Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Harry’s dying.

He’s known for a while now.

It lurks beneath his skin, this festering, tar-thick curse. A rot he can feel coiled tight around his ribs, gnashing through muscle and marrow, scraping its brittle claws through his bones like they owe it something. It digs and digs until there is a hollow where his soul should be, until all he can feel is the absence—a gaping chasm gnawed raw in his chest.

He’s dying.

Black bile gurgles in the sink below him, a slow, ink-like pool that seems almost sentient. The stench of it clings to the back of his throat like smoke from a funeral pyre, a slick, greasy residue that coats his tongue in death. He can see its violent, sickly magic swirling from the clumps of the black substance, lashing out at Hogwarts' own magic, fighting like two rowdy school children. (With a vague sense of amusement, his thoughts lead him to Draco and Ron.)

The magic coming from the bile is thick, an almost vicious substance that swirls and loops and drowns Hogwarts' sharp, needling wards. It's almost amusing to watch, if it weren't for the fact that each time the two magics would touch, a shudder would wrack through his body as pain threatened to split his skull in half.

He spits again, a shudder wracking through his frame. Harry feels…ashamed, almost, that this is what he’s going to die from.

From some random fucking curse that’s slowly pulling him apart, piece by piece. Not in battle. Not saving someone.

Harry may not want to be famous but he’d sure as hell like his death to be worth something, and usually being ‘worth’ something means his shitty schoolmates - and honestly worse teachers - might actually say something good about him.

They’d have nothing kind to say if he didn’t go out in some burst of glory or some blazing end that would make the Prophet write something kind (for once).

No. Just some random fucking curse eating him alive from the inside out.

Harry snorts bitterly.

Fucking figures.

Even in death, he’s going to be useless. He’d wanted his death to count for something, or be a bit more...public. That would, at the very least, make the newspapers struggle to print something cruel. Maybe.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers, coughing thickly. His voice scrapes against his throat like gravel. "What am I doing, thinking about bloody newspapers?"

Maybe he has been around Ron too long.

The bile surges again, and Harry bends, retching into the sink. A thick string of spittle dangles from his lip, black and shimmering under the harsh bathroom light. The sink is stained now, a blooming shadow etched into ceramic, evidence of something he doesn't know how to name. It sticks to him, this curse, this nothingness. It eats and it laughs and it waits.

He’s not sure what curse it is, exactly. He could ask, he knows that, but what lie could he possibly make up that anyone would believe him on?

(It’s not like they believe him when he tells the truth, anyway.)

He can’t exactly ask for books on the possible curses, not from Hermione – Hermione would push and prod until she knew, concerned, yes, but searching. Hermione doesn’t like not knowing things, and if he brought it up to her, he knows she’d dig until she found out what was going on, and then she’d dig and dig and dig for a way to save him.

Hermione would kill herself trying. Harry knows, deep in his rotting bones, this is not something she can fix. And that’s the thing—she would try, anyway. Because she’s Hermione, and she loves him, and her heart is too big to let something like inevitability stop her. And Harry… he couldn’t bear to watch her break over something he already knows is hopeless.

He won’t ask Ron, either. Ron would think he’d finally cracked under the pressure, gone round the bend after everything they’d been through since first year. But even if he didn’t believe him, Ron would still help. Because that’s who Ron is—reckless, loyal, stupidly brave. He’d jump in blind with both feet and no plan, fists swinging. And Harry loves him for it. Really, truly loves him.

But Ron would tell Hermione. He wouldn’t mean to, but he would. And then she’d be right there beside Ron, digging her own grave to save Harry from his.

He can’t risk that.

He can’t ask his teachers – he doubts any of them would know, anyway, but he also knows that they would try and keep him focused on ‘important’ topics, to focus on his exams and whatever other important test he might have. Yeah.

Everything seems real ‘important’ when he’s vomiting up black bile almost every night and his tears have started to turn red with blood.

Even if they didn’t tell him to focus on school, they’d tell him to focus on the war instead, in his ‘part’ that was even more important than anything else in Harry’s life. Including his life.

Harry isn’t sure which one he hates more.

He could tell Professor Dumbledore — he’s certain the old man would at least believe him — but he doesn’t...

He doesn’t want to.

The more Harry read about his family, of James Potter and Lily Evans, the deeper he dug into their tangled threads, the less he liked that Dumbledore once kept company with a clutch of barely-of-age students like they were comrades in arms.

Harry doesn’t believe the professor’s intentions were cruel or corrupt—not exactly—but he knows better now than to fling his trust around like spare change, and honestly, he's disappointed in himself for forgetting that in the first place and handing his faith to someone he'd known for barely a day. He’d made that mistake before: placed his fragile faith in a teacher who had treated Harry well and stood up for him, only to leave Harry tucking his shirt back in and spending hours drowning himself in scalding hot water until Aunt Petunia had dragged him out for wasting money.

He'd made the same mistake with Professor Quirrel, had asked the man about his father, desperate to learn anything he could about the man he'd never be able to meet. He'd had tea with the man after asking about Dark Arts, had listened intently as Professor Quirrell's stutters would fade away when he talked of magic, and Harry had asked, so excited to learn more about the force he loved so dearly, regardless of whether people labelled it as 'evil'.

Magic simply couldn't be evil, Professor Quirrel had told him, but the person who wields it. At the time, that made sense to him, but knowing who Professor Quirrel really was, the words seemed to lodge Harry's heart with only more guilt, knowing he'd agreed with the dark lord. But those situations had only proven to him that no matter how gentle someone seems, there’s always a price tucked behind their teeth.

Harry's ashamed of himself for forgetting that the moment he walked through Hogwarts' doors. Yes, the school was different, but professors were still adults, and adults weren't people Harry should ever let himself rely on. He shouldn't have hoped. Hope makes fools of people like him — and Harry’s been a fool too many times to count.

Even here, where Harry thought he’d be safe, Dumbledore insists he must go back every summer to Privet Drive. No matter Harry’s pleading, no matter how thin his excuses get. Harry understands not staying at Hogwarts specifically — teachers have lives beyond its drafty halls — but why not anywhere else? He knows the wizarding world doesn’t really do emancipation, but it’s not like most witches and wizards even recognise Aunt Petunia as his legal guardian. She’s a Muggle; in their world, that barely counts.

Hermione’s wrangled with it herself — her parents were never quite recognised as her magical guardians, and she’s griped about the endless paperwork and the Ministry’s stubbornness more than once in their refusal to sign her parents off because they lack the 'magical' part. But, well...Harry never fought that battle for Aunt Petunia – hell, he wouldn’t want to.

So technically, Aunt Petunia isn’t his guardian under magical law, which means Privet Drive isn’t even legally his home according to the Ministry, anyways. So why can’t he stay somewhere else? Shouldn't he stay elsewhere, so he's not staying somewhere illegally?

Why does Dumbledore keep sending him back like a battered letter that keeps returning, unopened?

Not that it matters much now.

He’s about a month away from kicking the bucket, anyway, so it probably doesn't really matter where he stays. And lately, Harry’s started to think that if he did drag himself wheezing into Dumbledore’s office and begged for help, the old man would only tilt his head, blue eyes twinkling with polite regret, and murmur something about how it’s such a pity Harry can’t manage any more spells if he's unable to breathe.

So, Harry’s dying. There’s no saving him. And honestly, telling Dumbledore would change nothing — except maybe the pity in those eyes, which Harry finds he can’t stomach anymore.

There's nothing he can do. Or, at least, nothing he can do about it when it comes to other people.

Harry can do his own research, he knows, but his mind is foggy with the rot consuming him, slowly decomposing his body into the lifeless carcass he’s sure many people would prefer he were.

While he’s tried to search in the library, under Madam Pince's scrutinising scowl, he’s been unsuccessful in his attempts. No matter what books he reads, no matter who or what he asks, no matter how desperate he is it just doesn’t matter. Nothing helps. Not the potions. Not his desperation-filled outbursts. Not the prayers he’d turned to in his moments of pure misery.

…He still prays sometimes, even before this whole ‘dying’ mess had started.

Praying to a god he doesn’t believe in. Old scraps of memory, burned into him by Petunia’s hissed whispers and slaps to the ear when he stuttered through the Our Father. The same prayers she muttered while pressing him into a closet door, telling him to repent for being born wrong.

He prays anyway.

Nothing answers.

(not that anything ever did)

The rot doesn’t care. It creeps up his spine and coils behind his eyes. The ache in his bones is constant, thrumming like a dirge. Every step is a fight. Every breath is a compromise.

He doesn’t sleep.

He doesn’t live.

