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Chapter Text

Chapter One: Unwelcome

When Vernon Dursley opened the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive on that chilly November morning, he expected to see the milk bottles and newspaper.

Instead, he found a baby.

A baby with a lightning bolt scar, wrapped in a blanket of starlight blue. A letter sat atop his tiny chest, sealed with a crest neither Vernon nor Petunia recognized--but would never forget.

Petunia read the letter first. Her hands trembled with each word, her lips pressed tight in a sharp line. When she finished, she passed it to Vernon without a word and stormed back into the house.

Vernon’s face turned a blotchy purple as he read the name aloud.

“Harry Potter. That… that freak’s son.”

That night, Vernon and Petunia sat in the kitchen, whispering sharp words over a cup of cold tea. Dudley cried upstairs, but they ignored him.

“He’s not staying here, Petunia. He’s not normal.”

“I know,” she snapped, her voice thin with panic. “You saw what they said in the letter. The boy’s dangerous. Magical.”

Vernon slammed a meaty fist on the table. “We’ll smother it out of him. Just like your sister tried.”

But a week later, after the toaster exploded for no reason and the garden gnomes started forming strange patterns in the grass, Petunia made a decision.

“Enough,” she said. “We’re taking him to Wools. Let someone else deal with Lily’s mistake.”

And so, with a forged letter, a fabricated story, and not a hint of guilt, they left Harry at the doorstep of Wool's Orphanage.

Wool’s Orphanage – Age Four to Ten

April 1st, 1984 – Year Four

Harry’s fourth birthday started like every other morning--with porridge that stuck to the bowl and silence from the adults. Miss Calloway scolded him for leaving a streak on the counter, even though he had cleaned it twice. The other children ignored him. He spent most of the day in the corner of the playroom, building towers out of broken blocks and pretending they were castles made of stars.

That year, Harry learned how to listen without being noticed. He watched, memorized patterns--who got the bigger spoonfuls at lunch, who the adults favored. He figured out how to sneak a second roll when no one was looking. He discovered that if he sat very still under the stairs with a blanket over his lap, no one remembered to call him for chores.

At night, he would lie awake and trace the small holes in the ceiling tiles with his eyes, dreaming they were constellations. The napkin he pretended was a birthday invitation stayed under his pillow until it disintegrated into lint.

June 19th, 1985 – Year Five

It rained nearly every day that summer. The children were restless, locked indoors with few toys and fewer books. Harry was often left out of the group games, and he didn't mind. He found a frayed old book on wildflowers in the cupboard beneath the stairs. By the end of June, he had memorized every page.

He began to copy the flower drawings on scraps of paper and tape them to his bedpost. When the other boys tore one down and laughed at him, he didn’t react--he simply redrew it and hung it back up.

Miss Calloway began to call him "strange" in that voice she reserved for children who didn’t fit her mold. That autumn, Harry started collecting words from the flower book: grief, hope, silence, sorrow. Each night, he would whisper the flower names to himself like lullabies.

October 30th, 1986 – Year Six

Elsie, a slightly older girl with sharp eyes and a crooked grin, became Harry’s first and only real friend. She had a collection of costume jewelry hidden in a lunch tin beneath her mattress. One day, she let Harry wear a velvet headband with a silver skull charm. He wore it all afternoon until lights-out, proud and glowing.

When Miss Calloway saw it, she snatched it away and scolded him for "making a mockery of boyhood." He didn’t cry. He waited until everyone was asleep, then drew a chalk version of the headband under his bed--his secret charm.

That year, he and Elsie traded flower meanings like currency. She left in the spring, adopted by a family from Bristol. She gave him her last daisy chain, and he pressed it in his flower book.

December 25th, 1987 – Year Seven

Harry didn’t expect anything for Christmas, but there was always a sliver of hope. When the caretaker handed out secondhand gifts, Harry received a dented wooden yo-yo. He thanked her, though he had no idea how to use it.

Later, a boy named Jamie, younger and sniffling, said he hadn’t gotten anything. Harry gave him the yo-yo without a word. Jamie beamed. In return, Harry kept the gold ribbon from the gift wrap, tied it around his ankle, and wore it under his sock every day for the rest of the year.

The rest of the winter was cold and lonely. Harry developed a routine: sweep the dining hall, avoid the older bullies, and read alone. One night, he stitched a tiny star onto the hem of his undershirt using blue thread and a needle borrowed from the laundry room. It became his secret badge of survival.

March 14th, 1989 – Year Eight

A new boy, Caleb, arrived with a scowl and fast fists. He didn’t like Harry. Called him names, mocked his quiet voice, yanked the flower drawings off the walls. Harry never fought back. But he started hiding pressed daisies and violets in his shoes, just to feel something soft.

By summer, Harry had discovered the abandoned greenroom near the furnace. It had peeling wallpaper and a cracked mirror. He would sneak in to practice standing tall, wrapping curtains around his shoulders like robes or capes. Once, he found an old ballet shoe and imagined himself dancing on clouds.

He started humming little songs to himself--half lullaby, half spell. They made him feel stronger, like armor made of music and daydreams.

June 2nd, 1990 – Year Nine

By the time he turned nine, Harry knew he was different--but not wrong. That summer, during costume day for the younger children, Harry found a discarded blue sash with tiny embroidered moons. He draped it over his shoulders and spun around in front of the cracked greenroom mirror.

Miss Calloway found him, tore it off, and sent him to bed without dinner. She said he’d never be anything worth remembering.

But that night, he lay awake and whispered every flower name he knew, each one a prayer. He dreamed of floating candles, endless bookshelves, and long velvet skirts that trailed behind him like comets.

He no longer dreamed of being rescued. He dreamed of becoming someone so strange and beautiful that no one would dare try to break him again.

The moon was high, and the stars blinked like secrets, and Harry felt something more just out of reach.

In the flowerbox outside his window--planted by a girl who left the orphanage last year--a single bluebell had bloomed, even though it was too early in the season.

Harry reached out, fingers brushing the petals, and smiled.

Gratitude and humility, he’d once read in the library. That’s what bluebells meant.

He didn’t know who he was grateful to.

But he whispered, “Thank you,” anyway.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Goblins and Gowns

It started with the rattling of the letterbox.

The orphanage rarely received letters. Miss Calloway always said, “No one remembers unwanted children.” But that morning, just before breakfast, the flap opened and shut with a snap—and a single letter drifted to the worn tile floor.

Harry noticed it first.

It had no stamp. The envelope was thick, made of parchment instead of paper, and addressed in emerald ink:

Mr. H. Potter room 7, East WingWool’s Orphanage, London

He turned it over, heart racing. The seal was red wax, stamped with a strange crest: a lion, a serpent, a raven, and a badger surrounding a capital H.

He hid it under his coat and fled to his room before Miss Calloway could spot it.

There, he opened it with trembling fingers.

Dear Mr. Potter,We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The letter went on, listing terms and books and uniforms. Harry read it again and again until the words burned behind his eyes.

He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t broken. He was magical.

Later that day, a small, sprightly man arrived in a midnight blue coat with silver trim. His hair barely reached Harry’s shoulder, but his presence filled the entire room.

"Filius Flitwick," he chirped with a bow. "Charms Master, Deputy Head of Ravenclaw House, and your official Hogwarts escort."

Harry stared. "So it’s... real? Hogwarts? Magic?"

Flitwick’s eyes twinkled. "Oh yes. And I believe you’re in need of a wand, some books, and a robe or ten. Shall we?"

Gringotts Bank loomed at the heart of Diagon Alley like a marble monster, cold and unblinking. Tall pillars lined the steps, and bronze doors shimmered in the morning sun. Goblins guarded the entrance, all sharp suits and sharper eyes.

Harry stepped closer to Flitwick, overwhelmed.

Inside, the marble hall was massive. Goblins sat at high counters, scribbling and clinking gold. When Flitwick led Harry to a side office, an older goblin named Griphook was waiting.

“Mr. Potter,” he said with a bow. “Or should I say… Lord Potter-Black?”

Harry blinked. “I—I think you have the wrong—”

“No mistake,” said Griphook. He handed Harry a scroll. “Per magical law, you are the heir to both the Potter and Black family legacies. It appears your guardianship and vault access were sealed by one Albus Dumbledore. Illegally.”

Flitwick's cheerful face tightened. “I suspected as much.”

Griphook waved them to a sleek obsidian table where a family tree lit up at a touch of goblin magic. Harry saw his parents’ names in gold, branching from ancient lines.

“And these?” Harry asked, pointing to seats labeled ‘Wizengamot’ and ‘High Council.’

“Yours,” said Griphook. “Stolen through manipulation. If not for this school letter being delivered by the system itself, you may never have known.”

Harry's hands shook. “He... stole from me. He let me rot in that place so I wouldn’t find out.”

“You are entitled to inheritance, properties, and reparations,” the goblin added, nodding to Flitwick. “And my people will ensure your magical and legal rights are restored.”

They visited several vaults. Gold glistened, old family crests carved into stone. In the Black vault, Harry found trunks of vintage robes, letters, diaries, and a pendant shaped like a silver dandelion. He took it without knowing why.

“I’ll wear it,” he said. “Even if it’s old. It’s mine.”

When they returned to the surface, Harry felt taller somehow, like something lost had returned to him.

Diagon Alley was a kaleidoscope of noise and color, but Harry didn’t mind. For the first time, the world didn’t feel like it was pushing him away.

Their first stop was Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.

“School robes first,” Flitwick said. “But you’re welcome to choose others as you like.”

Madam Malkin was a squat witch with kind eyes. She measured Harry with warm fingers and summoned spools of enchanted fabric.

“I want… pastel,” Harry said shyly. “Like lilac and mint. With black lace.”

She blinked, then smiled. “Darling, I have just the thing.”

Soon, Harry was modeling robes with pale lavender linings and scalloped sleeves, enchanted to shimmer when he spun. Another was sky blue with soft ruffles, matched with a bat-shaped brooch. He giggled in the mirror.

“You look radiant,” Madam Malkin said. “Would you like shoes to match?”

“Boots,” Harry said. “Chunky ones. Black with silver buckles.”

Their next stop was a bookstore: Flourish and Blotts. Towering shelves reached the ceiling. Harry filled his arms with books on charms, potions, magical theory, and a few flower dictionaries.

Flitwick chuckled. “Already a Ravenclaw, I see.”

They picked up a wand from Ollivanders—eleven inches, holly and phoenix feather. Harry shivered when it chose him.

But it was Styx & Petals that stole his breath away.

The shop stood on a quiet alley just off the main street. Its windows were stained glass, with roses, bats, and dandelions twining through the panes. The sign read:

STYX & PETALS — Goth Fae Apparel, Jewelry & Accessories

Inside, it was dim but beautiful. Black shelves displayed rings shaped like spiderwebs, necklaces of crystal tears, and velvet chokers with potion vials. Dresses in pastel shades hung from the rafters, all with corseted waists and tulle skirts. Lace gloves, skull earrings, feathered cloaks.

A shopkeeper with silver lipstick and mirrored eyes approached.

“You’re new,” she said, smiling. “And you have excellent taste.”

Harry hesitated. “Is it… okay if I shop here? Even though I’m a boy?”

She took his hand. “Darling, style knows no gender. Let’s find what makes your soul sing.”

They dressed him in a plum-and-pink dress coat with opal buttons. A frilly black blouse with heart-shaped buttons. A leather skirt with crescent moons embossed in silver. Black heeled boots with wings at the ankles.

He didn’t want to take them off.

“You look exquisite,” said Flitwick, genuinely awed.

Harry beamed. “I feel… like me.”

They bought everything. The shopkeeper wrapped his jewelry in rose-scented paper and gave him a daisy hairpin for free.

“Come back anytime, Mr. Potter,” she said.

Their final stops included the Apothecary, where Harry marveled at jars of powdered moonlight and phoenix tears; the Quidditch store, where he ogled broomsticks he wasn’t allowed to buy yet; and a teashop, where Flitwick treated him to vanilla custard tarts and hot chocolate with cinnamon.

As the sun dipped behind the shops, Harry walked slower. He didn’t want the day to end.

“Do you regret anything?” Flitwick asked softly.

Harry shook his head. “No. For once, I don’t feel like I’m pretending.”

He fingered the pendant from the Black vault, watching it shimmer like spun silver.

“I think,” Harry said, voice soft, “that I’m going to be okay.”

Flitwick patted his hand. “You’ll be more than okay, my boy. You’ll be magnificent.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: Lavender Lace and Locomotives

Miss Calloway’s pinched lips thinned into near-invisibility as Harry returned from Diagon Alley. His pastel goth ensemble--a mint green ruffled blouse, a black leather skirt with violet tulle underlay, and knee-high boots with silver buckles--was a declaration.

It screamed: I am not yours to shape anymore.

Her eyes traveled from the choker at his throat to the rings on his fingers, and finally to the delicate daisy clip in his loose curls.

“What,” she said coldly, “are you wearing?”

Harry folded his arms. “Clothes I like.”

“This is a house for discipline and decency. You’re making a mockery of both.”

“You said I’d never amount to anything. Turns out, I’m magical,” Harry said, stepping past her. “So maybe I’ll mock that instead.”

She never touched him again.

September 1st dawned cloudy and full of nerves.

Professor Flitwick met Harry outside Wool’s with a beaming smile and a rolling trunk charmed to float behind them. As they passed through Muggle London, Harry noticed stares--but not the cruel, curious kind he was used to. More puzzled, intrigued. His confidence bloomed under their scrutiny.

At King’s Cross, Flitwick led him to the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

“Just walk through when no one’s looking,” the professor said. “Straight on. I’ll see you again at Hogwarts.”

Harry swallowed his nerves, squared his shoulders, and walked.

The brick shimmered. Then--

The world unfolded into smoke and magic and the long, shining scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express.

Steam curled like mist around Harry’s boots. Students bustled everywhere, owls hooting, trunks clanking.

He boarded and wandered the corridor until he found an empty compartment. Settling in by the window, he watched the crowd while nibbling a licorice wand he’d bought earlier.

The door slid open.

A redhead stood there, freckled, tall, gawky.

“Hi,” the boy said, eyes drifting. “Mind if I sit?”

Harry shrugged, gesturing to the other bench.

The boy sat--and then glanced again.

“Er, so,” he said, leaning slightly forward, “you from Beauxbatons or somethin’? You look… different. Exotic.”

Harry blinked. “I’m from Wool’s Orphanage in London.”

“Oh,” said the redhead. “Thought you might be French or something. Your eyes are kind of wild. Pretty, though. I mean--you’re really pretty.”

