bag with them and from it they pulled out pieces of raw meat that they were feeding, open palmed, to a thestral mare in front of them. Pieces of fresh raw meat. Bingo.

Khan stepped out and paused, attentive to the reactions of the herd to him. A stallion on watch for the herd stepped towards him, wings mantling. Khan held still, watching. The movement of the thestral caught the human’s attention and he turned to look at what had agitated him. He startled at the sight of Khan, breath catching as his eyes went wide. His fingers were bloody from the raw meat.

Khan moved at an angle, slowly, avoiding advancing directly at the herd of thestrals while still approaching the boy. He didn’t recognize him by scent or face, but he wasn’t particularly good at faces as a tiger. However, there was no mistaking the crest of a snake he wore on his chest. It was likely that they knew of each other more than they had ever spoken, then. His human self didn’t associate with many people, let alone any Slytherins.

The thestrals watched him with caution, but Khan paid no attention to them. He focused on the boy, who had decided that he probably wasn’t being hunted and instead reached into his bag of meat and pulled out a piece. Perhaps someone else would have tossed it to the side, to keep the strange tiger from coming closer, but this boy did not.

He held out the offering carefully, only tossing it when Khan got close enough to snatch it from the air. It was a small piece, just a mouthful, and Khan recognized it for the raw beef that likely populated the kitchens. Such beef was in Khan’s top five favorite meats and so he ate it happily, swallowing the bite with ease and looking for more.

The boy understood this and offered him another piece. This time, he held it out, not tossing it, clearly wanting Khan to step closer.

And they say Slytherins aren’t brave, Khan thought with a snort as he moved closer. He delicately picked the meat from the boy’s hand, mindful of such slight fingers. It was small, again, so it went down quick.

The thestrals seemed to have decided he wasn’t a threat either since the mare came back, nudging the boy’s shoulder with her muzzle, begging for more. He fed her another piece and then held one out to Khan.

And so it went until the boy had exhausted his bag of raw beef. The mare almost instantly lost interest in him when he turned the bag inside out to show her it was empty. Khan, however, did not.

He moved closer, startling the boy into stillness, hands bloody and holding tight to the bag. Khan nosed his fingers a little, trying to get his point across. The boy didn’t seem to get it.

“I’m all out for now,” the boy said quietly, “I just showed her the bag, see? It’s empty.”

Khan ignored the bag and instead made his point extremely obvious by rasping his tongue over the boy’s hand. He caught a bit of the blood and twisted his head to get a better angle.

The boy exhaled heavily as he got it. His hands shook ever so slightly as he held them out, fingers tacky with drying blood. Khan could have easily broken such fragile bones and utterly destroyed the boy’s hands, but he did not. He was satiated for meat, for now, and wanted only to show his appreciation for the gift.

He licked the boy’s bloody fingers until they were clean. Well, they were still a little damp, but not from blood. By the end, the boy’s hands no longer shook and he seemed calm. Wary of Khan still, as one should be, but calm.

Khan pressed his face into the boy’s hands when he was done, rumbling in pleasure since he couldn’t properly purr. The rest of his body followed suit, moving forward to encircle the boy and allowing him to run his hands down his back. It felt strangely good to rub up against someone like this, cheek rubbing against the boy’s leg as he passed it, pressing against his side, and jostling him a little on his feet. The boy let out a startled sound that might’ve been a laugh or just a gasp, and briefly grabbed onto him to stay steady.

“Ah, you’re welcome,” the boy said, carefully petting him, still cautious. “I’d offer to do it again, but I won’t be back until after the summer.”

Khan gave him one more cheek rub, this time against his other side, scenting him for later. He was curious who this boy was. If he saw him before he changed his robes, he’d probably be able to smell the scent on him—though not as clearly of course. Mostly, he’d be able to tell the boy was ‘his’ in some way.

He left the boy standing in the field, heading south and away from both him and Hogwarts. He’d circle back around eventually and get back to the school by the end of the day, but for now he wanted to find a comfortable and cool place to nap off his belly full of meat.

Chapter Text

“What?”

Harry stared at Neville, who shifted guiltily, face pale, hands clutched in front of himself.

“I’m sorry,” were the next words out of his mouth—they’d been the first words too. But not the ones that mattered. “I’m sorry. It was—It happened so fast.”

They were on the train. Harry had gotten a compartment on his own and Neville had come to find him, also on his own. There was something to be said for stepping up and telling him, but it had been days.

Someone should have said something that first day.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

Neville misinterpreted him, “It was in among all the fighting going on. There were people and spells everywhere and I- I didn’t see him fighting Bellatrix until-”

Harry sat there numbly as Neville’s stammering words washed over him with some paltry explanation of how and why his godfather had been killed. Just four little words—Sirius Black is dead—and Harry’s whole future had shattered.