(He'd wanted to. He's sure he did, when he was scraping his nails against the locked cupboard door until the wood chipped away and his fingers were soaked with blood. He'd wanted to live even as the Quirrel's skin melted from his body and pain burst through his head, he'd wanted to live even as the basilisk sank its tooth into his arm and its venom pulsed through his veins. He was desperate to live, then. Where did that fight go?)

So, regardless of what he does, the answer seems to remain the same.

There’s nothing anybody knows, and there’s nothing anyone can do.

Even now, he’s had to slow his desperate attempt to swallow up knowledge due to his inability to exist long enough to read.

His body is frail, his injuries – from light scratches to his partially dislocated arm - haven’t healed despite the weeks they’ve had to restore and the amount of potions he’s taken.

His eyes have only gotten worse; his prescription is unable to make up for how blurry his eyes get when blood soaks into them. They remain blurry for a long while after his crying, so Harry’s taken to just not bothering to shed tears because, regardless of how much pain he’s in, he’d rather be hurting than blind and unable to defend himself.

His bones ache, and his body spikes with unrelenting pain every moment he’s awake.

Which is almost all of the time, these days.

His nights, once plagued by memories of Vernon’s thick, meaty hands beating his head into a wall, had long since switched to the violent memories of torture and death from his favourite fanboy, the Dark Lord.

They used to keep him from sleeping, too terrified to close his eyes in fear he’d open them to another corpse strewn across the ground or the painfully familiar feeling of another curse slipping from the Dark Lord's own tongue.

But now, even Voldemort’s intrusions are stifled. The death inside him consumes everything, until not even nightmares can claw their way through the black fog in his mind.

Harry will sit, curled tight on his bed as pain wracks his body, forcing himself not to cry so he does not stain his sheets red with blood. Ron already accused him of lying with a girl on her period (which, gross, Ron. Harry would never ‘lay with a girl’ during a literal war, unlike James), and Hermione had frantically searched him for injuries despite his weak complaints.

Glamour is a saviour.

Harry is very relieved he’s learned it.

(Harry wants to cry.)

Nonetheless, glamour cannot hide his pain from himself. Harry does not sleep. When his eyes do occasionally slip shut long enough for his shoulders to relax, the only thing he can feel is the Dark Lord's almost desperate attempts to shove his own thoughts into Harry’s head and the unrelenting pain of the mould slowly covering and killing him from the inside out.

Even if Harry wanted to, he couldn’t sleep. He’s awoken every few minutes with a painful jolt or ache, or the urge to vomit his guts out.

It’s usually the urge to vomit his guts out.

At the end of the day (and probably Harry’s life), it’s clear that he won’t be surviving whatever illness this is. He can hope, at best, that he dies after he kills the dark lord, because otherwise literally everything he’s been put through has been for nothing.

Harry would probably haunt the bitch to make up for it, at least. Get back at him for tormenting his nights for so long. Maybe he could convince the man to buy a wig if his ghost form pestered him long enough.

But nonetheless, glamour is his saving grace. It hides the worst of it. The blood. The sores. Even now, he’s barely standing.

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Harry bites back a gag as the black bile continues to stick to his mouth, tasting a lot like…well. Nothing. It tastes like nothing. Harry almost wishes it tasted bad so he could have forced himself to throw up again and get the rest of it out.

His stomach rolls and churns in him, and he knows if he tries to head to bed, he’ll be up in ten, right back here as he spells out the rest of the bile from his throat.

Turning the tap on, Harry cups the cool water with his palms and washes his face, uncaring of how carefully he does it.

Should he be careful? Keep his body pristine so they can do their wake and have an open-casket funeral, and let people cry for ‘poor Harry, gone too soon’.

Scratch that.

‘Poor boy. Dying like this.’

No, that’s not right.

'Shame he died like that.'

Yeah. That’s about right.

At least, if he died, maybe they’d finally give him a bit of peace and quiet. Maybe his friends would be freed from the shackles that his prophecy had weighed them down with. Maybe the newspapers would plaster his dead body over the front page and make fun of how ill he looked as he died. He knows people would get a kick out of that.

Swirling some of the water in his mouth, gurgling and spitting over and over until the water runs clear, the porcelain sink is the only thing keeping him upright. Harry straightens slowly, shoulders trembling, and stares into the mirror.

He looks like a corpse in waiting. Gaunt. Hollow-eyed. Lips chapped and grey. His cheekbones jut out too far. His once-tan skin is paper stretched over the sharp edges of his once baby-fat-filled cheeks. His scar is more obvious against his skin these days, the lightning bolt cracked deep into his flesh, jagged and luminous, a glowing fracture running from his temple down through his right eye, slicing his vision in half and continuing its path down his cheek and neck.

It disappears beneath his collar, but he can feel it—knows it— as it weaves down to his collarbone like a brand.

The magic pulses faintly under his skin, hot and aching, brighter than before, like it’s trying to escape. His right eye burns faintly at all hours now, haloed with raw skin and tiny fractures spiderwebbing outward like veins of white fire.

And his hair—his hair’s long. Tangled. Matted. It falls past his shoulders in dark curls, the kind he used to dream about as a kid. He’d always wanted long hair when he was younger, wanted to be like all the cool men he would see with tattoos and leather jackets and what Aunt Petunia would refer to as ‘faggots’.

She’d call him that, too, when he finally coughed up the courage to say he wanted long hair 'just like that'. Which he doesn’t quite get, because he doesn’t think everyone gay looks like that; he just thinks everyone who looks like that is gay.

Regardless, Harry had always wanted long hair. He couldn’t have it, not when it was so ‘shameful’ for a boy to want to look like a woman, and honestly, Harry didn’t want to give Vernon another thing to hold onto as he beat him.

His hair probably would’ve been cut or ripped out if he hadn’t chopped it all off himself once every few weeks. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t take him to a hairstylist, but she’d hand him scissors and force him to come to her after he’d cut it so she could neaten it up enough to be ‘presentable’.

He had to be presentable.

Even if they shoved him in that closet and ignored him for most of the time, he still went to school, and they still had guests over. Aunt Petunia could never bear to look anything but perfect in front of other muggles.

She would be so perfect in the view of the public. A loving mother, a caring wife, a nurturing woman who had taken in her darling sister's son out of her own goodwill.

She went by so many names to those in the community, everyone just making Harry angrier and angrier.

'Sweet Petunia.'

'Dear Petunia.'

'Darling Petunia.'

Harry remembers Aunt Marge calling her that once. Darling Petunia. Ten-year-old Harry thought it was more ‘dick Petunia’, but that’s ‘immature’ and he knows Vernon would’ve broken his finger(s) for it.

Aunt Petunia was perfect in the eyes of the public.

She’d only say words like fag in the privacy of their own home; she’d never say such slanderous words outside their house, and certainly never in the view of someone who wasn’t Harry or Vernon. She’d only hit him when he was away from the windows, so there was no risk of anyone looking in. She’d only slap him with her palm so her nails wouldn’t scratch his cheek, and she wouldn’t bruise her knuckles.

Harry thinks that might be why he hates her more than Vernon sometimes, because where Vernon was loud and angry and brutal, Petunia was a special kind of hateful.

He wonders if that’s how she treated his mother.

He wants to say he hopes not, but he’s…not sure.

Is it worse to know his aunt had always hated Harry’s mother and had simply passed the hate down to him – much like Professor Snape had with James – or was it worse to know that she loved her sister and just hated Harry for being… Harry?

He’ll probably never know, considering he’ll be dead before the summer comes around anyway.

The bile still coats the sink. Harry turns the tap on, cold water rushing over the filth. He scrubs it away with shaking hands, watching it swirl down the drain.

There. Gone.

At least that can be erased.

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, breath hitching. A ripple of pain tears through him, sharp and sudden. He bites his tongue and swallows it down.

He wonders, absently, if it would just be easier to take himself out instead of going through this. He buries the thought deep as soon as he has it.

Harry straightens, winces, and looks back at the mirror. At the very least, he's still here.

But for how much longer, he can't help but wonder.

He knows the rot is waiting.

✶

Chapter Text

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Harry watched Professor Quirrell’s hands with a sharp, hungry focus, eyes flicking to each subtle movement of his fingers as fine strands of magic slipped free and curled around his knuckles. The silvery-blue threads stretched outward like drifting smoke, wrapping around the worn porcelain teapot and the pair of matching porcelain cups waiting between them.

Harry quite likes the sets that Professor Quirrell keeps stored away from others, hiding them in one of his locked cupboards behind a few books. Harry doesn't ask why the man hides it - he knows very few students need more than one or two reasons to mess with the Professor, even at the expense of his elegant tea cups. The set Professor Quirrell brought out today had to be one of his favourites.