Harry tilted his head. “Thanks?”

“I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.” He offered a hand, clearly hoping for a certain reaction.

Harry shook it. “Harry Potter.”

Ron’s face turned a bit red. “Ha ha--good one. No, seriously, what’s your name?”

“I told you. Harry Potter.”

Ron blinked, and then laughed--until Harry pushed aside his hair, revealing the lightning bolt scar.

The color drained from Ron’s face.

“You’re him? But you’re--You’re wearing a dress. You’re a boy!”

Harry blinked slowly. “I never said otherwise.”

“But you can’t! That’s sick! The Boy Who Lived doesn’t prance around in makeup and tights! What kind of joke is this?”

“I don’t remember dying and coming back for your approval.”

Ron shot to his feet, face flushing with a mix of fury and shame.

“This is messed up! You’re wrong! People’ll laugh at you! You think being a freak is brave?”

Harry stared at him, calm. “If they laugh, that’s their problem. Not mine.”

Ron’s lips curled in disgust. “I knew this year’d be weird, but I didn’t think I’d be sharing a train with a bloody freak show.”

He stormed out, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Harry sat in the quiet that followed, heart beating loud but steady. He expected shame--but none came.

Instead, he pulled out a compact mirror from his bag and re-applied his lip gloss.

Let them stare.

He was going to Hogwarts. And he was going as himself.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Toads and Tensions

The rest of the train ride was uneventful after Ron’s dramatic exit. Harry remained in the quiet of his compartment, thumbing the hem of his skirt and staring out at the countryside. The pink clouds of sunset melted into the hills like cotton candy, and for the first time in a long while, he felt at peace—if only for a moment.

That peace didn’t last long.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and before he could answer, it slid open to reveal a girl with large front teeth and a determined stride. Behind her was a round-faced boy holding a battered hat and looking as lost as a Confundus-charmed Kneazle.

"Have either of you seen a toad? Neville’s lost his again," the girl announced without preamble.

Harry blinked. "No toads here, sorry."

The girl looked him over, eyes narrowing at the lace-lined black blouse and short pastel purple jacket. She seemed about to speak but paused, clearly recalibrating.

"Oh. Um. Well—you should probably change into your uniform soon. We're nearly there."

Harry tilted his head. "I did."

Her eyes dropped to the fitted, pleated skirt with silver chains at the belt loops, the customized black robes with scalloped trim, and the enamel pins shaped like moons and potion bottles.

"That’s not the—girls’ uniform," she said hesitantly, though her voice had a sharp edge.

Harry smirked. "I didn't see a rule against accessories. Or lace. Or sparkle."

Neville gave him a thumbs-up behind the girl’s back.

"I’m Hermione Granger," she said stiffly, adjusting the strap on her bag. "You should be careful not to draw unnecessary attention. People will talk."

"They already are," Harry said dryly.

Hermione flushed and gathered herself. "Well—I'll see you at the castle, then. Come on, Neville."

As they left, Harry slipped his wand into his boot and took a deep breath. The train was slowing.

Minutes later, they arrived at Hogsmeade Station. The cool night air nipped at their cheeks as students spilled out, some whispering and staring at Harry’s outfit. Flitwick had told him to be brave—not by pretending, but by being true.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!” called a familiar booming voice.

A giant of a man with wild hair and a kind smile waved them over. Harry recognized him from his babyhood memories—Rubeus Hagrid.

The group of first-years followed Hagrid down a winding path to the lake. Boats waited, gliding atop the water like silent shadows.

Harry stepped into one with Neville, a quiet girl who introduced herself as Daphne, and another boy named Theo with sharp cheekbones and a sharper gaze.

Hogwarts rose in the distance, lit like a beacon. Towers stretched into the stars, and its silhouette was magnificent against the inky sky.

Theo leaned closer to Harry. "You're the boy who lived, aren’t you?"

Harry tilted his head. "I suppose I am."

Theo didn’t look surprised. "They’ll expect you to be something you’re not."

Harry smiled faintly. "Then they’ll be disappointed."

The boats glided beneath the archway and bumped gently to a stop.

Inside the castle, they were greeted by a stern witch in green robes—Professor McGonagall. She gave a short speech about the importance of the Sorting Ceremony and the values of each House. Her gaze lingered for just a second on Harry’s outfit but said nothing.

They were led into an antechamber off the Great Hall. Candles flickered above. A hush fell over the group as they waited.

Harry’s fingers brushed the silver dandelion pendant at his neck. He felt his heartbeat in his throat.

Soon, the doors would open.

And Hogwarts would meet him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: The Sorting and the Silver Seat

The Great Hall shimmered with floating candles and a sky bewitched to mimic the dusky heavens outside. Harry had never seen anything so enchanting. Marble floors reflected the soft candlelight, and four long tables stretched toward a raised dais where professors sat. At the center was a golden throne-like chair that must belong to Dumbledore, though he was notably absent for the moment.

Professor McGonagall led the first years down the aisle between the tables. The Sorting Hat sat on a stool near the front. Its leather brim was patched and its crown slouched like a sleeping creature. Harry could feel Hermione’s eyes on him, narrowed in judgment. She still hadn’t figured out that he was a boy, despite the way he walked beside her with perfect posture and an annoyed twitch to his lips. Neville was too distracted, wringing his hands about his missing toad, to notice much else.

The Sorting Hat opened its mouth--or what resembled one--and sang a haunting little song about bravery, cunning, loyalty, and wisdom. Harry found himself smiling. It was strange, but it wasn’t fake. This place already felt more like a storybook than his life ever had before.

McGonagall unrolled a parchment. "Abbott, Hannah!"

One by one, students were sorted. Hufflepuff clapped warmly, Ravenclaw offered polite applause, and Gryffindor roared whenever they gained a new member. Slytherin, meanwhile, clapped with a kind of lazy confidence, as though the world already owed them everything.

When "Nott, Theodore" was called, a pale boy with sharp cheekbones and soft brown curls stepped forward. He glanced once at Harry, almost curious, and then was sorted into Slytherin before the hat had barely touched his head.

Then: "Potter, Harry."

The whispers exploded like wildfire.

"Potter?"

"The Harry Potter?"

"But he's wearing... a skirt?"

"That’s a girl, right?"

Harry walked forward with measured grace, heels clicking on the stone. He wore the girls’ Hogwarts uniform--a blouse with puffed sleeves and a pleated skirt in black--with added gothic flair: his boots, his lace gloves, a black ribbon tied around his neck, and a pearl earring shaped like a fang in one ear. His signature bat-shaped brooch sat proudly over his heart.

He sat on the stool and crossed his legs. The Sorting Hat dropped over his head.

"Oh ho," said the Sorting Hat inside his mind. "Now this is interesting. A Potter in a skirt. But what lies beneath all that lace and stubbornness? Hmm… bravery, yes. Intelligence, certainly. But oh, what’s this? Clever, ambitious, resourceful… and that pain. That anger. You’d do well in Slytherin, little dandelion."

"Then put me there," Harry thought fiercely. "Anywhere but with people like Ron."

The hat chuckled. "Very well."

"SLYTHERIN!"

The Slytherin table clapped--some with genuine interest, others with confusion. Harry stood and walked toward them with his chin high, skirts swaying gently around his knees. Theodore Nott pulled out the seat beside him.

"So you are the Harry Potter," he said with fascination. "I like the boots."

Harry grinned. "Thanks. I like your face."

Theodore blinked, then gave a breathless little laugh. "This is going to be interesting."

Meanwhile, across the room, Ron Weasley’s jaw was still on the table.

Hermione was looking between her class list and the Slytherin table, confused and scandalized.

And above, the enchanted ceiling rumbled with distant thunder.

Something had shifted in Hogwarts tonight. And it began with a boy in a dress sitting proudly among snakes.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Silver and Green

The Sorting Feast had ended, and the Slytherin first-years were ushered through a hidden passage behind the Grand Staircase that spiraled down into the cool depths beneath the castle. The dungeon halls were dimly lit, but not unwelcoming. Flickering green sconces cast eerie shadows on the stone walls, illuminating silver-framed portraits and tapestries woven with snakes and swirling ivy.

The Slytherin common room itself was beautiful in a gothic, underwater way. The stone walls gleamed with enchantments that made them ripple like water. High-backed green velvet chairs surrounded a fire burning with silver flames. The windows showed the lake beyond, where shadows of giant squid tentacles drifted lazily.

Harry stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by his new housemates. He still wore the modified girls' uniform: black stockings under his skirt, pastel purple accents sewn into the hem of his robe, and an opalescent choker with a moonstone set at its center. Some students stared openly. Others sneered.

But Blaise Zabini tilted his head thoughtfully. "You know," he said slowly, "you’re the first person I’ve seen pull off Slytherin goth chic."

Harry grinned. "Wait until I find gloves to match."

Daphne Greengrass snorted. "This is going to be an interesting year."

The next morning, classes began. Harry's schedule was full--Charms, Herbology, History of Magic, Transfiguration, and Potions. He tucked his books into a dragonhide satchel gifted by the goblins, clipped a lace bow to the strap, and added a cluster of enchanted flower pins near the top.

Their first class was Charms with Professor Flitwick, held in a cozy, warm room full of hovering candles and enchanted quills. Flitwick beamed when he saw Harry.

"Ah! Mr. Potter! Splendid, splendid! That brooch you're wearing--raven skull with a gemstone eye--is particularly expressive!"

A few Ravenclaws muttered, but Flitwick raised his wand and the room fell silent.

"Today, we begin levitation. The charm is Wingardium Leviosa. Now, pair up!"

Harry was paired with Theodore Nott, whose neutral expression masked amusement.

"You do realize," Theo murmured, watching Harry practice the wand motion with elegant wrist flicks, "you’re making the whole room watch you."

"Good," Harry said brightly. "They might learn something."

His feather shot into the air on the first try. Flitwick nearly toppled off his stack of books clapping.

Herbology was next, and the first-years bundled into greenhouses that smelled like wet earth and mint. Professor Sprout beamed at them.

"Welcome, everyone! We’ll be replanting Screechsnap bulbs today. Gloves on!"

Harry knelt in the soil without complaint. He tied a black ribbon around his ponytail and rolled up his sleeves, revealing a charm bracelet shaped like coiling ivy.

Sprout noticed. "Mr. Potter, your aesthetic reminds me of my granddaughter. She’s mad for lace and lilac."

"She sounds like she has excellent taste," Harry said.

Sprout chuckled. "Mind the bulbs. They scream when mishandled."

When Ron, who was paired with a Hufflepuff, sneered at Harry and whispered something cruel, his Screechsnap bit him. Sprout gave him a scolding and awarded ten points to Slytherin for Harry’s precise work.

History of Magic was as dull as promised. Professor Binns drifted through the board as he lectured about the Goblin Rebellions.

Harry doodled floral spell circles in the margins of his notes while Theodore watched him from the corner of his eye. Blaise passed him a note folded into the shape of a bat:

You make this class bearable. Also, your earrings sparkle in candlelight.

Transfiguration was held in a grand hall with stained glass windows and perfectly aligned desks. Professor McGonagall swept into the room in emerald robes and sharp spectacles.

"We begin with theory," she said, her gaze skimming over the class. When it landed on Harry, she paused.

He expected a reprimand.

Instead, she said, "Interesting choice of accessory."

He wore a lilac necktie woven with tiny embroidered thestrals. McGonagall blinked once, then nodded.

"Transfiguration is exacting magic, Mr. Potter. But I suspect you enjoy details."

Harry’s smile widened. "I live for them."

The lesson involved turning matches into needles. Harry didn’t quite succeed--his needle wobbled--but McGonagall awarded five points to Slytherin for effort.

Then came Potions, in the chilly dungeon classroom filled with rows of cauldrons and jars of grotesque ingredients.

Professor Snape swept in like a storm cloud, his robes billowing. The class fell silent.

Snape’s eyes landed on Harry.

Harry waited for the storm.

Instead, Snape sneered at the room in general. "If anyone believes clothing affects your ability to brew, I suggest you leave now. Mr. Potter--lovely pins."

Harry blinked. "Thank you, Professor."

Draco Malfoy raised his hand. "Sir, I don’t think it’s proper for someone--"

"Five points from Gryffindor," Snape said coldly.

"But I’m in Slytherin!"

"Then consider it a warning. Ten points for Potter’s self-expression and excellent note-taking."

The room buzzed.

As they chopped valerian roots and stirred clockwise, Snape prowled behind them, occasionally commenting on technique--but when Seamus Finnigan muttered something foul about "freak boys in skirts," Snape pounced.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor. Detention. And another twenty for insubordination."

He leaned down and added in a silky tone, "You will not survive my class with your narrow-minded idiocy, Mr. Finnigan."

By week’s end, most teachers had formed strong opinions.

Professor Sprout treated Harry like a grandchild.

Flitwick adored his flair.

McGonagall, though stern, began asking Harry detailed questions, impressed by his logical, thorough answers.

Snape… well, Snape seemed amused. He allowed no one to challenge Harry’s dress or presence without reprisal. It baffled the other students.

“He protects him,” Daphne whispered to Blaise one evening. “But why?”

Blaise shrugged. “Maybe he likes chaos. Or maybe he sees himself in Harry.”

Theodore Nott simply said, “Harry’s going to change this school. They just don’t know it yet.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven: The Price of Expectations

Albus Dumbledore watched the student tables from his throne-like seat at the High Table, twinkling eyes dull behind half-moon spectacles. His fingers drummed against the polished wood in an irregular rhythm, betraying a tension that no lemon drop could dissolve.

It had been a few days since term started, and things were not as he had envisioned.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was not wearing red and gold, nor was he meek or shy or asking for guidance. He was seated at the Slytherin table, chatting confidently with Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, clad in his altered Hogwarts uniform—pleated skirt, knee-high boots, black lace gloves, and silver bat earrings. His tie was black and white, marking him as first-year and unsorted for now, but his identity radiated through the Hall like a beacon.

Dumbledore watched as Minerva McGonagall sipped her tea, utterly unaware of the churning tension beside her. She’d expressed surprise at Potter’s placement but had passed it off as “the Hat knows best.” She didn’t know what Dumbledore knew—not about the missing heirships, not about the diverted vaults, not about the boy’s carefully groomed ignorance.

Only… he wasn’t ignorant anymore.

The boy had come to Hogwarts wearing jewelry from the Black family line. Antique. Magical. A pendant with the Potter crest etched alongside the Black serpent. Impossible to fake.

Dumbledore’s hands curled into fists beneath the table.