He was supposed to run off and join his godfather this summer. Sure, it would have meant joining Dumbledore’s little group or whatever, but Harry didn’t care about that. Sirius was there and that’s what mattered.

But now Sirius was dead.

Neville was still talking, trying to both apologize for not telling him sooner and for getting him killed at all. Harry watched him, feeling colder and colder.

When silence finally reigned in the compartment, Harry asked, “Was it worth it?”

“Worth it?” Neville echoed back.

Harry nodded jerkily, “Yeah. What you went there for. Was it worth it? Did you get what you came for?”

Somehow, Neville managed to look even more stricken. Slowly, he shook his head. “N-no,” he said quietly. His eyes were wide; his face entirely drained of color. “No. It- We didn’t. There was this- I can’t really tell you about it but-”

Harry snapped. “You can’t tell me?” he snarled, lunging to his feet and grabbing Neville by the front of his robes. He shook him, and growled into his face, “You got my godfather killed—My only bloody family left!—and you failed your stupid mission and won’t even tell me what it was for!?”

“I’m sorry!” Neville cried, “I really am- I- If I could tell I would- But Dumbledore-”

“Get out!” Harry roared, hauling Neville to his feet. His magic wrenched open the door and he bodily threw Neville into the corridor, “Get out of my sight you bloody coward. You better hope we don’t see each other this summer, Longbottom, or else!” Harry shouted at him.

Longbottom looked afraid of him which just made Harry’s blood soar. He scrambled up to his feet and rushed away back down the train, leaving Harry there alone.

Or almost alone. Harry turned to go back into his own compartment and paused. Down the other side was another student. Dark hair and somewhat tall. Lean and wearing green-edged robes. A Slytherin. Their eyes met for a moment before Harry stalked into his compartment and shut the door with a slam.

Harry paced back and forth for almost an hour, trying to get himself to calm down, trying not to cry and failing on both counts. Hot tears ran down his cheeks as his breath came in quick, sharp gasps.

Sirius was dead. Harry was stuck at the Dursleys another summer. Sirius was dead. He’d never get to spend time with family who loved him. Sirius was dead. He’d never get to hear about his dad or mum from Sirius. Sirius was dead. He’d never get to run with his dogfather again.

Sirius was dead.

With a snarl, Harry locked the compartment door and warded it so no one would even think to look inside. Then he transformed into a tiger and set about shredding everything in the compartment, from the seats to the carpet to the wall panels.

Eventually, chest heaving, he stood in the wreckage of the room. Alone.

Alone. Alone. Alone.

Always bloody alone.

Harry kept his mouth shut the entire drive back to the Dursleys.

Vernon didn’t.

First it was talking along with some radio show. Then it was complaining about drivers on the road. Then it was muttering to himself about the lengthy drive he had to make to get Harry. Then it was just Harry in general.

His beady little eyes fixated on Harry in the rear view over and over and over.

They got back to the house late. There would be a plate of dinner left for Vernon, of course, but nothing for Harry.

And as Harry dragged his trunk into the house and shut the door behind himself, he realized that he was done with this.

Done being locked up. Done being whispered about. Done being forced to slave over their filthy little house and to get nothing but smacked around and degraded.

Last year he’d had Sirius to escape to, a whole world of magic that he slipped off to at every opportunity. This year, he had nothing. No godfather. No friends. No tethers. No reason to be good.

Harry ran his tongue over his teeth as he turned his gaze to his relatives. He watched them with a predator’s gaze and felt drool gather in his mouth.

His standing still had caught his aunt’s attention. Petunia turned to him with an expression of smelling something foul and said, “Put your trunk in the cupboard and hurry up to your room, boy. There will be no dinner for you.”

Harry lunged forward, transforming midair and landing on a suddenly screaming Petunia as they both went crashing to the ground. He roared in her face, teeth bared, breath hot, claws pressed into her shoulders and legs, but not yet with the intent to rip and tear and shred. Her scream twisted into a terrified squeak as she stared at him, eyes enormous.

Point made, he moved off of her and fluidly transformed back into his human form. The house was silent as his aunt and uncle stared at him in utter shock and horror.

“This summer is going to be different,” Harry told them quietly. “You are going to pretend that I don’t exist. I am going to pretend that you don’t exist. We’re all going to cohabitate in this house together, pretending the other doesn’t exist.” He dragged his gaze from his terrified aunt to his horrified uncle. “No beatings. No shouting at me. No starving me. No locks on my door. No visit from Aunt Marge.”

“Y-you-you c-c-can’t-” Petunia stammered. Her whole body was shaking.

Harry stared down at her. “They told you that I can’t do magic out of school and they were telling you the truth, but they were also lying to you.” He looked back up at his uncle and stared him in the eye. “I can’t do magic with my wand.”