The freesia - Harry recognises the flower from Aunt Petunia's garden - teacup is made from fine white porcelain. The teacup has a flared rim that curves inward toward a rounded bowl, with painted freesias in light greens and white blossoms along the exterior and interior walls of the cup. The handle arches outward in a smooth, elegant loop, proportioned to balance the cup’s lightness.

The matching saucer mirrors the floral motif — freesias bloom across its surface, positioned to complement the cup when placed on top. Harry feels as though he should not touch it, considering how carefully it is crafted and how gorgeous it appears. Professor Quirrell does not stop him from holding them, though, does not smack Harry's wrist for reaching for it, does not make snide comments on how undeserving he is of such a nice thing.

He guesses it would be odd, considering the man offers these elegant sets to him, but old habits - or fears - die hard. Nonetheless, Harry quite likes the set. They aren't quite 'matching', as Professor Quirrell's teacup also has pink freesia along the saucer while Harry's does not, but it only makes Harry like them more. Aunt Petunia hated it when the teacups didn't match perfectly, and drinking from one like this now makes him feel a little vindictive.

Pulling himself away from his thoughts, Harry watches as the tea set is lifted without a single flick of Quirrell’s wand — only that soft, silent pull of will and practice, the man's nimble fingertips barely moving as his magic shifts and twirls.

Harry’s throat felt tight with the same wonder it always did.

Wandless magic.

Controlled so gently it looked like the magic wanted to obey, bending into neat coils instead of snapping like a live wire. Harry couldn't help but admire it how Professor Quirrell treated magic. So many people spent far too long straining to tug magic out with nothing but raw wanting. But magic hated that — it bucked and bit when you pulled too hard. It didn't want to be forced, it wanted to be coaxed, led, not pulled and ripped from its natural flow.

It didn’t like to be forced. 

At least, that’s how Professor Quirrell explained it: magic didn’t mind being guided — but shove it, drag it, rip it from where it flowed, and it would fight you for the insult. Quirrell talked about it like a living thing, and Harry clung to every word. Professor Quirrell didn't share every thought Harry had on magic, but the man encouraged his thinking nonetheless, listening intently when Harry explained how he saw and used magic.

It was different, Harry knew that. Most people could not see it, could not feel it, could not hear it. But Harry - he breathes it, he tastes it. Magic is as much a part of Harry as he is of it, and he treats it as such - an extension of his body. While Professor Quirrell does see it as sentient, he sees it as its own, separate entity.

While Harry agrees, partially, he can also see the magic that flows through their skin, the sparks and bursts that trail along flesh and the coiling wires that wrap tightly around wands when spells are cast.

Magic is both, magic is all.

Harry loves magic.

Sometimes, the Professor would mention cores, too — people with lighter or darker wells of magic that certain spells liked more. Harry still didn’t quite get it. He’d seen the term scribbled in old books, but no one in Gryffindor could explain it (Or, well, Ron didn't know what it was, Neville couldn't find the words to explain it, and Hermione was too busy), and he hadn’t dared to ask McGonagall yet. Another question to trap Quirrell with later.

Harry shifted on his chair, leaning closer as Quirrell tipped his head. The man’s eyes flicked to Harry’s, then back to the teapot still drifting in the air, haloed in that thin shimmer of his power.

“Can you see that, Harry?” Quirrell asked, voice soft but pointed. The silver strands wrapped the pot’s handle, lifting it in a smooth, steady pour that filled Harry’s cup first.

Harry nodded quickly, eyes darting along the threads as they flexed and loosened. He wished, desperately, that he could press his fingers into them — feel the way they pulsed and twisted in the air — but that would look odd. Quirrell couldn’t see them the same way Harry did. Most people couldn’t. He’d tried explaining it once, fumbling through half-made metaphors about threads and tides. Quirrell had listened, at least. That counted for something.

“What does it look like to you?” Quirrell asked, dragging the pour out to let Harry stare longer, his eyes darting over the sight eagerly. “Is it different without the wand?”

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, mind flicking through the shapes and colours only he could see. “Mhm. It’s softer. Less…sharp at the edges, I guess. With your wand, it’s like the magic gets squashed together, then forced out fast. But like this, it’s just sort of drifting, so it doesn’t get all — ” He waved a hand vaguely, searching for the word. “ — agitated.”

Quirrell’s lips twitched at that, approving. He loosened his grip on the magic, letting Harry’s clumsy threads sneak forward. Harry could feel the tug in his gut — that careful, humming pull as he coaxed his own magic to answer. Plae gold strands, thin as hair, slipped off his fingertips to catch the handle.

He bit down gently on his tongue as he angled the pot, keeping his breathing steady. The tea streamed in a thin line into Quirrell’s cup. The first time he’d tried this, he’d dumped half the pot in Quirrell’s lap and nearly cried himself sick with the panic attack that had followed. Quirrell hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t even frowned. He’d just waved his wand to clean it up and told Harry to try again after he'd gotten himself under control.

The memory still made his ears warm.

When both cups were full, Quirrell’s threads slipped away, fading like mist. The tea’s steam curled up between them, carrying the faint scent of herbs and lavender. Harry cupped his hands around his mug, eyes slipping shut for a second to soak up the heat against his raw knuckles.

When he remembered he wasn’t alone, his eyes snapped open, and he caught Quirrell watching him over the rim of his own cup. Harry’s cheeks burned, but Quirrell only gave him that faint, amused smile of his.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” he said, voice dipped warm and calm. “You’re welcome to enjoy it. That’s the point, is it not?”

Harry ducked his head, smiling a little despite himself. His hands squeezed tighter around the cup. The warmth bled through his skin, reaching up his wrists, gentle and real in a way that no charm ever was.

Quirrell lifted his own cup, mirroring him. “Do you like the warmth?” he asked. His thumbs rubbed over the porcelain in the same absent way. Harry nodded, the steam brushing his nose as he brought the tea to his lips.

“It’s nice,” Harry murmured. The first sip slipped down his throat, soft and floral, chasing away the damp chill that clung to his jumper. He let out a quiet sigh. “Better than warming charms. They’re so…thin, I guess. This feels real.”

Quirrell hummed, already rummaging through the scattered papers on his desk. He pulled free a short slip and slid it across the table. “Charms are useful, but they’re no match for a good cup of tea. Or a thick jumper, if I’m honest.”

Harry laughed under his breath, taking the slip between his fingertips. “Mhm. Sweaters over charms any day.” He dropped his eyes to the paper, scanning the neat lines of writing. Professor Quirrell's handwriting was far nicer than Harry's, that's for sure.

-

BOOK LIST

• SECERET TO THE SOUL by I.T MA

Information on soul magic and binding. Any rituals should not be performed without my supervision and clear reasoning, and any spells should not be done with another present (with the exception of me or the deceased).

• EVER LAST by Li S.A.

Information on blood magic and rituals. No rituals should be performed without my supervision and a willing test subject.

• CURSES & COINS by Keen N.Y

Information on curses and where the names came from. Allows further understanding of dark spells and how to make your own.

• MAGICK CORES by Ze T.S

Explanation of magical cores. How to feed & properly care for your own, as well as keeping it safe (cross-sourced with Secret to the Soul. Read Secret to the Soul first to properly understand chapter 8, section A-D.)

These books are a beginner's guide to a further understanding of all magic, regardless of whether it is ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ These are unimportant distinctions, and magic should be looked upon without the biases of human morals.

If you have any questions about these books, ask me immediately.

-

Harry blinks, looking up to Professor Quirrell. “Do you…want me to read all of these?” Harry asks, though as soon as he says it, he regrets asking. Of course, he wants Harry to read them. Why else would he be giving Harry a book list?? To eat??

Actually, Professor Quirrell had expressed his concern when it came to Harry’s apparently ‘concerningly light’ weight. Harry isn’t really sure what the proper weight is for an eleven-year-old, but he knows that 23.5 kilograms is not it.

Professor Quirrell gives him a look for his odd question, and Harry ducks his head from embarrassment, though the man doesn’t say anything on the matter. “The list should, hopefully, be useful to you. You do not need to read them all immediately, though I highly recommend at least starting them.”

Harry nods, scanning the list again, “And are you the only  person I come to about these?” Harry doesn’t know who he’d ask aside from Professor Quirrell, but he does wonder if someone else might be about to answer his questions if Professor Quirrell in inaccessible at the time.

The professor nods, taking another sip of his tea. “Yes. While the books are not necessarily illegal or dangerous, they are taboo topics. Most of your teachers either would not know the answers or would not be willing to answer.”