The Wizengamot session was proof of disaster.

Traditionally held three days into the school year, the meeting was a formality Dumbledore had long controlled with the grace of an orchestra conductor. This time, however, the surprise appearance of one Harry James Potter—heir to both the House of Potter and the House of Black—had upended the entire symphony.

He was dressed impeccably in regal robes, calm, collected, and flanked by goblin guards who had verified every piece of his documentation.

Dumbledore had lost his place as Chief Warlock in a single vote.

Today, he would get answers.

After classes, Harry was summoned to the Headmaster’s office.

The winding staircase moved slower than normal, as if Hogwarts herself were hesitant. The griffin knocker opened to reveal a room awash in warm colors, strange instruments humming in the corners.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore greeted, voice smooth. “Please, come in.”

Harry stepped inside, posture impeccable. He wore a lavender blouse today beneath his robes, his sleeves pinned with small skull-shaped buttons. The silver dandelion pendant winked at the light.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” Dumbledore gestured to the chair before his desk. “Merely a conversation. I imagine it’s been a whirlwind, adjusting to our magical world.”

Harry tilted his head, expression unreadable. “It’s been… enlightening.”

Dumbledore smiled tightly. “Of course. I must admit, I was surprised to learn of your presence in the Wizengamot. Such responsibilities—so very adult for a young wizard.”

Harry offered a sweet smile. “I was surprised too. But I’ve learned a lot since receiving my Hogwarts letter.”

“Ah.” Dumbledore folded his hands. “One must wonder where such information came from. Heirships, goblin contracts, ancient magic—surely it was overwhelming.”

Harry said nothing, but his gaze sharpened.

“You must have had help,” Dumbledore prompted gently. “Family friends, perhaps? I would hate to think you’ve been misled.”

“Oh, I’ve had help,” Harry said airily, “from those who had nothing to gain from keeping me in the dark.”

Dumbledore’s fingers twitched.

“I trust you know the weight of the titles you now hold,” he tried again. “And the scrutiny that comes with them. If there’s ever anything you don’t understand, I am always here.”

Harry leaned forward just slightly, his pendant swinging between them. “And if there’s ever anything you’re trying to hide, Professor… I’ll find that too.”

Dumbledore chuckled, but it sounded hollow. “Such fire. Your mother had that same fire.”

Harry stood, offering a faint, sarcastic smile. “Then I suppose you already know how I turned out.”

Outside the door, Fawkes the phoenix let out a low, uncertain trill. The boy had not shouted. He had not cried.

And yet, Dumbledore could not shake the feeling that he was rapidly losing control.

The script he had so carefully written—the Boy Who Lived, humble, moldable—was unraveling.

And in its place stood a child who would not bow

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight: Tea and Thorns

The first week of classes passed in a blur of whispered rumors, stolen glances, and drifting perfume of blooming curiosity. Hogwarts had never seen a student like Harry Potter, not just because he was the Boy Who Lived--but because he wore black lace gloves with his uniform, carried a silver parasol against the sun, and stitched tiny embroidered skulls into his pastel lilac robes.

What made it even harder for the castle to digest was that he didn’t seem to care.

Some first-years tried to laugh behind his back. Others avoided him in the corridors. A few stared openly, but none dared say much after Pansy Parkinson lost ten points in Potions for calling him a freak.

“Watch your tongue, Miss Parkinson,” Snape had drawled, not looking up from his notes. “We value creativity in my house. Ten points from Slytherin--for wasting everyone's time.”

And so, the whispers turned to wary silence.

It was after breakfast one foggy morning that Harry received a note delivered not by owl, but by a floating quill with a sprig of mint tied to the feather. It danced in front of him until he plucked it from the air.

Meet me in the Herbology Greenhouse after lunch. I think you might need a friend. – D.G.

At first, he thought it might be a prank. But curiosity won out.

~*~*~*~*~

Harry arrived at Greenhouse Three just after the last bell rang for lunch dismissal. He expected a trick, maybe even an ambush. Instead, he found Daphne Greengrass sitting quietly at a long wooden table surrounded by creeping vines and sleepy puffball flowers.

She had a book in her lap and a tin of biscuits on the table.

“I thought you might come,” she said without looking up. “You look like someone who reads Latin poetry for fun and curses people who dog-ear pages.”

Harry raised a brow. “I don’t curse people.”

She smiled slightly. “No, but you think about it.”

He sat, eyeing her carefully. She wore a simple uniform but had dyed the edge of her collar deep navy and wore a thistle pin on her lapel.

“You don’t seem to care much about appearances either,” he said.

“Not true. I just care about them differently.” She offered the tin. “Sugar daisy biscuit?”

He took one.

They sat in silence for a moment, the warm greenhouse quiet except for the faint humming of snoring fanged geraniums.

“I wasn’t sure if this was going to be an interrogation or a warning,” Harry admitted.

“Neither,” Daphne said. “I just thought... people talk. And people lie. But I like to see for myself.”

Harry blinked at her. “And what do you see?”

“Someone who doesn’t fit the stories. Which means you might be more interesting than them.”

It wasn’t quite a compliment, but it wasn’t an insult either. And that, Harry decided, made it precious.

They talked. About classes. About the confusing layout of Hogwarts. About how none of the other Slytherin girls dared try pink eyeliner after Harry paired it with his storm-gray nail polish.

“I’m not sure what to do with you,” Daphne confessed as they watched vines curl in sleepy spirals toward the window.

Harry shrugged. “You don’t have to do anything with me.”

“No,” she agreed. “But it might be fun.”

She hesitated then, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger. “Actually... I was wondering something. About your style.”

Harry blinked. “Go on.”

“I like it. Not just the colors. The layers. The edge. The softness and bite at the same time. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Her voice dropped just slightly. “I sort of want to try something similar. But I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Harry smiled slowly, genuinely. “Start with one thing. A bracelet. A ribbon. A pair of boots. Something that feels like you--but a little louder.”

Daphne looked down at her lap, nodding thoughtfully. “Louder. I like that.”

~*~*~*~

High above the castle, in a quiet tower office lined with odd silver instruments, Albus Dumbledore stared into a swirling pensieve and frowned.

He had been keeping a close eye on Harry Potter, expecting signs of instability, weakness, vulnerability to manipulate. Instead, he’d seen the boy blooming. Powerful. Unafraid. Liked by students who should have mocked him.

And worse… connected.

“Severus tells me he’s taken to potions naturally,” Dumbledore muttered, alone in his office. “Minerva says he reads ahead of schedule. Filius defends his spirit. Even Sprout says he speaks to plants like they’re people.”

He tapped his fingers together.

How had he learned of his heirships? The goblins were silent. His usual channels no longer whispered his name.

Dumbledore had crafted a tale around the Boy Who Lived. Humble. Grateful. Predictable.

Instead, he got a Slytherin in combat boots and lip gloss who refused to be silent.

Albus sat back, staring out the tall stained-glass window.

He would need to try a different approach.

One that didn’t frighten the flower before it fully bloomed.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: STYX & PETALS

The next Saturday arrived soaked in golden sunlight and the scent of damp stone, Hogwarts humming quietly in its usual enchanted way. Harry had spent most of the morning lounging near the windows of the Slytherin common room, brushing dust from the hem of his rose-quartz robe and reapplying gloss to his mouth. Daphne Greengrass appeared right on cue, a neat leather-bound booklet tucked under her arm.

"Is that it?" Harry asked, perking up.

"Straight from the owl-order rack in Hogsmeade," Daphne said, flipping it open as she sat beside him on the velvet tufted bench.

The cover shimmered slightly—midnight purple ink etched with curling silver thorns that spelled:

STYX & PETALS — Goth Fae Apparel, Jewelry & Accessories

Beneath it danced a charmed illustration of a fae figure twirling in layered chiffon, black feathers, and glinting chains. Daphne let out a nervous breath.

"Alright," she said. "Teach me your ways, oh pastel goth oracle."

Harry chuckled, leaning in so their shoulders brushed.

The catalog opened to the first page: a full spread of delicate parasols, ranging from soft bone-white lace to velvet black with steel tips and bat-wing ruffles.

"Start with what draws your eye," Harry said. "Don’t think about what other people will say. Just—what sings to you."

Daphne tapped a dusky lavender parasol with a spiraled opal handle. "That one."

"Excellent choice. That opal shimmer pairs well with cool-tone palettes. Now... pick something outrageous."

Page after page unfolded in glossy enchantment: pastel corset vests with thorn-vine embroidery, stockings with stitched runes of confidence, cloaks that billowed like smoke when the wearer walked, and brooches shaped like wilted roses dripping with enchanted onyx.

Daphne paused on a set of spider-lace gloves adorned with tiny obsidian beads. "Too much?"

Harry shook his head. "Perfect amount of menace. You want to feel like you could hex someone for looking at you wrong."

"It’s strange," Daphne murmured, flipping to a page of layered skirts in dusty plum and soft ink. "I thought style was about showing off. But this feels more like... building armor."

Harry glanced at her. "It is. But pretty armor. Armor you chose."

They shared a smile.

By the time the fire crackled low and the catalog had a dozen bookmarks pressed between pages, Daphne had circled her first outfit.

Dusky lavender parasol with opal handle

Plum skirt with tiered hems and matching cropped jacket

Onyx rose necklace that glowed faintly when charmed

Sheer black gloves with star-shaped beadwork

Harry added a few accessories of his own to the list. "We should place the owl-order Monday morning," he said. "Gives us something to look forward to for Friday delivery."

"Thank you," Daphne said suddenly, quietly.

"For what?"

She fidgeted with the catalog edge. "For not laughing. For helping. For... being the first person who didn’t treat me like a part of some mold."

Harry leaned against her shoulder. "Then I guess we’ll just have to smash all the molds together. One accessory at a time."

Outside, the lake sparkled. In the quiet, enchanted warmth of the common room, two Slytherin students began stitching their own magic into the world—one goth ensemble at a time.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten: Style, Spite, and Sass

Saturday dawned bright and brisk, with hints of frost curling at the corners of Hogwarts’ ancient windows. The castle halls were quieter than usual, the echo of students' footsteps dampened by the promise of a long and lazy weekend.

But Harry and Daphne had plans. Big ones.

After days of flipping through owl catalogs and parchment swatches from STYX & PETALS — Goth Fae Apparel, Jewelry & Accessories, they had put together coordinated looks that were less about following fashion and more about rewriting the rules entirely.

Harry stepped out of the Slytherin common room first, a vision in pastel nightmare. His blouse was sheer lavender with puffed sleeves and delicate black spiderweb lace at the collar. A cropped black velvet corset hugged his waist, and a pleated lilac skirt floated just above his boots—chunky platformed creations with metal clasps and softly glowing runes etched into the soles. Black tights with stitched bat motifs finished the look. His accessories shimmered like moonlight: onyx and amethyst rings, silver skull earrings, and a dark rose choker that gleamed with subtle enchantment.

Then came Daphne.

She wore a matching pastel blue corset over a charcoal-grey blouse with shredded lace sleeves. Her skirt mirrored Harry’s in cut, but was misty grey with a constellation of tiny embroidered moths in pale silver thread. Black lace stockings peeked above her combat boots—dyed indigo—and she’d braided thin ribbons into her hair, some of them trailing like spider-silk down her back. The final touch was her black veil hat—tilted just so—that added an air of dramatic elegance.

They walked through the halls side by side, arms linked, like a dark fairytale come to life.

“Do you think it’s too much?” Daphne whispered, nervously adjusting her sleeve.

Harry scoffed. “Daphne Greengrass, you look like a gothic woodland queen who’s about to conquer a fae court. It's perfect.”

She smiled.

Whispers trailed after them. Some admiring. Some shocked. Most confused. But no one dared step in front of them—until they reached the Entrance Hall.

“Oi! You lot headed to a funeral or just look like corpses?”

Ron Weasley.

Harry halted, releasing Daphne’s arm. “Oh no,” he said lightly. “The Weasel has risen early to show us all how deeply he lacks imagination.”

Hermione Granger stood at Ron’s side, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed. “You're not even pretending anymore, are you?” she said coldly, voice sharp. “Wearing that—a girl's outfit. People thought you were a girl, you know.”

Harry blinked innocently. “Imagine their disappointment when they learned the truth. I’ll light a candle for them.”

“You’re the Boy Who Lived,” Hermione hissed. “You’re supposed to set an example!”

“I am,” Harry said smoothly. “That example being: mind your own bloody business.”

Ron pushed forward, red-faced and puffing. “It’s disgusting! My little sister said you were pretty. And you’re a bloke! What kind of message is that?!”

Harry tilted his head. “That maybe your sister has better taste than you? Tragic, really.”

“You’re a freak!” Ron shouted.

“I prefer ethereal menace, actually,” Harry replied. “But freak has a nice ring when you say it with that much insecurity.”

Ron looked ready to explode. “You’re ruining everything—no wonder Hermione figured you out. You’re just—just a fraud! A boy in a dress pretending to be special!”

Daphne stepped forward then, calm and composed. “Funny how he’s still more interesting than anything you’ll ever be, Weasley.”

That did it.

Ron tried to shove Harry. Tried.

In one graceful motion, Harry sidestepped and flicked his wand—not to hex, not to curse, but to summon a gust of wind that dramatically swirled his skirt and fluttered Daphne’s ribbons.

“I don't give two shits, Ronald,” Harry said, voice clear and cutting. “About your opinion, your tantrums, or your fragile masculinity.”

Gasps rippled through the watching students.

Ron, face burning, stormed off.

Hermione lingered, her expression unreadable. Then she turned sharply on her heel and followed him.

Harry turned to Daphne with a sigh. “Honestly, I didn’t even get to use my good comebacks.”

Daphne grinned. “You can save them for next time. But for the record? You slayed.”

They continued into the Great Hall, heads high, boots clicking in perfect rhythm.

Hogwarts might not have known what to make of them.

But they knew one thing for certain.

Harry Potter was not someone you could shame into silence.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven: Troll in the Dungeon

Halloween arrived at Hogwarts with floating pumpkins, fluttering bats, and tables full of golden pastries and spiced cider. Harry and Daphne, dressed impeccably in coordinating Gothic chic—black velvet robes with silver lacing and matching lavender chokers with tiny enamel bats—were the talk of the Great Hall. Their presence turned heads as they entered, Harry’s lace gloves shimmering under the candlelight.

The feast was only just beginning when a sharp bang echoed through the hall. Professor Quirrell came stumbling in, pale and trembling, his turban askew.