Harry grinned. “I don’t need my wand to do what I just did. I can do it anytime, anywhere and at any moment.”

Vernon looked somewhere between outraged and scared out of his wits. He pointed a meaty finger at Harry, arm trembling. “You stay away from us, boy--”

“This is our last summer together,” Harry promised him. “I had planned on being somewhere else this summer, but that fell through at the last moment. Next year, I won’t be here.” He looked at his aunt and held up three fingers. She flinched. “Three months. Then I’m gone out of your lives forever.”

They looked at each other and then Vernon said thickly, “Fine. And you stay away from Dudley.”

Harry sneered. “I promise you’ll barely even know I’m here.” Then he turned, grabbed the handle of his trunk and dragged it up to the second bedroom. The thunks echoed in the otherwise quiet house. Harry shouted down, “I want the locks gone by morning!” and then went in and shut the door behind himself.

An hour later, he heard the rattling and thunking of the locks being removed and he grinned internally, tail twitching as he stretched out along his lumpy bed.

Chapter Text

Harry spent the first few weeks back that summer not doing much of anything. He lazed about his room as a tiger. He walked around the neighborhood as a human whenever he needed to stretch his legs. The most he really worked on was his homework, and that was only an hour or two every day so that it got done eventually.

It wasn’t until mid-July that Harry decided to leave the Dursley’s entirely and go to Diagon. He’d been avoiding it at first, too overwhelmed with the loss of Sirius to want to go there again. Yet Harry knew he would have to eventually—and not just to get school supplies.

Harry made his way there via the Knight bus, as he usually did, and hopped off with a wave to Stan at the Leaky with one or two other riders. The pub was moderately busy this morning, so Harry just slipped through the crowd without bothering Tom and headed through to the back.

Diagon was exactly as he last remembered it. Spinning displays in the windows, shimmering signs demanding attention, children tugging along their parents by the hands, older shoppers chatting with each other in inconvenient locations—everything was exactly the same as it was the last time he’d been here. With Sirius.

Harry took a deep breath and pushed thought the painful memories. He’d never get to walk these streets with his dogfather at his side again, but Sirius wouldn’t want him to avoid them forever just because of the memories. After all, Harry himself had been a reminder of Sirius’s most painful memories and he had never avoided Harry once he’d broken himself out of jail.

He didn’t bother to go into any shop that day. He just lingered in Diagon, wandering up and down the street, ducking into some of the connected alleys like Horizont or Hysteric and even Knockturn though Sirius had never taken him far in there so there weren’t many memories to relive. Everywhere he looked, Harry saw places that he’d once gone with Sirius beside him, either as a dog or in a glamoured disguise. It hurt. It hurt so much.

But Harry needed to remember Sirius as he’d been in those last few years. No one else was going to remember his godfather properly—not the public who thought he was a murderer still, not the damn Order he’d died doing something stupid for, not even whatever remained of his family—in the end, only Harry had been the one to know him or to care about him.

Over the next few days, Harry returned to Diagon a few times. He rarely bought anything, since he’d squirreled away only enough for the bus trips or little snacks or sweets, and he just relived his time with Sirius.

On the day before his birthday, he went again to Diagon, but headed straight to the bank. He might only have so much in his trust from his parents, but he wanted something nice for his birthday, something big. Something that Sirius would have bought him in a heartbeat for him, as he was always willing to do. Criminal he might’ve been in the eyes of the Wizard Government, the Goblins had still let Sirius access his bank vaults—as he’d proven over the years with gifts for Harry that were often quite expensive.

Harry provided his vault key and name when asked and was surprised in turn to have the goblin look him over and say, “It’s about time you arrived for the will reading, Mr. Potter.”

From there, Harry was hustled to a back office, where the chairs were a little lower to the ground than were really comfortable, and an even stuffier looking goblin sat behind a broad, shining desk of stone with a thick scroll set to one side. He sat in the chair stiffly, hands in his lap, as the goblin introduced itself—Harrock, the Account Manager for the House of Black—and then, placed slim, silver lined glasses on his nose and he unrolled the scroll. And unrolled it. And unrolled it.

It flopped over the edge of the desk, though not all the way to the floor, and once it was held in place with a little piece of stone to keep it flat, Harrock began to read.

“I, Sirius Arcturus Black, do so make this will of sound mind and soundish body, in the presence of none who have deceived, extorted, or otherwise manipulated me through word, magic, or deed. I, as the Head of House Black, so named by magic and blood inheritance, name Manager Harrock as the executor of my will and my godson, Harry James Potter, as the sole recipient of everything. Every little bit of it is yours, Harry.”