Professor Quirrell levels Harry an even look, “Some may even confiscate them. I highly recommend always asking me if you are unsure about the legalities, moralities or danger of any topics you read, regardless of whether these questions are born from the books I give you specifically.”

Harry nods, hesitant, staring down at his book list before his gaze flicks back up to Professor Quirrell. “What does ‘moralities’ mean?” Harry might’ve been embarrassed asking anyone else, confirming his weakness and his ignorance in his vocabulary, but Professor Quirrell has not belittled him for his lack of knowledge, and the only real reaction Harry gets is a mild look of surprise.

Harry has the strongest urge to apologise, to explain why he doesn’t know certain words and phrases, but honestly, he can’t bring himself to tell Professor Quirrell – hell, he can’t bring himself to tell anyone – that he’d failed to be useful or protect himself for eleven years of his life.

‘The Boy Who Lived’ was a saviour, someone to be looked upon with awe and reverence. That title did not belong to some idiotic, underweight, scrappy child who could not do anything but take the beatings he received.

But as long as no one knew about that, they would have no reason to lose the very slim amount of hope everyone seemed to hold.

(Sometimes Harry wants to tell someone. To allow those heavy expectations to crumble and fall, to allow himself some breathing room between what people expect from him and what he can actually achieve. Maybe, if someone knew Harry was weak, they would not continue to place this weight upon his shoulders.)

“The base word is ‘morals.’” Harry snaps back to attention at Professor Quirrell's voice, quickly pulled from his darker thoughts. “Do you remember what the word ‘morals’ means?” Professor Quirrell’s voice is firm, but it is not stern or angry. He will not yell or punish Harry if he can’t, but that only encourages Harry to get it right. Professor Quirrell is giving him leeway, a pass if he needs it.

But Harry refuses to fail at something so easy. “Morals. Morals. It’s…uhm…” Harry pauses, trying to work through the word. “Right, it’s derived from the Latin words ‘moralis’ and…moralia.” Harry murmurs to himself, looking down to his tea as he thinks.

He doesn’t know why, but thinking through the etymology of the words he’s trying to learn makes it easier for him, and it allows him to learn more in the process. “The word ‘morals’ can have two meanings, but they’re pretty similar.”

Professor Quirrell nods encouragingly, taking a sip as Harry talks.

“One could be something you learn from a…story. Right? Yeah, a story. A moral of the story could be…” Harry pauses, trying to think of any fables or fairy tales he knows with clear-cut morals.

He wasn’t really read any as a child, so he can’t recall too many. “Little Red Riding Hood.” Professor Quirrell offers, and Harry perks up. He knows that one, it’s one Professor Quirrell has referenced before.

“Right, in Little Red Riding Hood, the moral is not to trust strangers.” Harry pauses, “I think there was something deeper in that story, but I’m not sure.” Harry shrugs, mentally folding the thought up and slipping it away.

“But, regardless, I don’t think that meaning works because why would I ask you about the moral of a story when it’s informational texts?” Harry bites his nip, “Then I think it’s the other one, what people view as good and bad behaviour. Or, sorry, right and wrong.”

“Indeed. ‘Morals’, in this case, is talking about viewing the standard behaviours and the principles of right and wrong. What do you think ‘moralities’ means then, if it has moral as its base word?” Professor Quirrell tilts his head, smiling.

Harry swings his legs on his chair as he reaches out to sip his tea again, thinking carefully. “Well. Legalities is like. The ‘legality’ of everything, like…how legal things are. So I assume moralities is like that? How moral things are? Or how moral people view them to be, at least.”

Professor Quirrell smiles fully for the first time in that conversation, and Harry’s chest coils with warmth. “Good job, Harry. Yes, in the case of what I was explaining, ‘moralities’ is how moral things are. So if you read a book with certain spells or rituals that you are unsure are ‘morally correct’, feel free to ask me.”

Harry nods slowly, biting his lip as he looks down at his almost-empty tea cup. “Is something the matter, Harry?” Professor Quirrell’s teacup clinks as the man sets it down.

“I just…well, how do you decide what’s ‘morally correct’? Doesn’t every have different ideas of what's right or wrong? How do you know your specific line of thinking is the ‘correct’ one? Wouldn’t everyone think that theirs is the correct one?”

Harry looks up to Professor Quirrell, hesitating as the man scans him over. A grin crawls onto Professor Quirrell's face, the man’s pale blue eyes glimmering with what Harry can only describe as hunger.

“You do always ask such good questions, Harry.” Professor Quirrell practically purrs, reaching his magic out to pour them more tea. Harry smiles, watching the man’s blue strands of magic coil around the tea, eagerly sitting forward to hear Professor Quirrell explain. “I’d be delighted to explain.”

The man really does have a way with words when he isn’t teaching in front of the rest of the class, at least.

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

Harry loves Hagrid; he swears it.

The man is fun, he’s bubbly and he’s earnest, but ooooh. Harry can only take so much of him. Don’t get him wrong, that ‘so much’ around Hagrid is quite a bit more than most people Harry can stand to be around, but sometimes Hagrid grates on Harry’s nerves in ways he simply cannot explain.

Today, unfortunately, happens to be one of those days.

Harry’s ears have been ringing from the moment he woke up from his lacklustre amount of sleep, making everything so much more muffled and incomprehensible than it usually was.

He’d barely been able to communicate all day, straining just to understand what his Professors were talking about, which led him to one of the worst headaches he’s had in weeks.

Since he could barely see, Harry had resorted to reading of getting Ron (Bless them) to write things down for him, or to explain it in private when there wasn’t forty billion fucking voices swirling around at any given time.

That, unfortunately, led his eyes to burn and ache as he tried to focus, his vision blurring even with his glasses on.

Basically, his head hurt, his ears hurt, his eyes hurt, and Hagrid aggravates all of those. The man’s accent is nearly inaudible on a good day, and now it just sounds like mush to Harry’s ears. The man’s frame is constantly smudged in Harry’s vision as his hair, cloak, and pants are all the same colour, leaving Harry unable to even attempt to lip-read. Hagrid doesn’t write during his talks and doesn’t make them write during ‘practical’ lessons, so he can’t read a board, and he can’t get Hermione or Ron to explain it because Hagrid doesn’t stop talking.

He never stops talking.

Throughout the entire lesson, Harry is persistently plagued with the incessant droning of Hagrid's gruff voice, barely able to focus on the task at hand. Usually, Care of Magical Animals is one of Harry’s favourite subjects.

A good, friendly, oblivious teacher, a fun subject with quite a bit of physical work that isn’t too taxing and involvement with magical animals.

Harry doesn’t like normal animals too much, but magical animals? He adores them. They pulse magic outward, soaking Harry in a warmth and curiosity he’s never able to sate. Most of them are also quite calm (and, quite frankly, far prettier), and he isn’t allergic to any either, so he doesn’t spend two hours with a runny nose and red-rimmed eyes.

But today, every single thing seems to be against him. Hagrid’s endearing obliviousness and bumbling make Harry’s nerves prick and his fists clench. The animals they’re learning about and, in turn, dealing with? Fucking Flobberworms.

Useless, slimy little things with barely any magical pulse. They do nothing except irritate Harry further.

Even with Neville's help, Harry could barely think straight, much less care to try and refocus himself.

At this rate, he’s going to ask to head to the bathroom and drown himself in the sink instead. He’d rather do that than spend two hours digging through the dirt that sticks to his hands and stains his robes.

Besides, drowning’s meant to be pretty peaceful, he’s heard. Once you get past the terror and the pain of all the oxygen slowly leaving your lungs and the knowledge that this is it, this is how I’m going to die, it’s supposedly actually pretty calm, almost a tender way to die.

Harry would like a bit of tenderness in his death.

“Harry?” Harry snaps up at Neville's voice, shoulders loosening and fists unclenching as he realises he was just gripping clumps of dirt. “Sorry,” Harry mutters, shaking his head to try and refocus on…whatever it is they’re meant to be doing.

Something about making the habitat more interesting for the worms.

Yeah. Because a different…mix of the same dirt is… ‘more interesting’ to…worms…who have literally no thoughts…or feelings…or ideas of interest…

…

Harry’s going to bury his head into the ground and keep himself there till he suffocates just so he doesn’t have to deal with this fucking class.

“We were meant to just tousle up the dirt, right?” Harry asks, returning his gaze to the soil beneath his fingertips. Neville presses closer to him, leaving enough distance so they aren’t touching but close enough that Harry can hear him clearly.

(Harry fucking loves his friends. So much. Just so. So much.)