“T-troll! In the d-dungeon!” he cried, before promptly fainting in a heap on the stone floor.

Panic erupted. Students screamed. Several dishes clattered to the floor. Dumbledore stood, sending purple sparks into the air with a crack of his wand.

“Silence!” he commanded. “Prefects, lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!”

In the confusion, Ron grabbed Harry’s wrist and yanked. “Come on! We’ve got to save Hermione! She’s in the loo!”

Harry barely kept his balance in his high-heeled boots. “Let go of me! What are you on about?”

“She doesn't know about the troll! We have to go get her!” Ron insisted, dragging Harry toward the entrance.

Daphne, close behind, scowled. “Ronald Weasley, have you lost your mind?”

“She’ll get herself killed!” Ron snapped. “And you—” he glared at Harry, “—you’re supposed to be the bloody Boy Who Lived! You do something!”

Harry pulled his hand free and glared. “What I am is someone who doesn't get dragged into danger because you think I should play hero on command.”

But despite himself, Harry turned toward the nearest corridor.

“Daphne, come with me. Someone needs to be reasonable in this mess.”

Together, the two strode off at a brisk pace toward the girls’ lavatory, wands drawn.

The Troll

They heard the grunting first. Then the scrape of a club against the stone floor.

The stench hit next—like rotting meat mixed with dirty socks.

Harry turned the corner and saw the hulking form of the mountain troll pushing its way into the bathroom, its great bulk cracking the doorframe.

“Hermione’s in there!” Daphne gasped.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

“Oi! Ugly!” he shouted, drawing the troll’s attention. “Over here, you putrid slab of moldy ham!”

The troll turned with a roar.

Harry spun, grabbing Daphne’s wrist. “Get Hermione. I’ll distract it!”

“What?!” she hissed, but he was already moving.

Harry darted across the hallway, luring the troll away. It bellowed and gave chase, swinging its club. He ducked behind a suit of armor, which shattered under the impact.

Daphne, meanwhile, darted into the loo. “Hermione! Out! Now!”

Hermione, wide-eyed and shaking, stumbled out behind her.

Back in the corridor, Harry had climbed onto a windowsill, wand pointed with fierce determination.

“Locomotor Wreckus!” he cried.

The remaining shards of the shattered armor flew toward the troll, slamming into its chest. It staggered.

“Glacius!”

A slick of frost formed under the troll’s feet. It slipped, crashing backward into the wall with a deafening thud.

Daphne and Hermione rushed to Harry’s side.

Hermione stared at him, stunned. “You—you fought it on your own.”

Harry flicked invisible dust off his skirt. “Well, someone had to.”

The Aftermath

Just then, teachers came thundering around the corner—Snape, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Quirrell (now revived and stumbling again).

The scene was frozen for a moment.

A stunned troll. A cracked suit of armor. Three first-years standing unharmed.

Then McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence.

“What happened here?!”

Ron appeared moments later, out of breath and clearly hoping to bask in glory. “I brought them here! Harry fought the troll! I was part of it too—”

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. “He dragged us here without warning and then hid behind a statue.”

Harry crossed his arms. “If I hadn’t kept my balance in heels, I’d have face-planted the whole way here. He didn’t help. He endangered all of us.”

Snape’s eyes glittered with something unreadable. Flitwick frowned.

Professor McGonagall looked ready to explode.

“Mr. Weasley, dragging students toward danger instead of alerting a teacher is not bravery—it’s recklessness. Twenty points from Gryffindor!”

Ron’s mouth fell open.

Quirrell moaned faintly and leaned against the wall.

Snape stepped forward and placed a steady hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Well done, Mr. Potter. Ten points to Slytherin.”

McGonagall blinked. “Yes. Quite. Ten points as well, Miss Greengrass, for keeping your head.”

Harry curtsied with a smirk. “I do my best, Professor.”

Hermione, shaken but safe, murmured, “Thank you…”

Harry gave her a small nod. “Don’t mention it.”

But deep down, he was already preparing. If trolls were the beginning, Hogwarts would need more than just a boy who lived. It would need someone who thrived.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve: Fire and Velvet Shadows

The unlikeliest group in Slytherin had grown without anyone quite realizing when it had started. It wasn’t just Harry and Daphne anymore. Now Blaise Zabini--sharp-eyed and reserved--often joined them for meals, offering dry quips and a surprising wealth of knowledge on wizarding etiquette. And Theodore Nott, who usually haunted the edges of every room, had begun lingering near Harry like a moth drawn to candlelight.

The circle formed quietly, wrapped in shared curiosity, silent defenses, and the magnetic pull of Harry’s strange, elegant gravity.

~*~*~*~

Theodore wasn’t quite sure when he started noticing the little things. The way Harry’s hair shimmered soft lavender under candlelight. The gleam of his skull ring when he tapped his tea cup. The precise way he walked--head held high, black lace sleeves fluttering like wings.

Theo had never cared about fashion before. But the first time he saw Harry match a plum corset belt over his uniform with pastel boots embroidered with tiny bats, Theo had to close his book and look away.

The ache in his chest was quiet but persistent. Not romantic yet--but full of the kind of awe that could grow into something dangerous and lovely.

Harry was strange. Defiant. Brave.

And Theo was beginning to fall.

~*~*~*~*~

It started with a whisper.

“Dumbledore says we can’t have it,” Ron had grumbled. “We’re supposed to send it to Charlie.”

The dragon--sleek-scaled and shimmering black-purple--had hatched in Hagrid’s arms only hours earlier. She was already biting, spitting sparks, and screaming when she didn’t get her way. Harry found her enchanting.

“What’s her name?” Harry asked Hagrid.

“She’s Norbert. Wait--Norberta,” Hagrid corrected, beaming.

Harry wrinkled his nose. “She doesn’t like that.”

“She’s a baby dragon, Harry, how would y--”

“I asked her.”

Everyone stared.

“She said she wants a name with teeth,” Harry said, crouching low beside her. “Something with bite. Something... Gothic.”

The dragon blinked, then licked Harry’s fingers with a spark-lit tongue.

He grinned. “Her name is Ereshka.”

~*~*~*~*~

Harry had written to the goblins two days earlier--secretly. He’d learned about magical pet accessories while ordering a new velvet harness for his parasol. One item caught his eye: a bonded bracelet, forged with dragonfire and silver, designed to shrink a familiar to pocket-size until released.

It was expensive. But he was heir to three vaults now. He could afford magic that allowed him to keep what was his.

When the bracelet arrived by special owl post--twisting silver filigree adorned with a small hematite charm--Harry placed it gently around Ereshka’s neck.

She shrank instantly, curling up in his hands like a smug, purring lizard. Her wings flicked once and she flicked her tongue toward his cheek.

From that moment on, she was bound to him.

~*~*~*~

“Is that a... dragon in your sleeve?” Daphne gasped as Harry walked into the common room.

Harry held out his palm. Ereshka uncurled like a soot-colored ribbon and chirped.

“She’s mine. Officially. Familiars are protected under old magic. They can’t take her from me.”

Blaise looked impressed. “That’s going to cause a stir.”

Harry smiled. “Good.”

Theo watched the exchange quietly, heart thudding. Harry wasn’t just brave. He was fearless. Clever. Untouchable. And somehow, he had a tiny dragon familiar coiled like a bracelet under his sleeve.

It was getting harder not to stare. Harder not to speak.

So he didn’t resist.

“Do you think,” Theo said softly, stepping closer, “that she’d let me pet her?”

Harry raised a brow but smiled. “Only if she likes you.”

Ereshka sniffed Theo’s hand. Then nudged it.

Harry beamed. “Looks like she does.”

And Theodore Nott fell just a little bit more.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen: Whispers in the Forest

The days leading up to final exams at Hogwarts were a whirlwind of potion spills, quill scratches, and murmured gossip drifting through the halls like mist. Yet, in the eye of the storm sat four students bound not by House or heritage, but by understanding—Harry, Daphne, Blaise, and Theo.

Since the incident with the troll, the bond between the four had deepened. They met often—sometimes to study, sometimes to explore, and sometimes simply to exist in one another’s orbit. Blaise provided wit and sarcasm that never cut too deep. Daphne offered clarity and fire. Theo brought a quiet steadiness, though lately, it was often disrupted by the way his gaze lingered on Harry’s smile a little too long.

Harry, for his part, welcomed the closeness. It was the first time in his life he could call something a circle—friends who cared, who didn’t want anything from him but the chance to sit close and be known.

Rumors and Restlessness

It started with whispers.

"Another unicorn," Blaise murmured one morning as they passed a group of fifth-years exchanging anxious glances in the corridor. "Found deep in the Forbidden Forest. Drained."

"That makes three this month," Daphne said, lips pressed in concern. "The Professors are keeping it quiet, but even Hagrid looks uneasy."

Theo shifted beside Harry, eyes narrowing. "Unicorns are sacred. To kill one... it takes something dark."

Harry tucked a strand of violet hair behind his ear, shrugging. "Let the professors handle it. We’ve got exams."

But it wasn’t long before the incident turned from quiet murmurs to open anxiety. One afternoon, Professor McGonagall swept into the Great Hall with the fury of a thunderclap. Three students—Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Draco Malfoy—were escorted out behind her.

By dinner, the rumor had solidified: they were caught wandering after curfew and sent to serve detention in the Forbidden Forest.

"How poetic," Blaise muttered. "Send three overconfident brats into the same woods where unicorns are dying. That’s surely going to end well."

Harry didn’t care. Truly, he didn’t. He had more interesting things to focus on—like coordinating his next outfit with Daphne’s.

Indifference Meets Obsession

But Ron and Hermione refused to let Harry exist quietly. Not now. Not when, according to them, the Boy Who Lived wasn’t acting like he was supposed to.

They cornered him after Charms.

"You’re supposed to care about this!" Hermione snapped, eyes wild. "Dumbledore’s protecting something in the third-floor corridor. We think Snape’s trying to steal it."

Harry blinked at her, expression unreadable behind a soft pink veil and a choker adorned with a moon pendant.

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"Everything!" Ron barked. "You're the Boy Who Lived! You’re meant to stop You-Know-Who, not strut around like some sort of fairy princess—"

"Careful," Theo warned, stepping between them, his voice like ice.

Harry tilted his head, cool and composed. "Strutting is just walking with intent. But thank you for the compliment."

Ron flushed red with fury. "You’re a coward, Potter. Afraid to face what’s coming."

"Or maybe I just don’t want to live inside a story someone else wrote for me," Harry said with a faint smile. "You're free to play hero if it suits you. I’ll be busy living."

Hermione looked scandalized. "You’re wasting your potential."

"No," Daphne said, arms crossed, "he’s finally using it."

A Circle That Grows

After the confrontation, the four retreated to their favorite quiet alcove in the library. Blaise brought chocolate frogs. Daphne painted stars on her nails with a charm. Theo sat next to Harry, not saying much—just close enough to feel the brush of fabric when Harry shifted.

He watched the way Harry smiled when talking to Daphne, how his expression softened when his fingers danced over a book’s spine. Theo didn’t understand it all—not the lace, the perfume, or the gleaming lavender boots—but he wanted to. Wanted to learn it. Speak it. Be a part of it.

In the corner of his Transfiguration notebook, Theo began to sketch. First, just outlines. Then lips. Then Harry’s eyes. He flushed and turned the page.

It wasn’t love.

Not yet.

But it was the beginning of something stubborn and real.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen: Not the Hero They Wanted

It started with a midnight whisper and ended with Ron nearly getting himself set on fire.

Harry had been happily enjoying his latest issue of Black Veil Bloom, a Goth Fae magazine Daphne had owl-ordered for him, curled up on a velvet chair in the Slytherin common room. The fire flickered gently, casting shadows over the lilac lace of his lounging robe, while Theo and Blaise argued softly over wizard chess. Daphne painted her nails blackcurrant shimmer beside him, when suddenly--

"Harry! You have to come! It's Snape! He's going after the Stone!"

Hermione’s wild eyes and frizzy hair filled the doorway, Ron panting just behind her like a sweaty, freckled sheepdog.

Harry sighed. Loudly.

"For Salazar's sake, I'm not the hero you're looking for," he muttered, setting down his magazine. "Also, Snape isn’t trying to steal anything. He’s a miserable bastard, not a thief."

"You don’t understand! We saw him--he’s been sneaking around all year!"

"So have I," Harry deadpanned, rising with a dramatic rustle of chiffon. "But you don’t see anyone accusing me of larceny."

Hermione bristled, but Ron stepped forward and grabbed Harry’s wrist. "You’re the Boy Who Lived! You’re supposed to stop this!"

"Unhand me, Weasley," Harry said, voice cold and sharp as winter glass. "Before I transfigure your hand into a doorknob."

Ron flushed. "You’re just scared."

That did it.

Theo and Blaise stood. Daphne narrowed her eyes, already sliding her wand from her sleeve.

"Scared?" Harry scoffed. "I walk the halls in pastel tulle and lip gloss and still get more respect than you."

But before the argument could ignite further, Ron had already stormed down the corridor, dragging Hermione along. "Fine! We’ll go without you!"

Daphne, arms crossed, watched them disappear. "We can’t let those idiots get themselves killed."

Harry sighed again, rubbing at his temple. "Why do I always end up cleaning up their messes?"

"Because you're the prettiest one with common sense," Blaise offered.

"And style," Theo added.

Through the Flames

Following the trail of Ron and Hermione was all too easy--they left the trapdoor wide open.

"Seriously? Not even a Disillusionment Charm?" Daphne muttered.

They descended into the hidden chamber and immediately had to fight off Devil’s Snare. Hermione got tangled and shrieked until Daphne hexed the plant into submission with a nonverbal slicing spell. Ron stumbled into the next room and was nearly flattened by the life-sized wizard chess set.

This time, it was Blaise who took the lead.

"I’ll play Knight," he said coolly, stepping into place like he belonged in a war painting.

"I’ll be Bishop," said Theo.

Daphne and Harry covered Hermione and Ron as the boys coordinated a win, toppling pieces with elegant ease. Blaise’s finishing blow was spectacular.

Ron and Hermione cheered--until the next chamber closed the way behind them, separating them from the rest.

"What?! Let us through!" Hermione shouted.

Harry checked the spellwork. "Looks like the enchantment chooses who’s worthy. Guess it didn’t like your vibes."

Daphne snorted.

"You’re leaving us?!" Ron howled.

"Not my fault the dungeon has taste," Harry said with a shrug, then led his trio forward.

The Final Chamber

The last room was silent.

Candles floated along the walls, flickering ominously. A mirror stood at the far end of the room.