Harry sat there, numbness keeping him mute, as Harrock read aloud Sirius’s words—which sounded so like him—but in his own rasping voice. Harrock, he noted dumbly, was perhaps the oldest goblin he’d ever seen, with silver hair and the goblin equivalent to liver-spots on his skin, but his eyes were sharp and clear.

“All the rest of my family has married off well enough that they don’t need my things, and even if they did want them, they can’t have them. I’ve never been accused of being miserly in all my whole life, but in death even an old dog can learn a new trick I suppose,” Harrock continued, not even looking up from the scroll. Tears welled up in Harry's eyes and he quickly blinked to try and dispel them. “Nothing dictates that I even have to leave them a penny anyway, since I’m Lord Black and they all married out. Funny how that works, seems like a bit of a rip-off if you ask me, one bloke able to cut off their whole family just because he’s the one in charge.

“Mum should’ve probably done something about that while she was alive, but I suppose even she was to batty in the end to think of it. I certainly hadn’t known it was something I could do until I tried to leave everything to you, pup.”

That tore a laugh out of Harry, a wet one that accompanied the tears in his eyes. Harrock paused, glanced up at him, and then when Harry said nothing, dipped his head and continued.

“In any case, I, Lord Sirius Black, hereby leave all my earthly possessions, Black family vaults and their contents, all properties and their existing rights, all spectral boons, and every galleon, sickle and knut to my godson by magic and heir by claim and son in all but blood, Harry James Potter.”

There was a pause where Harrock none-to-gently cleared his throat and Harry rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand to push away the tears.

“And now, here is a list of all that that entails, Mr. Potter,” Harrock began, shifting the scroll a little on his desk. Harry noticed he’d only read from the top portion and he felt his jaw drop open as Harrock began to read the list.

Halfway through—at least Harry thought so as Harrock had shifted the scroll again to see the bottom of it—Harry muttered, “Holy shit,” to himself.

He’d known that Sirius was loaded but what the hell. What the actual bloody hell.

The rest of Harry’s meeting with Harrock went in a daze. He signed some paperwork saying he understood the will and accepted it. He was given a thick golden ring with a black stone that was apparently the same as a bank card and linked directly to the main Black vault account. He signed other paperwork—in blood this time—that he was accepting the Lordship title for the House of Black. He was introduced to the cadre of goblins that managed the various affairs, businesses, stocks and portfolios of the Black Estate. He even was given a refreshment of tea and biscuits, when one enterprising goblin noticed how pale he was.

Harry had walked into the bank thinking he’d dip his hand in for fifty galleons, maybe even a hundred, from his personal trust fund in order to spoil himself for his birthday the way that Sirius would have wanted.

He walked out of the bank with a dozen properties to his name, the controlling interest in more than a few shops that were up and down Diagon and the connecting alleys, and enough money to rival the Queen of England’s own insurmountable wealth.

Oh. And a title to go with the land.

He was now not just plain old Harry Potter. He was Harry Potter, Lord of the Black Estate.

In a daze, Harry was released outside to the mid-afternoon sun and heat, blinded momentarily, and blinking slowly to clear his gaze. The gold ring hung on a leather chord on his neck—they apparently weren’t actually worn as rings these days, since a rash of thefts via fingers being cut off had swept the country in the 1700s—and he had no idea what he should do with himself.

No.

Wait.

He had one idea.

Harry’s gaze swept over the street as he turned in the direction of the shop he had in mind. Just before he saw it, he saw something else. Or rather. Someone. And, perhaps, if he hadn’t just had his head hit over with a brick-ton of information and shock, he wouldn’t have thought to do this, but his first true thought about all the money and stuff he’d inherited was that he had no one to share it with. No friends. No family. No one in his life to enjoy being spoiled with money and gifts the way that Sirius had tried to do with him in their short time together.

But that wasn’t exactly true.

Harry had did have someone. Just one someone. And they didn’t know it was Harry that they knew, but still. Harry knew them and so when he saw them in his dazed state, he zeroed in and walked right over to them, unconsciously loosening his gait and stalking his way through the crowd of people as if they were tall weeds.

There was a cluster of them together, three girls and a boy, though it was only the boy that Harry knew or cared about. The shortest girl had her back turned as she admired something in the window with one of the other girls. The tallest girl was talking to the boy about something, her hand flitting idly through the air, her back to Harry.

The boy was facing Harry, though his eyes were on the girl, but his gaze wandered over her shoulder at one point and Harry could see the moment he realized Harry was headed for them. He straightened and the girl’s hand stopped moving and she half turned to look over her shoulder.

By then, Harry was upon them, right at the edge of their group. He looked directly at Nott and said, “So I’ve just inherited literally every material possession my godfather ever had in his life five minutes ago but he’s dead so I can’t celebrate that with him. Will you celebrate with me instead? I’m getting ice cream.”