“Mhm, and I have the…f-feed?” Neville frowns, looking down at the cup in his hands, scrunching up his face in displeasure. Harry leans up from the dirt to glance into it, only to be hit with a wave of intense nausea at the sight of maggots squirming around in the cup.

The sight inside hits him like a boot to the gut. A seething knot of pale, blind bodies of the maggots, slick and fat, weaving over each other in a glistening heap. The sound — that faint, wet squelch of their writhing — scratches at the base of his skull. Something sour leaps up his throat.

Harry chokes on his breath, gagging as his stomach folds in on itself. He flinches back so hard he nearly topples onto his backside, fists digging into the soil as if he could anchor himself to anything except that image burned into the backs of his eyelids. He clamps his jaw shut, unclenches his hands when his nails threaten to draw blood from his palms, and hums — a fractured, tuneless note that vibrates in his teeth to keep the nausea at bay.

Maggots.

He can’t stand them — that soft, pulpy whiteness, the way they move without eyes or shame. Harry despises them in a way he’ll never admit, not even to himself in the dark. He hates them because once, years ago, they’d made a nest in a tiny hope he’d dared to have.

He remembers when he was six, maybe seven — small enough that his ribs still showed through every threadbare shirt. He’d been good that week — polite, invisible, useful — and Aunt Petunia had given him a sausage after dinner for it. His reward. A treasure.

But Harry had been able to eat lunch that day, and two meals were rare. As much as he wanted to savour it now and sleep with a full stomach, Harry knows that sometimes in the future, whether it be days or weeks, he wouldn’t be lucky enough to get one.

So, he’d hidden it away in the back corner of the cupboard under the stairs, tucked behind the old shoe box, guarding it like a dragon with a cracked jewel.

He’d been so proud of himself — so clever, so certain he’d outwitted hunger. Harry was young, so he didn’t quite understand decomposition yet.

Days passed. Or maybe weeks — hunger eats time. Uncle Vernon had thrown him into the cupboard right before dinner the second night in a row, removing any chance of Harry sneaking food or Aunt Petunia feeling pity for him.

He’d been denied breakfast, and Dudley had destroyed his lunch at school, so Harry had well and truly been starving, having been denied food for two days straight. So he’d reached for his secret. Pulled the sausage out with trembling fingers.

A hundred pale grubs had split the casing, squirming out in threads of twitching flesh. They’d fallen in clumps, some sticky with half-decayed meat. One fat maggot had landed on the soft inside of his wrist, another on his thigh, cold and slick and so alive it made him bite his tongue to keep from screaming.

He’d flung the sausage away, scraping at his skin with bitten nails until he bled, but the phantom crawl never left him. Not really.

Now, years later, the memory still tastes rancid on his tongue. Harry shudders so hard his teeth knock together. Ripping himself from the memory as he stares down at the dirt, Harry swallows thickly as saliva fills his mouth.

Fuck, Harry doesn’t think he should vomit in front of anyone. Regardless of the humiliation it would bring, he’s unsure if it would come out as green or black. Better not to risk it.

Removing his hands from the dirt, Harry looks around until he spots the blob that Hagrid has become today, raising his hand. Hagrid takes his sweet old time, meandering over as Harry feels his stomach churn and his hands grow clammy.

“’ Arry! ‘Ow, can I ‘elp?” Hagrid beams down at him, and Harry thinks he might just spew everywhere. “Could I be excused to the bathroom?” Harry asks, wincing at how scratchy his voice sounds. Neville shoots him a concerned look, and Harry almost feels bad for ditching him if it wasn’t for the fact that he would throw up on the other teen if he didn’t.

Hagrid gives Harry a nod, reaching out to pat Harry’s shoulder, but aborts the motion when Harry pulls away. Trying to cling to the last ragged scraps of his dignity, Harry musters a tight, strained smile for Hagrid.

Neville catches his eyes and, with a kindness Harry doesn’t feel he deserves, only shakes his head and flaps a hand as if brushing away Harry’s apology like a bothersome moth.

Before his shame can spread roots and anchor him to the spot, Harry spins on his heel. He sets off at a brisk walk that quickly turns into an almost-jog, his sneakers thumping against the frost-hardened ground. A thin, tuneless hum buzzes past his lips — half a lullaby to distract his roiling stomach, half a frantic ward against the humiliation clawing at the back of his throat.

The wind bites at his ears, turning them pink and raw, and the castle looms ahead — its spires jagged against a sky heavy with clouds that look fit to burst. He slips inside, but the stone corridors offer no warmth. The air inside Hogwarts is a damp chill that clings to his bones and coaxes the sickness ever closer to his teeth.

He counts doorways as he passes, breathes through his nose, forces himself not to think about the swirling bile that threatens to leap up and make a scene of him. He can never get a break, can he?

The bathroom door is so close he can almost taste the disinfectant and mildew. Sweet mercy. He lets out a shaky breath — and the universe, in its boundless delight for kicking him while he’s down, promptly slams a brick wall in his path.

Except it isn’t a brick wall — it’s a wall made of black fabric and a hook nose and a gaze full of nothing but contempt. Professor Snape stands in his way like an executioner waiting at the gallows, arms folded so tight his sleeves bunch around his elbows.

Harry almost lets out a sigh. He tilts his head back to meet that sneering face. One dark eyebrow arches — a single, mocking punctuation mark against Harry’s entire existence.

“And what,” Snape drawls, voice thick with disdain and something almost amused, “are you doing wandering the corridors during class time, Potter?”

Harry’s tongue trips over itself behind his teeth. He opens his mouth to offer any excuse, but the universe, still laughing, seizes the moment to strip him bare.

A wave of nausea crests, unforgiving, and before Harry can so much as pivot away, he doubles over. The rancid flood surges up and spills out of him in a wet, retching torrent that splatters across the flagstones — and worse — drenches the hem of Professor Snape’s immaculate robes.

The splashing sound echoes horribly off the stone walls. Harry can feel the heat in his cheeks, his whole face burning so hot it might cauterise the shame bubbling inside him.

At least — he thinks dimly, staring at the puddle, blinking tears from his lashes — at least it isn’t pitch-black like last time. The vomit this time is just a dull, sickly green-grey, flecked with whatever he forced down for breakfast.

A win, in some cursed sense.

Harry lifts his eyes, breath catching like a dying thing in his throat. Snape stands utterly still, eyes narrowed, one muscle beneath that sallow cheek twitching in rage or disgust—or both, more likely. Snape is very capable of both. His wand hand twitches at his side like he’s deciding whether to spell the stain away or hex Harry into oblivion first.

Harry had the tiniest, tiniest feeling that the man doesn't care about what colour Harry's bile is. Who could've guessed? Professor Snape not caring about his students? What a surprise.

"...Come with me, Potter."

If only the floor would swallow him whole.

✶

Chapter Text

✶

Harry sat perched at the very edge of his chair, his heels hooked on the bottom rung, eyes locked on the empty teacup in the middle of the desk. The porcelain was plain this time — no delicate flowers or gilded edges — which Harry figured was deliberate. Professor Quirrell wasn’t about to risk one of his favourites for this. Not when Harry was about to try wandless magic again.

He could feel the thrum of the magic in the room already — thin, silvery threads curling in the air, coiling around Quirrell’s fingers like patient snakes. They wrapped the cup in a loose, shifting cradle, lifting it an inch off the desk with a gentleness that looked almost lazy. Harry knew it wasn’t. Every shimmer of movement was deliberate.

“See how loose the hold is?” Quirrell murmured, his eyes fixed on the floating cup. “I am guiding the magic, not chaining it. There’s no need to grip tighter unless it resists — and even then, the best way to keep it from fighting you is to give it room to move.”

Harry nodded quickly, leaning forward so far his chin nearly brushed the desk. “Like…holding a bird.”

Quirrell’s lips quirked. “Precisely. Too loose, and it flies away. Too tight, and you crush it.” The man tilted his head slightly, letting the threads slacken until the cup dropped into his palm without a sound. He set it back on the desk between them and gave Harry a look. “Your turn.”

Harry rubbed his hands together, trying to work some of the prickly nerves out of his fingers. “Right. Loose, not— not a death grip.”

“Correct. Now breathe.”

He drew in a slow breath and let it out through his nose, the way Quirrell had taught him. Then he reached inward — not dragging at his magic, not yanking it out by force — but coaxing, like calling to a stray cat. Pale gold threads, fine as spun sugar, began to drift from his fingertips.

Harry guided them toward the cup. For a moment, it worked. The threads coiled around the porcelain, hesitant but obedient, and the cup trembled faintly as it lifted a fraction of an inch.