In front of it--Professor Quirrell.

Only it wasn’t Quirrell anymore.

His body twitched oddly. He turned, and his eyes burned--not with fear, but with fury. His turban slipped.

A second face stared out from the back of his head.

"Hello, Harry," it hissed.

Daphne’s wand was out.

Theo stepped in front of Harry.

Blaise bared his teeth.

But Harry, for once, said nothing. His expression went blank, calm and cold as moonlight.

"So it’s you," he said softly. "The one behind the curtain."

Voldemort--because that’s who it truly was--grinned.

"You and I are not so different, boy. We both wear masks."

Harry’s grip tightened around his wand.

"I wear mine with glitter."

The room pulsed with tension, magic trembling in the air like a storm about to break.

And then...

Quirrell stepped forward.

But no one moved.

Not yet.

Because the fight wasn’t here.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen: Fire, Thorns, and Truth

The stone chamber beneath Hogwarts crackled with ancient magic, the air charged with tension as Harry Potter stood across from Professor Quirrell--no longer stuttering or timid, but a vessel for something far darker. His eyes gleamed with power not his own. The whisper of another voice curled through the room like smoke.

"You were supposed to come alone," Quirrell hissed, wand raised. "But no matter. It ends here."

"Funny," Harry said lightly, stepping forward, silver bangles glinting from beneath his robes. "You look like the one who's nervous."

Daphne, Blaise, and Theo stood just behind him, wands drawn and tense. The room vibrated with ancient enchantments, but they were ready. What Quirrell didn’t know was that Harry had planned for this.

Earlier That Day

Before slipping into the third-floor corridor, Harry had sent enchanted letters via a dark-winged owl to Professors Snape, Sprout, McGonagall, and Flitwick, alerting them of what he suspected Ron and Hermione were up to.

They’re dragging people into something dangerous. I won’t be pulled into it blindly. If anything happens, you’ll know where I am.

He’d signed the letter simply: H. Potter.

Back in the Chamber

Quirrell didn’t expect the dragon.

As he cast the first curse--an explosive hex that struck the stone wall behind Harry--a burst of black-petaled smoke exploded from Harry’s wrist.

Out of it slithered a tiny, sleek dragon the size of a kneazle, with shadowy scales and glowing amethyst eyes. She hissed, flared her wings, and grew just large enough to perch between Harry and Quirrell.

"Meet Ereshka," Harry said casually. "She's hungry."

Quirrell made the mistake of laughing. He didn’t get to laugh again.

The second he tried to hurl a Killing Curse, Ereshka leapt. A flash of teeth, flame, and darkness--and Quirrell was gone. There was no scream. Just silence, and then the sound of a content dragon licking her claws.

Harry exhaled softly. "Good girl."

Behind them, the final chamber doors slammed open. Professors Snape and McGonagall arrived first, wands drawn, followed by Flitwick and Sprout.

They stopped, taking in the scene: the remains of Quirrell’s shattered robes, scorch marks on the stone, and four Slytherins standing as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said slowly, eyes locked on Ereshka. "Would you care to explain?"

Before Harry could speak, Daphne stepped forward. "He told you. You all knew. Ron Weasley dragged us here. Hermione helped him. If Harry hadn’t been prepared, we’d be dead."

Snape’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "I believe ten thousand points from Gryffindor would be a just place to start."

"That seems... excessive," Flitwick squeaked. "But perhaps detentions for the remainder of the year would suffice."

"They endangered fellow students and broke into a forbidden area," Sprout added. "At the very least."

McGonagall pursed her lips, but nodded. "We’ll handle it. You four--come with us. We’ll settle things before exams."

End-of-Year Exams & Departure

The last weeks of term passed in a whirlwind. Word spread fast about the confrontation, but no one believed the Slytherins--until the staff confirmed everything. Ron and Hermione were ostracized from the main Gryffindor group, especially after Harry’s dragon was officially recognized as his familiar. A magical bond that couldn’t be broken.

Ereshka, elegant and glittering like black obsidian, curled protectively around Harry’s shoulders whenever he studied.

No one dared bully him anymore--not even in whispers.
Exams were a breeze for Harry, who performed each spell with practiced grace and gothic flair. Even Professor Vector in Arithmancy nodded in approval.

The Journey Home

On the final day, as the Hogwarts Express prepared to depart, Harry stood on the platform not in uniform, but in a flowing black and violet ensemble with rose-embroidered lace gloves and matching boots. Theo stood beside him, holding Ereshka’s travel cage and blushing every time their hands brushed. Daphne adjusted her obsidian choker and smirked at them both.

Blaise said nothing, but offered a polite nod before boarding.

Instead of returning to Wool’s Orphanage, Harry climbed into a sleek, vine-covered carriage pulled by a pair of skeletal thestrals. They knew where to go.

The carriage wound its way to Thornhedge Manor--a secluded estate shrouded in creeping ivy, black roses, and tall silver trees. The iron gate bore the sigil of the Potter family, restored at last.

It was not just a home.

It was a declaration.

Harry Potter was done surviving.

Now, he would thrive.

Chapter Text

Chapter sixteen: A Thornhedge Summer

The days of summer bloomed gently around Thornhedge Manor, Harry Potter’s newly claimed ancestral estate nestled in the misty hollows between wildflower-covered hills and ancient blackthorn groves. The manor was unlike anything he'd ever dreamed of: ivy-wrapped towers, obsidian gargoyles perched on every ledge, and gothic rose windows that shimmered with pastel hues at sunrise. The greenhouse was wild and overgrown, teeming with magical flora, and the library was stuffed with leather-bound volumes on subjects Hogwarts wouldn’t dare let first-years touch.

And it was entirely his.

Harry had spent the summer exploring his new home with an excited diligence that startled even the manor’s resident house-elf, Vellum. He read by candlelight in the attic library, tried on every shade of charcoal lipstick in the master suite's walk-in vanity, and tended his carnivorous herb garden with joy. But nothing compared to the time he spent with Ereshka—his dragon.

She had been no bigger than a cat when he placed the enchanted shrinking bracelet around her neck in first year, but over the summer, Harry had allowed her to grow in size while still maintaining control over her dimensions. At rest, she was the size of a small hound, with sleek, midnight-blue scales that shimmered like oil and spines tipped in faint lavender. Her wings were glossy and translucent, resembling storm-stained glass. And her eyes—those glowing amethyst orbs—watched Harry with protective devotion.

The bond they shared was more than magical; it was emotional, spiritual. Harry could speak to her, not just because he was a Parselmouth, but because they understood one another. She had hatched in fire and shadows. So had he.

She followed him around the manor like a loyal familiar, curling around his shoulders while he read, or flying graceful circles above the rose garden as he sketched outfit designs for his second year.

Daphne, Theo, and Blaise wrote frequently—letters delivered on scented parchment with careful cursive and pressed flowers. Daphne was trying out new styles inspired by the Goth Fae catalog Harry had shown her. Theo had started sketching again and sent Harry a charcoal drawing of Ereshka, which Harry framed in silver.

Blaise sent enchanted lip gloss that shifted color with the weather.

The four of them were a growing constellation of ambition, mischief, and defiant grace.

As the summer waned, Harry found himself dreaming less about the Dursleys or Wool’s Orphanage and more about the future—about carving a place in a world that had tried to shape him into something quiet and obedient.

He would not be quiet. He would not obey.

And neither would Ereshka.

The Return to Hogwarts

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was alive with steam and excitement as students bustled about in black robes and trunks clattered on the ground. Owls hooted from their cages. A first-year dropped her chocolate frog, which leapt into someone’s hair.

Harry stood out immediately.

Dressed in a ruffled lavender blouse under a tailored waistcoat the color of stormclouds, his skirt fluttered like petals of nightshade around tall lace-up boots. His hair was longer, carefully braided on one side, adorned with a clip shaped like a skeletal butterfly. Perched atop his trunk, Ereshka—currently bracelet-shrunken to a purse-sized lap dragon—curled around a tea-colored parasol with disdainful elegance.

As he boarded the train, people stared.

As always.

But now, they whispered in awe.

The compartment door slid open.

"Room for two more?" Theo asked with a smirk, Blaise beside him in a velvet coat lined with silver trim.

"Make that four," Daphne said, appearing behind them in a corset-inspired robe in deep moss green, lined with lace.

Harry smiled.

Second year had begun.

And the world wasn’t ready.

Chapter Text

Chapter seventeen: Return to Whispers

The Hogwarts Express chugged steadily along the tracks, the low hum of excited chatter mixing with the occasional burst of laughter. Sunlight filtered through the windows, glinting off polished trunks and casting soft shadows on the floor. Inside one of the rear compartments, Harry sat with his legs tucked beneath him on the cushioned bench, Ereshka curled neatly around his shoulders like a living, breathing stole. The dragon purred softly, puffing curls of sweet-smelling smoke.

Opposite him sat Daphne Greengrass, flipping through the latest issue of Witch Weekly Underground, while Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott argued over who had packed the better sweets. The air felt warmer here, more comfortable than last year. Their group—the Inner Four, as some students had started calling them with varying degrees of jealousy and awe—had settled into something solid, a quiet confidence wrapping around them like silk and steel.

"Do you think they'll ever fix the Vanishing Staircase in the North Wing?" Daphne asked idly, flipping a page. "I heard a second-year got stuck there for six hours during exams."

"Only because Peeves kept throwing ink bottles at everyone who tried to help," Theo muttered. "It’s cursed. Probably by the original architect."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You mean the one who tried to enchant the castle to rearrange itself every full moon?"

"Exactly. Mad genius. Emphasis on mad."

Blaise popped a chocolate-covered licorice wand into his mouth. "So what's the new school-wide panic going to be? The teachers solved the unicorn attacks and put new wards in the Forbidden Forest, and nobody’s whispering about trolls or three-headed dogs anymore."

Daphne lowered her magazine. "Did you hear about the books vanishing from the Restricted Section?"

Harry tilted his head. "That’s new."

"Apparently, three books on ritual magic and soul-binding went missing over the summer. Madam Pince is ready to hex someone into next week. And the portraits around the library have been refusing to talk."

Theo frowned. "That's bad. The portraits are always gossiping. If they're quiet, it means something spooked them."

Harry exchanged a glance with Daphne. "Do they have any suspects?"

"Not officially," Blaise said. "But there are whispers it might be one of the seventh years. Someone from a Dark family trying to find something dangerous before graduating."

"I thought we were done with secret plots," Harry said with a dramatic sigh, leaning back and letting Ereshka nuzzle his cheek. "Can’t I have just one year of pretty robes and tea in the greenhouse?"

Daphne smirked. "You’re at Hogwarts. We’re lucky the staircases don’t collapse in protest."

As the train sped onward toward their second year, the mystery of the missing books lingered like the faint scent of ash in the air. And while Harry didn’t yet feel the weight of another battle, he had a sinking suspicion that whatever had begun in the quiet corners of the library hadn’t ended there.

It was going to be another interesting year.

Chapter Text

Chapter eighteen : Charms and Charades

The golden carriages slowed to a stop before the grand front doors of Hogwarts, and the second years filed out with less nervousness than the previous year—but no less anticipation. The enchanted lanterns lining the courtyard flickered in the twilight as the first years were ushered away to their boats.

Harry stepped gracefully from the carriage, his boots clicking softly on the stone path. He wore his updated uniform, complete with soft black lace trimming his sleeves and a faint silver shimmer embroidered into the hems of his robes. Beside him, Daphne had chosen a matching ensemble in dark lilac, the lapels of her cloak adorned with thorn-shaped brooches. Theo and Blaise followed just behind, the four of them moving like a gothic stormcloud with perfect coordination.

"Back for round two," Theo murmured, eyes scanning the crowd of returning students.

"Hopefully without the screaming trolls this time," Blaise added dryly.

As they approached the Great Hall, the doors opened to the familiar warmth and golden candlelight. The Sorting Ceremony came and went quickly for the second years, but not without some curiosity about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

Professor Lockhart entered the room with a sweeping gesture, his flowing lavender robes sparkling with charmed glitter and his hair gleaming unnaturally bright.

"Charmed to meet you all again!" he announced dramatically, bowing to the staff table and smiling his blinding smile at the students. "I, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award—will be your guide to all things dark, dangerous, and dazzling this year!"

Harry blinked slowly. "I think I’m going to be ill."

Daphne snorted into her goblet. Theo looked vaguely concerned. Blaise stared at Lockhart like he was a museum exhibit.

As dinner went on, whispers stirred among the Slytherin table. The professors seemed on edge, and not just because of Lockhart’s overwhelming presence. There were murmurs of a new problem at the castle, a problem that hadn’t been solved over the summer. Books—important, powerful ones—were still vanishing from the Restricted Section of the library, even though the area was supposed to be heavily warded.

"It’s not Peeves," Theo said quietly as they made their way to the common room. "The wards are too precise. It’s someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone with access."

"A student?" Daphne asked.

"Maybe. Or a professor." Blaise tapped his chin thoughtfully. "It started last spring, didn’t it? Around the time Lockhart was hired."

Harry’s eyes narrowed. "Too much glitter to trust."

They shared a look and decided—without speaking—to keep a close eye on their DADA classes.

The first Defense Against the Dark Arts class of the year was just as loud and ridiculous as expected. Lockhart had set up an elaborate display of signed photographs, glossy books with his face on them, and floating pink quills for note-taking.

He began by giving them a pop quiz—not on magical theory, but on his own books.

"Question One: What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?"

Harry rolled his eyes. Daphne yawned. Theo scribbled in the margins, help me. Blaise didn’t bother lifting his quill.

Lockhart seemed disappointed at their lack of enthusiasm but pressed on, eventually letting them duel some very obviously staged Cornish pixies.

As the pixies were unleashed and chaos erupted, Harry waved his wand with elegance and murmured, "Aresto Momentum."

The pixies froze mid-air.

Lockhart blinked. "Oh! Well done, Mr.—ah, Miss—"

"It’s Harry," he said sweetly, brushing a lock of hair from his kohl-rimmed eyes. "Boy Who Lived, remember?"

The entire class snorted.

After class, the four Slytherins lingered. Blaise discreetly pointed out that Lockhart’s office was just around the corner—and perhaps it was worth checking what sort of books he kept.

"Let’s not accuse him just yet," Harry said. "But I agree... something smells off."

"You mean the glitter hairspray?" Daphne deadpanned.

"Exactly."

The investigation had officially begun.

Chapter Text

Chapter nineteen: Lace and Obsession

It had been a week since term began, and things at Hogwarts felt almost too calm. No forbidden corridors, no angry trolls—just the soft shuffle of parchment, the clink of cauldrons, and the rustling of changing leaves. Harry had settled back into the school rhythm effortlessly, now wearing a velvet-trimmed blouse with flared cuffs and an obsidian pendant in the shape of a raven skull. His boots shone, his lip gloss gleamed, and his parasol, today plum with silver lace, tilted just slightly as he walked the halls with purpose.

Daphne Greengrass kept pace beside him, wearing a wine-red corset vest over a lace turtleneck and a pleated skirt stitched with tiny crystal bats. She matched Harry’s style with her own flair—dark, elegant, and intimidating. It had become a statement: House unity, yes, but make it fashionably threatening.

Theo and Blaise trailed a step behind, both in tailored robes with rings and brooches to match the rest of their circle. It was clear by now that the Slytherin aesthetic had shifted—and Harry was at the center of it.

But something was… off.

"She’s watching again," Daphne said without looking.

Harry didn’t have to ask who.

From across the courtyard, Ginny Weasley stood half-shielded behind a column, pretending to read a book upside-down. Her eyes never left Harry.

"I thought it was just nerves," Harry muttered, "but she’s been following me since Tuesday. I caught her trying to peek into the Slytherin common room entrance."

Theo frowned. "Yesterday, she was behind a tapestry in the East Hall. She dropped a comb when she ran."

"With your name carved into it," Blaise added, tone clipped.

Harry groaned. "Why is it always me? Is it the eyeliner?"

"Could be the skirts. Or the cheekbones. Or the fact that you radiate tragic fae prince energy like it's a curse," Daphne offered.

"It’s not the attention that bothers me," Harry said quietly. "It’s what she wants to do with it."

They all paused.

Because they knew what he meant.

Ginny wasn’t interested in Harry. She was obsessed with changing him.

In the Library

"She doesn’t want to date me," Harry whispered. "She wants to fix me. Make me wear trousers. Hide my jewelry. Be the Boy Who Lived like she read in bedtime stories."

Theo clenched his jaw. “That’s not love. That’s delusion.”

"She calls me 'he' like it’s a rescue mission," Harry said, flipping a page of his textbook. "I don’t even mind being called ‘he.’ I mind that she thinks being feminine is something I need saving from."

Daphne set her tea down a bit harder than necessary. "If she puts one more foot in your shadow, I’m hexing her shoelaces into snakes."

Blaise grinned. "Too subtle. Just turn her eyebrows neon pink."

Later That Evening

Harry was heading down to the dungeons when he felt the sensation—eyes on his back. He turned quickly and caught her again.

Ginny Weasley, standing silently in the hallway, not even pretending anymore.

"Can I help you?" Harry asked, voice crisp.

Ginny’s cheeks flushed. “You shouldn’t wear that.”

"I didn’t ask your opinion."

"You’re the Boy Who Lived!" she blurted. "You should act like it! Brave, noble—normal!"

Harry blinked slowly. "I am brave. And noble. And if you think ‘normal’ means dull and drab, I’ll take being a glorious weirdo in knee-high boots, thanks."

Ginny’s eyes glistened. "But I love you—"

"You don’t love me," Harry said, stepping closer, voice dropping to a whisper edged with steel. "You love who you think I am. And I’m not interested in dating someone who hates how I express myself."

She fled, red hair flying.

Theo emerged from the shadows.

"You handled that well," he muttered.

Harry sighed. “That doesn’t mean it’s over.”

That Night, in the Gryffindor Girls' Dormitory

Ginny clutched her diary tightly.

He’s not supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to need me. I could make him perfect. I could make him real.

The diary pulsed softly in her hands.

You will. Just keep writing.

Chapter Text

Chapter twenty: Green-Eyed Shadows

Theodore’s POV

Theodore Nott wasn’t the kind of boy to get jealous. Not really. He was a Slytherin, for Merlin’s sake—cool, composed, and always a step ahead. But something about the way Ginny Weasley looked at Harry made his spine itch.

It wasn’t just admiration. No, Daphne admired Harry. Blaze appreciated him. Even Snape seemed to tolerate him. But Ginny’s gaze held obsession, and it was starting to feel personal.

He first noticed it at breakfast. The redhead’s eyes trailed Harry like a predator’s—focused and possessive. Her fingers clutched the spoon too tightly. When Harry laughed at something Theo whispered to him, Ginny’s scowl twisted, sour and furious.

That would’ve been fine. Creepy, but fine. Except Ginny had started following them.

Theo was not imagining things. He’d tested it. Paused in hallways, turned corners abruptly, circled staircases. Each time, Ginny appeared within moments—pretending to read a book or pet a ghost-pale cat that wasn’t hers.

When Harry wasn’t looking, she glared at Theo. As if he were in the way.

So when Harry mentioned going to the greenhouses after dinner for a bit of moonlight sketching, Theo offered to escort him. And then—because he knew the kind of girl Ginny Weasley was—he doubled back after Harry went in. Just in time to catch her sneaking through the hedges.

“I knew it,” Theo muttered.

Ginny froze halfway behind a vine-covered wall.

“You’re not very good at being subtle,” Theo said, stepping into the torchlight. His voice was smooth, but his hand hovered near his wand. “Do they teach stalking in Gryffindor or is that a Weasley tradition?”

“I’m just taking a walk,” Ginny snapped, her cheeks coloring.

Theo raised a brow. “Through restricted gardens? Convenient. Want to explain why you’ve been following Harry everywhere? Or should I let Daphne handle it? She’s better at hexes.”

Ginny clenched her fists. “I’m not following him. I care about him! He’s the Boy Who Lived—he needs someone to protect him. You’re all trying to corrupt him with your... your eyeliner and devil clothes.”

Theo’s lips twitched. “He doesn’t need protection. He’s not a porcelain doll. He’s a dragon-tamer. A potion prodigy. And he’s ten times stronger than you’ll ever be.”

Ginny’s face twisted. “He’s supposed to be a hero. A man. He wears skirts! He should be with someone who brings him back to the light. Someone like me!”

“And there it is,” Theo said coldly. “You don’t want Harry. You want to fix him. Shame for you—he isn’t broken.”

Ginny lunged forward, but Theo blocked her with a well-practiced step sideways.

“I see you near him again without his consent,” he said, voice dropping to ice, “and I won’t be polite next time.”

Ginny opened her mouth, but Theo had already turned on his heel, vanishing into the night with the quiet menace of a striking shadow.

Inside the greenhouse, Harry hummed softly under his breath, sketching glowing mushrooms. He looked up and smiled when Theo returned.

“Everything alright?”

Theo settled beside him with a sigh. “Better now.”

And he meant it.

Ginny’s POV

It wasn’t fair.

Ginny Weasley had grown up hearing stories of Harry Potter. The boy with the lightning scar. The chosen one. He was supposed to be hers. Not some strange, lace-wearing boy-princess who made the Daily Prophet whisper about ‘unorthodox heroes.’

She watched him every day. How he moved through the castle like he belonged in a storybook—but not the one she had wanted. He wore corsets and lip gloss. He danced when he walked. He should’ve been hers.

Her dreams were full of him. Saving her. Loving her. Looking normal.

So she followed. Not to be creepy. Just to understand. To remind him of who he used to be—or who he should become.

When she heard him say he was going to the greenhouses, she’d waited until sunset and crept through the side hedges. Her plan? Talk to him alone. Reason with him. Remind him that someone normal still loved him.

But instead of Harry, she found Theodore Nott. The shadow prince of Slytherin.

He caught her with a single sentence, and every word after that only twisted the knife.

Ginny’s fists shook as he dismissed her—called her twisted. He didn’t understand. None of them did. Harry was bewitched. The Slytherins had gotten into his head. Painted his nails and changed his clothes.

Theo had no right to judge her. He didn’t know what it was like to need someone.

Still, she stood frozen as he left her in the garden. Her cheeks burned, her throat thick.

Harry didn’t need to know about this. Not yet.

But soon. Soon he would see who truly cared.

And when he did, she’d be waiting.

Chapter Text

Chapter twenty-one: Whispers and Stone

The air was crisp with the bite of autumn, scented with candle wax, woodsmoke, and the tang of spiced cider. The Samhain celebration hosted by the Hogwarts faculty had been a curious blend of eerie tradition and festive warmth. Enchanted jack-o'-lanterns hovered over the courtyard, and spectral dancers drifted through the air to the sound of ghostly violins. Harry had worn a cobwebbed cloak with silver accents and a veil of twilight gauze. Daphne matched in smoky chiffon with raven feathers braided into her hair, while Blaise wore obsidian robes with spider brooches at his collar, and Theo kept to sleek, sharp tailoring with subtle batwing embroidery.

The celebration had been... perfect. For a while, at least.

As the group walked back toward the castle, lanterns flickering around them, the festive glow began to dim. Murmurs drifted from up ahead, and shadows collected thickly in the corridor near the Entrance Hall.

"Something's wrong," Theo said, frowning.

They quickened their pace, the four of them sticking close together as they came to a halt just outside the entrance to the dungeons. A crowd had gathered near the stone wall, where torchlight danced erratically across a grotesque scene.

Mrs. Norris was hanging stiffly from a bracketed torch. Her eyes were wide, glassy, and unseeing. Her body was frozen, as though turned to stone.

Gasps echoed around the students. A few of the younger ones were crying. Professor Filch's wails rang shrill through the hallway as he pushed through the gathering crowd.

"My cat! My poor, precious Mrs. Norris!"

And then came a voice that grated like nails on slate.

"It was him!" Ron Weasley shoved past a knot of Hufflepuffs, pointing a finger directly at Harry. "It had to be him! He was here! He always is when something freaky happens. He probably hexed her. Or—he talks to snakes! He’s evil!"

Harry blinked slowly, raising one arched brow. His makeup was still perfect.

"Are you suggesting I carry a bag of Basilisk venom in my glitter purse, Weasley?"

A few snickers rippled through the crowd, but Ron’s face only turned more purple. "I don’t know what you do in that creepy little Slytherin lair of yours, but you’ve got everyone fooled! You’re not normal, Potter. None of this is!"

Daphne stepped between them like a queen descending from her throne. "You're one to talk about normal, Weasley. Weren’t you the one who dragged Harry into a girl's bathroom to fight a troll last year?" Her tone was frosted with disdain. "He saved everyone. Again."

"That doesn’t mean he didn’t do this!"

Theo crossed his arms, his eyes dark. "Do you even hear yourself? You sound deranged. You don't even know what petrification magic looks like. That wasn’t a hex. That was something ancient."

"Exactly," Blaise said smoothly, inspecting his nails. "And unless Potter has suddenly become a thousand-year-old Dark wizard, perhaps you should go yell at someone else. Preferably far, far away."

A hush fell as Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Flitwick stormed onto the scene. Snape was the first to speak.

"Silence. Clear the hall. No one touches the cat."

Filch was still crying, cradling Mrs. Norris as if he could somehow thaw her frozen frame.

McGonagall’s sharp gaze swept the crowd, but it settled on Ron.

"Mr. Weasley, kindly explain your accusation."

Ron hesitated. "I—I saw him near it. That’s all."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Were you following Mr. Potter, perhaps?"

Ron’s ears turned red.

"That’s enough," McGonagall cut in. "There is no evidence Mr. Potter had anything to do with this incident. Five points from Gryffindor for making a baseless accusation."

Harry tilted his head toward Daphne and whispered, "Only five?"

"Let him hang himself with his own rope," she whispered back.

The teachers began herding students away, clearing the area to inspect the scene more closely. The four of them—Harry, Daphne, Theo, and Blaise—retreated together down a quieter corridor.

"That wasn’t a curse," Blaise said once they were alone. "That was something... deeper. Ancient."

Theo frowned. "We need to look into it. There’s something under the castle. Something waking up."

Harry didn’t say anything. He just looked back down the hall toward the spot where Mrs. Norris had been found, a sense of cold certainty prickling under his skin like frost.

Something had begun.

Chapter Text

Chapter twenty-two: Stillness in the Stone

The stone corridors of Hogwarts had never felt so silent.

A few hours had passed since the discovery of Mrs. Norris—the caretaker’s cat—hanging from a torch bracket like a grotesque trophy, her body stiff, her fur dull, her glassy eyes wide in unseeing horror. The message still gleamed above her, written in some glistening red ichor that had yet to dry:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Harry, Daphne, Blaise, and Theodore had been there when it was discovered, just returning from the Samhain celebration tucked within a shadowed niche of the lower castle grounds. It had been a good night—a strange one, with odd energies in the air and flickers of ancient magic curling through the bonfires and veils of incense. But that calm was gone now.

Now, there was only stillness. Uneasy, unnatural stillness.

In the Slytherin Common Room

“She didn’t die,” Daphne said, perched on the couch closest to the green fire. Her boots were still damp from the grass outside. Her dark makeup was smudged from smoke and wind.

Harry sat across from her, a loose velvet robe slipping from one shoulder. The flickering flames caught on the metallic accents of his corset belt and the gleam of the tiny silver spider earrings he’d worn for the celebration.

“She’s not dead,” he echoed. “But it was no spell I’ve ever read about. Pomfrey couldn’t even wake her. She said it was like she was turned to stone.”

“Exactly like it,” Theo muttered from the shadows beside the fireplace. His arms were crossed, his head tilted. He looked more thoughtful than afraid, but the tension around his mouth said he was watching everything too closely.

Blaise, lounging elegantly with a cup of enchanted spiced cider, twirled his wand between his fingers. “The writing on the wall was theatrical. If someone wanted to scare the school, they succeeded. But why her? Why the cat?”

“A warning,” Harry said, voice distant. “A message to the students. Enemies of the Heir... whatever that means.”

“And who is this 'Heir' supposed to be?” Daphne asked, brow raised. “It sounds like old pure-blood propaganda.”

Theo was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “There are stories. My father used to talk about them, before he was imprisoned. About Salazar Slytherin building a secret chamber that only his heir could open.”

Daphne blinked. “Wait. You think this Chamber of Secrets is real?”

Theo looked at her. “After what we’ve seen? I’d say it’s likely.”

Harry frowned. “Why would someone open it now? What’s changed?”

Blaise gave him a knowing look. “You came to Hogwarts.”

The words hung in the air like cold mist.

Elsewhere in the Castle

McGonagall paced before the staff room fireplace, her tartan robes fluttering with each turn.

“This wasn’t a prank,” she said firmly, her voice edged with fury. “This was an attack.”