Harry let out a soft breath, keeping his focus as he slowly lifts the cup. He’s not sure if he’s holding it tight enough, is it going to slip? The threads look loose, is his grip on the magic, the cup, strong enough? Harry bites his lip—

—and then the threads clenched too hard.

The cup gave a sharp pop! before it even hit the desk, shards spraying across the wood with a sound like ice shattering. Harry jerked back, heart in his throat, every nerve sparking with alarm. “I— sorry, I didn’t mean—”

The words tumbled out before Harry even realised he’d spoken, brittle and breathless, his shoulders snapping up like he was trying to make himself smaller. His pulse thudded in his ears. The shards glittered like teeth on the desk, and in the space of a heartbeat he was already bracing for it — the sharp crack of a voice, the sting of a hand, or the cold disgust curling in someone’s eyes.

He knew that sound — the sound of something breaking — was never just about what broke. It was about whose it was, how much it cost, and how much he’d be made to pay it back.

Except… none of it came.

He stopped dead, throat tight, when he realised Quirrell wasn’t frowning. Wasn’t sighing. Wasn’t even looking at the shards with annoyance. Instead, the man simply reached for his quill, the motion unhurried, and wrote something down on a slip of parchment. The quiet scratch of ink against paper filled the silence where Harry had expected the snap of anger.

The professor set the parchment aside with the same mild care he’d given the cup before they began. No rush. No heavy breath through his nose. No get out of my sight.

Harry stared at the fragments, his palms sweating so hard they squeaked faintly when he rubbed them against his knees. His voice was small, wary. “I… messed it up.”

“Mm.” Quirrell’s hum was low and even, the same sound he made when a student in class misread a text or stumbled on a pronunciation. “You made a mistake, yes. And now we know precisely which mistake. That’s progress.”

Progress.

The word lodged somewhere in Harry’s chest. Not failure. Not useless. Progress. His mind scrabbled at the unfamiliar shape of it, caught between relief and confusion. At eleven, he was used to mistakes being things to be stamped out, not stepped over. Mistakes had consequences, not lessons.

It was almost disorienting — this realisation that Quirrell wasn’t going to grab his arm, wasn’t going to snatch him out of the chair, wasn’t going to turn this into proof that Harry wasn’t worth the trouble. Instead, the man’s voice was still level, still calm, like broken cups were part of the plan all along.

Harry blinked at him, confused, but before he could say anything, Quirrell reached across the desk and set his hand lightly at the back of Harry’s neck. His palm was warm, steady — the kind of touch that didn’t push or pull, just rested.

Harry startled at first, muscles tightening out of instinct, but the tension in his shoulders melted almost immediately, draining away as if the heat from Quirrell’s hand had chased it out. He leaned into the contact without thinking, his breath hitching faintly at the strange, careful gentleness of it.

Heat prickled faintly along his cheeks — the kind that wasn’t just from embarrassment, but from something softer, warmer, coiling in his chest. It wasn’t like the crushes Dean or Seamus teased about, full of whispered dares and giggling in the dormitory.

This was quieter, clumsier, more like… wanting to be kept close. Wanting to stay where the hand was steady and the voice didn’t cut.

Quirrell was the first adult Harry had ever known who didn’t look through him, or down at him, or at the scar on his forehead before anything else. The first who listened without impatience, who let him try, fail, and try again without making the failure into proof that he was useless. Harry didn’t have the right word for it — didn’t know if there was one — but whatever this feeling was, it kept pulling him forward, wanting to be nearer.

“Now,” Quirrell said softly, his thumb brushing the edge of Harry’s hairline, “tell me what you were thinking in the moment before the cup broke.”

Harry’s voice came out smaller than he meant it to. “I… thought it was slipping. Like it was about to fall. I panicked. Grabbed it tighter.”

“And when you ‘grabbed’ it tighter…” Quirrell prompted, still calm, still steady.

“I… clamped down on the magic. Like— like I was holding my breath.”

Quirrell’s lips curved, though not unkindly. “Exactly. And magic resents being strangled, Harry. It will buck against you, or — as you saw — it will lash out. It is not yours to hold. It is yours to guide.”

Harry nodded quickly, his eyes dropping to the shards. “So… I just have to trust it won’t slip?”

A soft hum of agreement. “Trust it, and trust yourself.” Quirrell’s hand gave the faintest squeeze at Harry’s nape before withdrawing. “We’ll try again. This time, when it feels as though the magic is slipping, do not close your fist around it. Loosen your grip, and guide it back to where you want it to be.”

Harry glanced at the broken cup, then back at Quirrell, and managed a small smile. “Alright.”

Quirrell conjured another plain teacup, setting it gently in the centre of the desk. “Again, Harry. And remember — birds do not like cages.”

Harry’s chest felt warmer than the tea they’d shared earlier

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

Prayer of Confession and Supplication
(For One Believed to Be Born in Sin)

“Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of Thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.”
— Psalm 51:1

Heavenly Father,
Maker of Heaven and Earth,
Judge of all flesh,
I come before Thee in trembling and fear.
I confess the sin of my birth,
the stain upon my soul I did not choose,
the power within me they call unholy.

Lord, I am afraid of what dwells in me.
I repent for every spark, every whisper of power,
for the darkness they say clings to my name.
Wash me, O Lord, and I shall be clean;
purge me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
(Psalm 51:7)

Cast out from me this thorn of wickedness.
Break this magic from my flesh,
tear it from sinew and spirit,
and make of me a vessel pure and plain.
If my very breath offends Thee,
let Thy mercy bind it silent.

Hide Thy face from my iniquities,
blot out all my guilt.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and renew a right spirit within me.
(Psalm 51:9–10)

Though they name me servant of Satan,
Thou art my refuge and my Redeemer.
Turn not Thy face from me,
but remember me in Thy compassion.
For Thine is the kingdom,
and the power, and the glory, forever and ever.

In the name of the Father,
and of the Son,
and of the Holy Ghost.

Amen.

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

Harry has never liked hospitals.

There’s a chill to them, a hush that feels louder than a scream. The air always tastes wrong, like it’s been scrubbed of all life.

He knows, of course, that the medical wing at Hogwarts is not technically a hospital, not like the neat brick building he half-remembers from Surrey — but semantics do little to soothe the prickling at the base of his spine.

It may lack the stench of chemical antiseptic that seeps into your clothes, may not echo with the relentless, mechanical beeps that bounce off those sterile white walls, ricocheting into the cold marble floors — yet it still leaves Harry’s chest too tight, his fingers twitching for the want of an escape hatch that never appears.

He can feel the invisible chain at his ankle already, the phantom grip of adult hands, pinning him to a bed too big for him to fill.

Hospitals make Harry feel… stuck. Pinned like a butterfly beneath glass.

There is no corridor to slip down unnoticed, no cupboard door to wedge open from the inside. No corner dark enough to hide him from the hands that poke and prod, the voices that cluck and hum and never ask before they take.

Privacy is not real here. Privacy is a story for other children — the ones who have bedrooms and locks and mothers who hush doctors with gentle words if they come too close.

Not Harry. Harry is always in full view. He is not allowed to be invisible, not here. Not until they say so.

When Harry had finally gotten out of the hospital that first time — leg strapped up like a broken toy soldier — he was gifted a moon boot. He remembers the nurse’s bright, patronising smile when she called it that. Moon boot — as if that made it special. As if strapping your leg into plastic and Velcro made it magical somehow, instead of a badge that told the whole world he was easy to trip, easy to catch.

He wore it for months, dragging it along the pavement outside Number Four like a ball and chain. Each step thudded loudly as a heartbeat, reminding him he couldn’t run. Couldn’t dart through gaps in the hedge, couldn’t twist away when Dudley’s shadow fell long across the drive.

It made him slow. It made him obvious. And Dudley — sweet cousin Dudley — found new joy in the way Harry teetered on his crutches like a house of cards begging to be toppled.

Dudley’s favourite trick was to sneak up from behind and kick the crutches out from under him. Harry would flail — arms wheeling, breath caught in a useless little prayer — and then hit the ground so hard it rattled his bones all over again. Sometimes he’d land in the garden soil. Sometimes on the concrete. Sometimes Aunt Petunia would yell about the grass stains before she yelled about the noise.

Harry, for those few unrelentingly painful weeks, had hated them more than he ever had before, with a vitriol so deep Harry's magic had lashed and snapped Dudley's chalk-thin bones when the boy tried to push him again. Harry had barely even needed to try, enthralled with watching how it coiled like a leash around Dudley's arm and bent until the sound of the bone snapping registered in Harry's ears.