Severus Snape stood at the mantelpiece, eyes narrowed, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“It mirrors the legend too perfectly to be coincidence,” he murmured. “The Heir of Slytherin. The warning. A petrification, not a killing. They want to spread fear, not casualties... yet.”

Lockhart, beaming despite the circumstances, interjected from his chair with a too-polished grin. “Yes, well, I’ve dealt with similar matters, of course! Harpies in Hogsmeade, banshee curses in Bruges—”

“You mean the incident where you gave yourself food poisoning trying to prove banshees prefer pumpkin juice?” Flitwick asked delicately, not looking up from a floating dossier.

Lockhart cleared his throat. “I’m simply suggesting that a visible figure of authority should make an address to calm the children. I’d be more than happy to do it.”

Sprout snorted. “Right. You can calm them while the rest of us solve the actual problem.”

Back with Harry and the Others

The four Slytherins remained in the common room long after most others had gone to bed. Ereshka, the tiny silver-scaled dragon curled around Harry’s shoulders like an oversized necklace, let out a soft puff of smoke and nuzzled under his hair.

“You don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you?” Harry asked.

Theo shook his head. “Something wants to stir the old bloodlines. Something old. Something angry.”

Blaise frowned. “And something dumb enough to think attacking a cat would achieve anything.”

Daphne stared at the flickering emerald flames. “Not dumb. Strategic. Next time, it might not be a cat.”

They fell into silence again, the kind only kindred souls could share. It was cold in the common room. The fire helped, but not enough.

Something dark had begun.

And it was far from over.

Chapter Text

Chapter twenty-three: Blades and Masks

The morning after the petrification of Mrs. Norris was no quieter than the night before. Though Filch had been calmed and the hallway scrubbed clean, the rumors refused to be wiped away so easily. Whispers hissed through every corridor like wind through broken glass. The words "Heir of Slytherin" clung to every conversation like mold on old parchment.

But Harry, Daphne, Blaise, and Theodore refused to be distracted from their routine. They sat together at breakfast, ignoring the wide berth their classmates gave them.

"You'd think we turned her to stone with a glare," Blaise muttered, sipping his tea. "I’ve seen more intelligent logic from a Flobberworm."

"Don't insult the Flobberworms," Daphne said absently, skimming through the Daily Prophet. "They at least contribute to the ecosystem."

Harry twirled his spoon in his porridge, expression unreadable. He hadn’t slept well—not because of guilt, but because he was so tired of being everyone’s suspect, scapegoat, or savior. The only thing keeping him grounded was the steady presence of his friends and the cool weight of Ereshka’s tiny coiled form in the inner pocket of his robes.

From the staff table, Lockhart’s voice rose, annoyingly chipper. “I have the perfect solution to raise morale!”

“Oh no,” Theo groaned.

Lockhart clapped his hands. “A Dueling Club! A chance for our young witches and wizards to defend themselves, to grow strong—and to witness greatness firsthand!”

There was groaning from students all across the hall, but Dumbledore nodded sagely, his eyes glinting too brightly.

“Indeed, an excellent idea. Perhaps… illuminating,” the Headmaster said, gaze sliding briefly to Harry before returning to his lemon tart.

Harry met Dumbledore’s stare with calm defiance. He knew that tone. The dueling club wasn’t to teach—it was to bait.

Later that Evening: The Dueling Club

The Great Hall had been cleared and a long, narrow stage erected. Torches flickered on the stone walls, casting long shadows and making everything feel more theatrical than educational. Lockhart stood front and center, preening like a magpie.

“Welcome, students! Today, we begin our journey into the noble art of dueling! No curses beyond tickling, no maiming—unless you’re certain you can fix it. Now, let me introduce my assistant—Professor Snape!”

There were gasps. Snape looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Professor Snape has graciously agreed to demonstrate the proper dueling technique with me!”

He raised his wand.

Snape didn’t even let Lockhart finish his flourish. A sharp spell sent the peacock-fool flying backward into a stack of cushions.

"Perhaps... someone else would care to duel?" Snape drawled, already bored. His eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on Harry for just a moment.

Pairs were chosen. Blaise and Theo stood close, prepared for anything. Daphne coolly adjusted the black lace choker Harry had given her, while Harry stepped up, partnered with Ron—who immediately tried to back away.

“Why do I have to go with him?” Ron complained. “He’s probably cursed!”

Snape arched an eyebrow. “Scared, Mr. Weasley?”

Ron’s ears went pink. “No!”

The duel was short.

Harry disarmed Ron with a flick of his wand and a muttered "Expelliarmus." Ron landed flat on his back, wand flying into Daphne’s waiting hand. She handed it back to Harry with a smirk.

“You dropped this.”

Ron scrambled up, red-faced and furious. “You cheated!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Daphne snapped. “He won. Get over it.”

“Show-off freak!” Ron shouted, but Snape’s wand flicked before Harry could even respond.

“Detention, Weasley,” he said lazily. “For unsportsmanlike behavior.”

Harry turned away, hiding his grin behind his hand.

Elsewhere…

In the shadows of the girls’ dormitory, Ginny Weasley clutched her diary close, her eyes glassy. She hadn’t written in it yet today, but it was whispering again. Soft, slick words that curled through her mind like ivy. Tom understood her. He knew what to say, how to make her feel important.

He loved her.

And he hated Harry Potter.

Just like she did.

No. Not hate. Not really. She loved him. She just needed to fix him. If only he’d stop wearing those horrible clothes and talking to that Slytherin girl. Ginny’s fingers curled tightly around the diary.

Tom promised he’d help. He’d show her how to make Harry see reason.

Soon.

Back in the Slytherin Common Room

“You realize Dumbledore’s trying to humiliate you, right?” Theo said as he flopped into the armchair beside Harry.

Harry peeled off his gloves. “Of course. But I’ve never been much good at being humiliated.”

Daphne stretched out on the couch, her boots resting on Blaise’s legs. “If he thinks parading you around like some dark circus act will scare us off, he’s miscalculated.”

“Big time,” Blaise agreed, handing Harry a licorice wand.

The fire crackled. Ereshka, snuggled in a black velvet pouch, let out a soft, contented trill.

Whatever plans Dumbledore or Lockhart had, they weren’t going to work. Because Harry wasn’t alone.

And Slytherins always took care of their own.

Chapter Text

Chapter twenty-four: Petals, Poems, and Proposals

By the third week of January, Hogwarts was thawing just enough to make room for gossip and spring ambition. And so, in a quiet corner of the Slytherin common room, four students gathered by candlelight to form a club like no other.

Harry, Daphne, Theo, and Blaise sat cross-legged with parchment and quills scattered between them. Dried rose petals perfumed the air, and an abandoned Herbology book lay open to the language of flowers.

"We need a name," Daphne said, chin in hand. She wore a pale pink ribbon in her hair today, looped through with black lace.

"Something elegant," Blaise added, flicking his quill dramatically. "But not too obvious."

Theo tapped his fingers against the table thoughtfully. "The Midnight Bloom Society."

Harry smiled. "Perfect."

And so it began.

The Midnight Bloom Society

At first, the club met once a week in an unused classroom filled with moon lilies, dusk roses, and bits of prose tacked to the walls. They read poetry. They created arrangements with symbolic meanings--bouquets for courage, apology, unspoken affection.

Soon, students from other houses peeked in.

By early February, the club opened its doors to anyone who could recite at least one piece of original poetry or identify three magical flowers. Two Hufflepuffs joined. A Ravenclaw brought pressed violets. Even a nervous Gryffindor girl asked if she could leave anonymous notes with her bouquets.

Daphne, precise and thoughtful, curated each bouquet. Blaise handled the business side. Theo managed the poetry board with a quiet intensity. And Harry? He was the heart of it all--equal parts elegance and rebellion, sitting in a swirl of pastel and darkness.

Then Valentine’s Day crept closer.

The Valentine Arrangement Sale

The club decided to create custom arrangements, complete with carefully curated verses and explanations of flower meanings. For a modest price of two Sickles per bouquet (and an extra if you wanted something truly unique), the business bloomed.

All week, students sent messages to each other through enchanted carnations and twilight hyacinths.

It drove Ron absolutely mad.

"They’re Slytherins selling flowers," he grumbled in the Great Hall. "How is no one seeing how evil this is?"

Hermione, red in the face, waved a stalk of foxglove. "Foxglove means insincerity, Ron! They’re sending people insincerity!"

"Actually," Harry said from his spot at the Slytherin table, sipping tea, "it depends on context. Foxglove can also mean 'energy' or 'creativity.' Maybe check your notes."

Ron sputtered. Hermione huffed. And the rest of the Great Hall giggled.

The Singing Gnome Incident

Valentine’s morning arrived. The air was thick with perfume and glitter. Pink streamers appeared out of nowhere. Cupids fluttered across the enchanted ceiling.

Harry was walking with Theo toward the dungeons when a singing gnome tackled his ankles.

"His eyes are green as basilisk bile,

His lips a pout, his clothes in style.

He flits through dreams on silken wings,

And oh! The joy his presence brings!"

Theo kicked the gnome.

"From your secret admirer," it wheezed before disappearing in a puff of heart-shaped smoke.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Ginny Weasley. Again."

"That poem was a crime," Daphne muttered, catching up with a bouquet of dusk roses for a fourth-year Ravenclaw. "A punishable one."

Theo's Confession

That evening, after the last bouquet had been delivered and the Midnight Bloom Society had finished sweeping up glitter and torn parchment, Theo lingered behind.

Harry was setting a final poem on the board:

Even the moon leans in to watch you sleep,

As if your quiet breath is a secret worth stealing.

Theo cleared his throat.

Harry turned, soft candlelight making his lashes glow silver.

"I was thinking," Theo said, voice low, "that maybe next time someone writes you a terrible poem, I could write you a better one. And maybe it could... not be anonymous."

Harry tilted his head.

Theo looked like he was about to flee the room.

But then Harry smiled.

"Only if you promise yours will rhyme less."

"Deal."

They left together, their hands nearly brushing.

And Hogwarts--for all its curses and chaos--felt briefly like the most magical place in the world.

Chapter Text

Chapter twenty-five: Petals in the Moonlight

The day after Valentine's was quieter in the halls of Hogwarts, but only just. There was still glitter clinging to stair railings and heart-shaped confetti lingering in windowsills like forgotten secrets. But while most students returned to their usual routines, the Midnight Bloom Society flourished.

Harry had taken to wearing a tailored coat today--stormy plum velvet with embroidered ivy curling up the cuffs and silver buttons shaped like roses. A lace cravat peeked from beneath the collar, matching the silver-and-black brooch he wore, etched with a sleeping fox. Theo had spent the night working on a new poem, claiming it wasn't much, but he blushed the moment he handed it to Harry before lunch.

To you, my moonlit mischief,More lovely than midnight orchids,Your laugh bends shadows into song,Your eyes eclipse stars.

Harry read it, then reread it, then tucked it safely behind his wand holster as though it were precious magic. Theo avoided eye contact for the next ten minutes, ears red.

Their little society had become the darling of several students by now, with other Houses reluctantly visiting their tucked-away nook near the fourth-floor courtyard. Their Valentine offerings had been a hit: customized flower bundles, each with a slip of parchment explaining the floral meanings, wrapped in silky ribbon. Now, more orders were arriving for anniversaries, birthdays, secret crushes--and a few passive-aggressive arrangements clearly meant to insult in the prettiest way possible.

They were rearranging the worktable when the light filtering through the courtyard windows danced with sunbeams, bouncing off wild shapes. A strange presence entered the room, floating rather than walking. A girl with straggly, waist-length blonde hair, pale silvery-blue eyes, and radish earrings stood at the doorway. She wore her uniform under a cardigan that had clearly seen better days, and her wand was tucked behind one ear.

"Is this where the moon flowers live?" she asked dreamily.

Harry blinked, then grinned. "Only after twilight, I think. But we’re their keepers in the meantime."

Daphne offered her a blossom. "You must be Luna Lovegood."

"Yes," Luna replied, gently taking the flower. "And you’re all bathed in fae magic. I could tell from the hall. It smells like stardust and violets."

Luna didn’t even flinch when Theo narrowed his eyes slightly or when Blaise raised a curious brow. Instead, she sat herself gracefully at their table, rearranged her cardigan, and pulled out a ribbon made from thestral hair.

That was the beginning of a new branch of the society. By the end of the week, Luna, Daphne, and Harry were known as the "Sable Sirens" – a trio of strange, fashionable, ethereal students who seemed too lovely for the mundane world of Hogwarts. Together, they experimented with floral fashion: petals sewn into cloaks, flower crowns made of raven lilies, and enchanted corsages that pulsed with tiny magical heartbeats.

Theo and Blaise watched from their spots like loyal knights beside queens, equal parts bewildered and enchanted.

Ginny's POV

Ginny watched it all with clenched fists under the library table.

Harry was supposed to be hers.

Even if he dressed like some faerie bride in mourning.

Even if he flitted around with Daphne and that lunatic Ravenclaw girl.

She hated that she still got butterflies whenever she saw him smile.

She hated that he never looked at her the way she imagined he would. That his eyes lit up for poetry, for boys, for clothes. For flowers and lace and weird, creepy dragons that followed him like overgrown lizards. He was supposed to be a hero. Her hero. But no. He just kept slipping further away from what she was promised in bedtime stories.

Only the diary understood. Tom understood.

He listened when she cried. When she raged. When she carved little hearts on parchment and burned them in secret.

He promised that she could fix it. That she could make Harry see.

Tom's POV

In the shadows of Ginny's soul, Tom smiled. He had stretched deeper into her mind with every spill of ink, every whispered word.

She was pliable now. His perfect vessel. And while the girl still resisted when awake, in sleep, she obeyed.

The castle was growing tense. Perfect.

Another body would be needed soon.

Someone important.

Someone close enough to shake the foundation of this place.

Already, the basilisk stirred beneath the floors.

Already, the next message was forming in her trembling hand.

Soon, the savior of Hogwarts would fall, and he would rise again.

Chapter Text

Chapter twenty-six: Thorns and Petals

The day after Valentine's Day dawned with dew clinging to the windows and mist curling around the edges of the castle grounds. The members of the Midnight Bloom Society were already gathering by the greenhouse, their flower carts and handmade poem scrolls in tow. While the rest of the school was still recovering from a sugar-induced haze, Harry, Daphne, Blaze, Theo--and their newest addition, Luna Lovegood--were already prepping the day’s arrangements.

Theo had barely spoken that morning, but his eyes kept drifting to Harry.