Harry could not be blamed for the injury since Dudley himself was to embarrassed to admit his forearm had snapped just from shoving at Harry's shoulder, and Uncle Vernon had enough shame to not beat Harry with his leg still broken when Dudley wouldn't even tell him Harry was involved. Aunt Petunia took Dudley to the hopsital and Harry stayed in his cupboard.

Dudley left him alone until his cast healed.

But, all in all, hospitals? Harry doesn’t like them. He likes the aftermath even less. Healing always came with a cost for him — a limp, a bruise that bloomed bigger than the last, a new target painted on his back.

Being injured made him easy. Being injured made him vulnerable.

Harry can not be vulnerable.

Still, Hogwarts is different. Supposed to be different, at least. He tries to believe that. Here, it’s not faceless nurses with too-bright voices. Here it’s Madam Pomfrey — brisk but warm, sharp-eyed but gentle-handed. She has a way of scolding him that makes him feel oddly cared for, as if she’s angry, it’s only because he’s hers to fuss over. Her touch is careful, respectful of where he flinches. Her words are soft, like blankets tucked around him.

And yet — she’s still a healer. And worse, she’s still an adult. And Harry knows, deep in his bones, where Vernon's punches echo, that adults are unpredictable things. They want things. They expect things. They can be kind, and they can hurt you, sometimes in the same breath.

So he sits there now on the crisp sheets of the infirmary cot, spine stiff, every muscle locked like he’s bracing for impact that hasn’t come yet. He wants to trust her, but trust sits like a stone in his throat.

What doesn’t help, of course, is the black shape hovering five feet away, more shadow than man: Professor Snape. Tall and severe as a thundercloud that’s decided to loom exclusively over Harry’s bed.

Harry kind of wants to punch him, though it's not like the man had really...done anything today.

Then again, Harry's general existence tends to irk Snape to no end, so Harry assumes that his own general distaste for the man's presence is expected as it is reciprocated. How pathetic that the man acts so childish, but maybe Harry's pathetic for falling into the same problem.

Madam Pomfrey’s voice drifts over him like a warm draft, but the hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end anyway. Her wand hums, her diagnostic charm flickers pale blue against his skin, but Harry’s eyes keep flicking anywhere else — the ceiling beams, the neat rows of potion bottles, the worn tips of his trainers tapping against each other. Anywhere but Snape’s eyes, which feel like they could flay him open without ever lifting a wand.

And it’s not like Harry understands why he’s still here, either. Snape could have dumped him at the door like an unwanted parcel — a sneer, a barked threat, and then off he’d sweep, his black robes snapping like bat wings behind him. But he hasn’t. He’s stayed. He’s watching. Every flick of Madam Pomfrey’s wand, every note on her parchment — Snape’s dark eyes follow it all like he’s memorising a crime scene.

The longer Snape stays, the more Harry’s mind chews itself raw. Maybe Pomfrey’s not as good as Harry thinks. Maybe she’ll miss something, and Snape will see it first. Maybe Snape’s waiting for an excuse—any excuse—to say I told you so and dock every point Gryffindor has left hanging by a thread.

Harry doesn't even care about the Gryffindor points, but the extensive, brutal isolation of his peers the moment he loses even one makes him wary of making a mistake. Harry doesn't care for them, but it's hard to 'fade into the background' when everyone makes a circle around him that widens a foot whenever he messes up.

It irritates him that they act like they were never thirteen years old before. But they aren't Harry's thirteen; they did not face death, and they most likely won't have to. They're sheltered at best. 

Ugh.

Harry dislikes that the public's biased, uneducated, ignorant opinion on him makes his life more difficult. If it didn't, he probably would've punched at least three more people.

(#1. Snape, #2. Ron, #3. Dumbledore)

Harry forces himself from his thoughts, re-focusing on the mediwitch still puttering around. When she asks gently, “And do you have any allergies, Mr Potter?” Harry freezes. His mind flips through a dusty file cabinet of answers that don’t feel quite right. He thinks about scollops — the way it makes his throat itch, the way it sits oily and wrong in his stomach for hours after. He’s never been told he’s allergic. He’s just learned to… sidestep it. Like so many other things in his life.

So he hesitates, then shakes his head — small, uncertain. “I don’t think so, ma'am…”

And that’s when he hears it: that sigh. Heavy enough to flatten him to the bed. Snape’s exhale feels like a verdict. Harry’s shoulders shoot up by his ears like maybe they can shield him. What did he say wrong this time? Is Snape angry Harry doesn't have an allergy?/

“Potter is allergic to shellfish.”

Oh.

The words drop from Snape’s mouth like stones into a pond — but the pond is Harry’s chest, and the ripples shiver all the way through him. How does he even-??

Madam Pomfrey blinks, her eyebrows tilting up in mild surprise. She looks from Snape to Harry, and Harry tries not to look back because he can feel his cheeks heating under that combined scrutiny. She nods once, businesslike, then turns back to her charm.

Harry can feel his heartbeat against the inside of his ribs, fluttery and confused. Snape knows. Of course he does. Of course, Snape would know something Harry himself wasn’t sure enough to say aloud.

“Well, good to know,” Pomfrey murmurs, voice warm again — but Harry’s ears are buzzing too loud to let it soothe him. “Mr Potter, have you eaten any fish, squid or seafood recently?”

Harry’s trainers tap faster. “No, Madam. I — I tend to avoid them.”

She frowns at him, softens it with a small nod, and flicks her wand again.

Was that a bad answer? Is it even possible to have a bad answer to a yes or no question?

He's going to bash his fucking head in, at this rate.

Harry tries not to flinch when the magic brushes over his still-covered chest, tries not to think about Snape’s eyes, sharp as hooks in the corner of his vision.

In this bright, clean room, with its soft sheets and Madam Pomfrey’s kind voice, Harry still feels stuck. Still feels seen in a way he never asked for. Still feels, in the secret part of his chest, like that moon boot is strapped tight around his ankle all over again — proof that running isn’t always an option.

“Hm. Well, normally I would be able to help you easily, but for some reason my diagnostic charm does not seem to be working.”

Harry blinks at her, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leans forward on the crisp infirmary bed, peering at the parchment lying limp and black in Madam Pomfrey’s hand — blank as if it’s refusing to gossip about him. He half-expects the ink to flicker to life, to tattletale on every bruise he’s ever hidden, but it just lies there, a sullen block of nothing.

Pomfrey’s sigh drifts through the space between them — soft but heavy enough to sink into Harry’s gut like a stone. She turns to him, voice careful as a hand brushing hair from his forehead.
“Would you be alright if Professor Snape ran the charm instead? The only difference is that he, alongside you and me, will have access to it instead of just us.”

Harry goes still — mouth opening, closing. A small bite of panic blooms under his tongue. Snape, with access to him. To the map of him. To every shameful secret written in flesh and bone. He bites his lip hard enough to taste copper. His eyes flick sideways.

And there he is: Professor Snape. Arms crossed like a crow settling its wings, eyebrow curved in an arc of pure disdain. He doesn’t even bother to hide it — the silent accusation that Harry’s wasting his time, dragging him into this mess.

Ugh. Bloody typical. Snape’s gaze could peel paint.

Harry’s mind scuttles in circles, whispering to itself: Well, what can he do, really? Slip poison into his pumpkin juice? Drown him in shellfish stew? Smother him with diagnostic parchment?
The thought is so absurd he almost huffs a laugh. Instead, he forces out the words, small and rasping like they’re trying not to exist at all.
“I-I guess it’s alright.”

He winces at how hoarse he sounds — pathetic, like he’s twelve again and explaining to Aunt Petunia why he tracked mud through her kitchen. Madam Pomfrey presses a cool glass of water into his hand before the words can dry up entirely, and Harry clutches it gratefully, fingers trembling against the smooth rim.

Before Pomfrey can fully turn, Snape’s wand is already out — that pale length of wood flicking through the air like it’s hunting for excuses to ruin Harry’s life. The incantation slips past his thin lips like silk, too soft for how sharp it feels against Harry’s nerves.

Harry drops his eyes again — back to the scuffed rubber toes of his shoes, the frayed lace he keeps forgetting to tie properly. He knocks his feet together, left against right, right against left, counting the soft thump-thump-thump like a heartbeat he can actually control.

Sip. Knock. Sip. Knock. Anything but look at Snape. Anything but watch the parchment that might decide to betray him at any second.

The silence stretches. The charm hums in the air — soft, electric. It’s taking so long. Far too long for comfort. Harry’s knee bounces. His fingers drum a panicked rhythm against the side of the glass.

Eventually, curiosity overpowers dread. He lifts his head — and instantly regrets it. Both Madam Pomfrey and Snape are staring straight at him. Their eyes land like twin needles pressing into his skin, threading doubt through every layer.

Snape’s gaze is worse, of course — always worse. He looks… well, Harry might say thoughtful if he was feeling generous. But thoughtful implies warmth, or at least neutrality. Snape’s eyes are knives, and Harry is the test subject pinned under the glass slide.
Pomfrey’s mouth is drawn tight, concern carved into the soft lines around her eyes.

Harry wants to shrink, wants to sink under the mattress, down through the floorboards. Maybe he could ooze through the cracks and slither right out the castle gates — wouldn’t that be nice?

“Well, isn’t that strange?” Pomfrey murmurs at last, more to herself than him. She shakes her head, the movement small but weary. She flicks her wand to snuff the charm out like a candle. Snape lowers his as if holstering a weapon.

She turns back to Harry, her expression softening like warm butter spread over burnt toast. He hates how gentle she looks — hates how it twists the knife deeper because he knows what she’s about to say won’t help.

“Unfortunately, the charm does not appear to be working, so I won’t be able to do as much as I’d like. The good thing is I only do the diagnostic charm to check for anything deeper, but it does just seem like you may have a stomach bug.”

A stomach bug. Harry nearly chokes on his own tongue. He wants to laugh. He wants to crawl under the blanket and vanish. He wants to slam his head against the wall until the diagnostic parchment does its job and tells them exactly what’s wrong with him — all of it, every bit he can’t speak aloud.

Madam Pomfrey smiles at him — tender, patient. The sort of smile you give someone fragile. It makes his skin itch. He wants to deserve that smile so badly it almost hurts.

But — oh, brilliant — she’s not finished. Of course not. “But…” she says, and Harry feels his stomach fold in on itself.

But.

“But I would just like to check for any injuries or abrasions on your stomach. Sometimes, if you get hit hard in the stomach, it can be quite bad for your organs.”

Her voice goes muffled, blurred by the roaring in Harry’s ears. The word abrasions sits like ice on the back of his tongue. He knows what that means. He knows what that means.

He pictures it instantly — the hem of his robe, lifted, the pale mess of skin underneath, the dark veins that spider out like ink spilled on parchment. The glamour charm flickers at the thought — Harry can almost feel it flicker.

It’s weak. It won’t last. Madam Pomfrey will see. Snape will see. The secret he’s been stitching together with trembling hands will spill out for them to pick apart like crows at roadkill.

No. Absolutely not. He can’t risk it. His chest tightens. His lungs rattle. His knees curl up, instinctual, pulling his thin frame smaller, as if he could tuck every bruise and black vein away behind his knees and elbows.

He flicks his eyes to Snape. Desperate. Begging. He doesn’t say it aloud — doesn’t dare. But his mind screams it, wordless and raw: Please, please, please, for once, do something.

And for one suspended second, Harry’s sure Snape will ignore him — will let the humiliation happen, will sneer at the mess Harry is about to spill all over the bed.

But then — miraculously — Snape’s gaze flicks away. He steps forward, gliding between Harry and Pomfrey like a shadow blotting out the sun. His pale hand settles on Pomfrey’s wrist — an odd, gentle weight that draws her voice to a halt.

“Perhaps,” Snape murmurs, “it would be more practical to simply ask the boy if he’s suffered any blunt trauma recently.”

Madam Pomfrey startles — her cheeks pinken, as if she’s just remembered Harry is not another chart to be filled out. “Oh! Right. Yes, of course.” She flusters, then turns back to him, her smile a little sheepish this time.

Harry exhales — shoulders sagging like someone’s cut the strings that held him up. He presses his knees tighter to his chest, half-hiding the tremor that ripples through him. For once, just this once, he thinks he might owe Snape something that’s not pure hatred.

“Ah, yes, of course. Mr. Potter, have you received any injuries lately?” Harry shakes his head firmly, pushing down any and all thoughts of the hexes and jinxes he’d received in the hall, or how he feels injured all the time with the rot gnawing at him.

“No, Madam. I haven’t been to any practices recently for Quidditch, and I’ve had no altercations.” Madam Pomfrey hums, nodding as she turns away. Harry sends a grateful look (or, as grateful as he can) to Snape, but the man just raises an eyebrow.

Ugh. Honestly.

“Well, I’m just going to tell you to take it easy, eat light foods and drink lots of water. Slowly,” Madam Pomfrey says, her voice gentle but edged with the sort of firmness that makes Harry nod along whether he agrees or not. She turns away, rummages through a small cabinet that clicks softly open and closed, and slips a slim potion vial into his palm.

It’s warm from her hands. Harry curls his fingers around it like it might shatter if he holds it wrong.

“I’ll have you drink this tonight, and hopefully your stomach will be settled by morning.” Her smile is soft as new cotton. Harry swallows. He feels it stick in his throat like honey.

“If there’s any longstanding issues, please don’t be afraid to return and let me know, alright?”

He nods again — quick, obedient. He doesn’t trust his voice. It feels like it might crack open and spill something messy if he tries to speak. The room smells faintly of mint and old bandages. He hates it but it’s safe enough, at least.

“Off you go then, Mr. Potter,” Pomfrey says kindly, patting his shoulder once before turning back to tidy up her desk.

He slides off the bed, his trainers squeaking a bit against the polished floor. The vial is still warm in his pocket. He tries not to feel how small it makes him.

Snape is waiting at the end of the row of beds, black robes coiled around him like a bat refusing to let daylight touch its wings. His arms are folded, eyes narrowed, one eyebrow twitching with what looks like impatience but Harry suspects is just Snape’s default setting.

Harry falls into step beside him, hands jammed in his pockets so Snape can’t see them shaking. The short walk out of the infirmary echoes too loudly — every footstep another reminder that he’s not free of this yet.

They don’t speak as they drift through the dim corridors. The castle hums around them — portraits muttering behind cracked frames, the stone floor cool underfoot, the ghosts drifting by like sighs that never end.

Snape’s cloak whispers against the stones. Harry tries not to notice how it keeps pace with him, how Snape doesn’t storm ahead the way he usually does when he’s finished tearing Harry apart in class.

They reach the bottom of the Gryffindor tower stairs too quickly. Harry pauses at the first step, shifting from foot to foot. He risks a glance at Snape, who is standing just beyond the pool of torchlight, arms still folded, eyebrow cocked in silent question.

Harry clears his throat. "Sir?"

Snape’s eyebrow arches higher — an entire conversation in one sharp line of disbelief.

Harry’s voice scratches out, rough as gravel. "Am I — am I getting detention for… for the robe?" He gestures vaguely at Snape’s sleeve, which is immaculate now but Harry still remembers how it looked earlier, singed and flecked with sick.

Snape doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t roll his eyes either, which is somehow worse. "No."

Harry stares at him for a second longer, brows knitting like maybe the answer didn’t sink in right. "House points, then?" he asks, because that’s the second punishment, the fallback. If it’s not detention, it has to be points. Right?

"No," Snape says again. Flat. Unbothered. The word drops between them like a pebble in a deep well.

Harry can’t help it — he squints, half convinced this is some new, advanced form of psychological warfare. "Do you...Are you going to punish me?" The question falls out before he can stuff it back down his throat. His cheeks burn instantly. He feels like an idiot.

Snape blinks at him. Then — to Harry’s quiet horror — Snape’s mouth twitches, just slightly. "Do you want me to?" Snape asks, his voice low, a drawl that curls around the shadows in the corridor.

Harry shakes his head so fast his fringe flops over his forehead. "No, sir."

"Then," Snape drawls, flicking his fingers at the stairs like he’s swatting away a fly, "I suggest you drag your sorry self to bed before I change my mind and assign you detention for standing here gawping like a stunned goldfish."

Harry’s mouth snaps shut. He nods, biting back the startled laugh that bubbles up behind his teeth.

"Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir."

He’s halfway up the steps when he glances back once — just a flicker — but Snape is already turning away, his cloak a restless shadow slipping into the dark corridor.

Harry doesn’t know what that was. He doesn’t know what it means. He only knows the potion vial is warm in his pocket and, for once, he doesn’t feel like he’s about to be shoved off a cliff for existing.

At the very top of the stairs, he pauses, pressing a hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat drum against his palm. It’s steady. Still there. Still his.

He lets out a small breath, then slips through the portrait hole, letting the Fat Lady’s scolding fade behind him.

Tomorrow will be what it is. But for tonight, he’s going to drink his potion, bury himself under the blankets, and hold onto this small, ridiculous mercy like a charm against the dark.

✶