He hadn’t told anyone what had driven him to write the poem yesterday. It was a private storm--one of envy, admiration, and wonder. Watching Harry exist so openly, so confidently in his own skin, was like watching moonlight dance on water. Untouchable. Ethereal.

Theo’s hands had trembled when he handed Harry the poem, a simple folded parchment tucked between the petals of a blue anemone--anticipation. Harry had blinked at it, read it slowly, and then smiled. Not one of his usual cool, polite ones. A genuine, heart-cracking smile that Theo had stored away like a precious memory.

You remind me of twilight--quiet, unyielding, and impossible to look away from.

You bloom where others dare not sprout,

And I--tangled in your gravity--have grown thorns just to reach you.

Harry hadn’t said anything after reading it. Just leaned in and kissed Theo on the cheek before carrying on with his flower bundles. And that, somehow, had meant everything.

"Do you think we should add more hellebore to this bouquet?" Luna asked, tipping her head sideways at a delicate arrangement of black tulips and pale green roses.

Neville Longbottom, who had just joined the Midnight Bloom Society that morning, squinted thoughtfully at it. "Hellebore means scandal or protection from madness, depending on the color. I think it might be a bit much unless the person receiving it is the dramatic type."

"Which makes it perfect for Gryffindors," Luna said dreamily.

Harry laughed. Neville flushed. "I didn’t mean--"

"No, you’re right," Harry said, flicking a petal. "Especially when you remember Ron trying to hex a bouquet yesterday."

Daphne was lounging nearby, adding meaning cards to a stack of violets. "Honestly, if flower arranging is what they think evil looks like, I’m not sure they’ve ever actually met a real villain."

"They haven’t," Blaze muttered. "They’ve just met Harry. And it’s driving them mad that he doesn’t fit their story."

Neville looked around the group, clearly startled but comforted by their easy camaraderie. "So... you all just started this to share flower meanings?"

Harry smiled. "And poems. And to annoy people who think unity is a threat."

Neville snorted. "Sounds perfect."

That Night: The Chamber’s Whispers

Ginny Weasley didn’t sleep.

She clutched the diary to her chest in the dark, sweating despite the chill. Her heart beat too fast, her eyes wide with fractured emotion. Tom was getting stronger.

He whispered to her in dreams. Touched her mind like silk slipping over blades. When he was in control, things happened. Things Ginny didn’t remember.

And last night, under his will, she had opened the chamber again.

She didn’t recall the corridor. Didn’t recall the statue. Only the feeling of cold laughter echoing inside her skull and a flash of terror as the basilisk moved.

Some second-year Hufflepuff had ended up as stone.

And this time, there had been a scream.

Luna’s Thoughts

Luna liked watching Harry walk through the halls like he belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. Like a pastel ghost in glittering boots. Like the sky had dropped a star and it decided to dress itself in lace.

She liked Daphne’s quiet intensity and Theo’s wide, soft eyes. Blaze, for all his sarcasm, had a poet’s heart.

She felt drawn to them in the same way she was drawn to strange constellations and mythical creatures.

So she dressed boldly. Teal tights with bat patterns, a black mesh dress embroidered with moonflowers, and a necklace made of bone-shaped charms. No one else would understand--but Harry did. He had given her a flower crown made of silver-painted ivy that morning.

It felt like home.

By the end of the week, the Midnight Bloom Society had become more than just a club.

They were a statement.

House unity wrapped in velvet and thorns. Words woven like armor. And flowers blooming in rebellion against a world that tried to tell them who they should be.

And the whispers of the basilisk’s breath grew louder in the walls.

Chapter Text

Chapter twenty-seven: Petals and Shadows

The days leading up to March were soaked in cold mist and heavy skies, with whispers of the basilisk growing louder even as Dumbledore downplayed every concern. The school moved on around the fear like a polite cough during an awkward dinner. But the Midnight Bloom Society refused to dim.

Theo had grown bold since Valentine’s Day. His poem to Harry--pressed in rose-dyed parchment and wrapped in lavender sprigs--had been met with flushed cheeks and a soft smile that lingered in Theo’s memory like a sacred fire. Their hands brushed more often now, and though neither had spoken the word love, something in their silence was tender and deliberate.

Today, their club was working on a new project: a floral tapestry for the Entrance Hall. Students who walked in would be greeted with a swirling display of color and meaning. Each house contributed a quadrant: Slytherin offered night-blooming cereus for mystery, Ravenclaw added bluebells for imagination, Hufflepuff brought sunflowers for loyalty, and Gryffindor grudgingly sent in crimson poppies for passion.

The Midnight Bloom Society toiled in the corridor, surrounded by crates of stems, spell-glass pins, and parchment labels.

"This is looking divine," Luna said, twirling in her cloud-gray robes, the hem beaded with pearls. "Like a sleeping poem."

Harry, crouched beside Theo as he arranged hellebores into a crescent moon shape, chuckled. "Sleeping poem, huh? That might be the title of our next bouquet collection."

Daphne added a glittering ribbon to a wreath of lavender and sage. "We could do a seasonal series. Spring spells, summer dreams, autumn echoes."

Neville, who was carefully pressing forget-me-nots into a heart shape, lit up. "And we can use the meanings in the poetry club, too. Combine everything."

"Let’s call it the Blooming Archive," Theo offered.

Harry paused, glancing at Theo with a faint flush. "That’s... perfect."

But peace never lasted long in Hogwarts.

The club had just finished tacking up the last quadrant of their tapestry when a scream echoed down the hallway.

Students scrambled from all sides, crowding around the moving staircase. Peeves was the first to shout: "Another one's stiff as a statue! Filthy snake, slithering hate--might turn YOU to dinner plate!"

The body was Colin Creevey. Frozen mid-step, his camera hanging by its strap, lens cracked. This time, the stone was deeper--glistening with frost. A chilling shift in the basilisk’s power.

Madam Pomfrey, Professors Flitwick and Snape arrived within minutes, casting barriers and ushering students back. But the whisper storm had begun.

"They say he saw it through the lens--just a glimpse, and that was enough," Luna whispered as she clutched Harry’s arm.

Ron stood nearby, sneering as usual. "Funny how Potter’s always near when this happens."

Theo stepped forward, eyes cold. "Funny how you're never helpful. Must be exhausting trying to stay relevant."

Harry gently moved between them. "Not now. We need to get everyone back to the common rooms."

Despite the chaos, Theo noticed something in Harry’s stance--tense, coiled, protective. And he realized: Harry was scared. Not for himself, but for everyone else.

That night, while most students were locked away in their dormitories, the Midnight Bloom Society stayed in their hidden lounge. Lavender candles burned low. Tea steamed beside them.

"I want to do more than just arrange flowers," Harry finally said. "I want this club to be a sanctuary. We’re not just about petals. We’re about growth. Resistance. Joy."

Theo nodded. "Then let’s start with that. Let’s grow a way to fight the fear."

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a bundle of black violets, tied in copper wire.

"For strength in darkness," Theo murmured. "For you."

Harry took them, fingers trembling slightly. Then he looked up with a soft, fierce fire in his eyes.

"With you, Theo, I think we can do anything."

Outside, the castle groaned. The basilisk was still lurking in its ancient tunnels.

But in that hidden room full of blooms and courage, a resistance was quietly blooming.

Chapter Text

Chapter twenty-eight: Stone, Secrets, and Shadows

The end of the school year loomed over Hogwarts like a storm cloud.

Final exams were scheduled. Students rushed through the corridors with notes clutched in trembling hands, hearts pounding with the stress of grades--though this year, there was something more chilling than OWLs and NEWTs hanging in the air.

Rumors swirled like eddies in the Forbidden Forest wind.

Someone--or something--was turning students to stone.

Mrs. Norris, Colin Creevey, a few second-years Harry didn’t know by name… and now, most disturbingly, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger had been found outside the library, petrified and stiff, caught mid-argument.

The school was officially in lockdown.

But for Harry, things only got worse.

The Pull of the Chamber

Professor McGonagall called him into her office. Again.

“We’re not accusing you, Mr. Potter,” she said, her eyes steely, “but you were seen near every major incident. This cannot continue.”

Harry, dressed in a soft lilac blazer with embroidered lilies and moon motifs stitched in black thread, arched a brow.

“With all due respect, Professor, I’m not responsible for other people’s incompetence.”

She looked like she might scold him--but the glint of truth in his voice held her tongue.

He left the office with Theo waiting just outside, arms crossed, worry written all over his sharp features. Daphne and Blaise were farther down the corridor with Luna, who was balancing a floating lily crown on her head while humming something eerily beautiful.

Then the scream echoed from the second-floor girls’ bathroom.

The Descent

It was Ginny Weasley.

She was gone.

The only clue left behind was a trail of wet footprints and the eerie smear of muddy red on the bathroom sink. Luna noticed first that the tap had a rune carved beneath it--Parseltongue.

They didn’t wait for the staff. There wasn’t time.

Harry whispered, “Open,” and the wall shifted aside to reveal a yawning tunnel of serpentine stone.

“I’m going with you,” Theo said immediately.

“So am I,” said Luna, dreamy but resolute, her wand already glowing with a quiet charm.

“Absolutely not,” said Daphne, stepping forward in her forest-green boots, face pale but defiant. “You’re not doing this alone.”

Blaise nodded, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “We’ve come this far.”

And then…

“Wait for me!” came Lockhart, face pale and smile twitching. “As Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, it is my duty to--”

“--Make everything worse?” muttered Theo.

But Lockhart raised his wand the moment the tunnel closed behind them. “I really must insist--Memory Charm!”

It backfired spectacularly.

A piece of the ceiling, loosened by his shouted spell, crashed behind him, sending Lockhart flying into the stone and triggering his own spell. In a dazed whirl of glittering light, he erased his own memory with a satisfied, vacant smile.

Daphne and Blaise were pinned by rubble behind him.

“We’ll clear this,” Daphne called, eyes flashing with fury. “Go--save her!”

The Path to the Monster

Harry, Theo, and Luna pressed forward.

The tunnel was damp and lined with snake carvings, slick with time and sorrow. They passed skeletons--some too big to be anything human--and statues of serpents that watched with glittering, malachite eyes.

Theo walked at Harry’s side, tense, alert, protective.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Harry said softly.

“I’d rather die next to you than sit safely behind,” Theo whispered, just as soft.

Luna, behind them, murmured, “I think we’re being watched.”

They were.

But not by anything human.

The tunnel ended at an enormous set of fanged doors. Harry spoke again in Parseltongue, and they slowly creaked open.

They entered the Chamber of Secrets.

Columns of serpent-carved marble loomed on all sides. Water pooled around the floor like silver tears. And there, at the end of the room, was the statue of Salazar Slytherin himself--and Ginny Weasley’s still form lay at its feet.

But the true horror had yet to awaken.

A whisper slithered through the air: “Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four.”

And something ancient began to stir.

Chapter Text

Chapter twenty-nine : Fangs, Fire, and new Familiars

Tom Riddle's POV

He heard them before he saw them.

Footsteps, hesitant and too soft to be boys charging in on a heroic mission. There were three of them. One, tall and sharp-eyed, moved with a strange precision. The other followed behind with a half-dreaming sway to their step. And the last--

The last one made him pause.

Tom Riddle's mouth quirked in curiosity as he stepped from behind the massive feet of Salazar's statue. The girl in front--he assumed she was a girl--stood out. Dressed in black lace and pastel pink, her long dark hair framed her sharp green eyes like moonlight catching on a blade. But it wasn’t just her looks. It was something in the air around her. Power. Command. Purpose.

Riddle tilted his head.

This wasn’t the boy who lived. It couldn’t be. But Merlin, was she pretty.

"And who," he purred, his teenage voice echoing through the stone chamber, "are you, little shadows wandering into my memory?"

The supposed girl raised a brow. "You’re talking like you expect us to be afraid. Cute."

Theo stepped up, wand drawn. Luna's eyes were wide, glittering in the dim torchlight.

Tom looked amused. "You aren't what I expected. Especially you..."

His gaze slid back to the dark-haired child with silver glitter under their eyes and thick boots made for stomping expectations.

"You were supposed to be a Gryffindor boy. Not... this."

Harry gave a dramatic sigh. "Surprise."

Tom smirked. "Tell me your name, darling. I like to know who I’m about to kill."

"Harry Potter."

The silence was stunning.

Tom blinked, genuinely thrown. "You're--but you're a girl."

"No. I'm Harry Potter. I just dress better than you."

Riddle took a full step back, then laughed. It was sharp, brittle.

"Oh, delightful. You're clever. Sassy. Beautiful. And brave. Shame you're going to die."

He gestured behind him. The statue’s mouth creaked open with a sound like bones grinding together. Water trembled.

And the Basilisk slid from the shadows.

Theo grabbed Harry's arm. "This was a terrible idea."

Luna only stepped forward, wand raised. "Don’t look it in the eyes," she whispered.

Harry was calm. Too calm. He reached down and twisted the second shrinking bracelet from his wrist--a backup. Ereshka's shimmering presence was already crackling from his pack.

With a snap of his fingers, the tiny dragon leapt out, immediately expanding into her full, elegant form. Gleaming black scales, fire-tipped wings, and opalescent horns. Ereshka snarled.

Tom Riddle’s smile faltered.

"A dragon? You brought a dragon?"

"You brought a basilisk," Harry said. "Fair's fair."

The two monsters collided.

The Basilisk lunged. Ereshka met its fangs with a burst of fire. Scales clattered against stone. Theo pulled Luna behind a fallen column, covering them both with a shield charm as the battle tore through the chamber.

Harry watched. Waited. Whispered.

The serpent turned to him, mid-snarl. And something... changed.

Harry spoke. In Parseltongue.

"Stop. Look at me."

The Basilisk did.

Riddle stepped back. "No. No! You can't command her! She obeys me!"

"Come here."

The basilisk slithered to him slowly, its head lowered. Harry stepped closer, hand out, careful not to meet its gaze directly.

He whispered again, voice like silk over a blade: "Would you like a name?"

A low, rumbling hiss. A yes.

Harry placed the shrinking bracelet over one great fang. "Then you'll be mine. My familiar."

The magic surged. The bond sealed.

Tom screamed.

Ereshka whipped toward him.

"NO!" he bellowed, drawing the diary from Ginny's form, her limbs twitching. "You can’t--you were supposed to be weak! A pawn!"

Harry stepped forward, reached out. "Give it to me."

Tom faltered. Something in Harry’s voice made him obey. Made him hand over the diary.

Harry turned to his new familiar. "Please. Bite it."

The Basilisk crushed it between her fangs.

Tom screamed as black ink poured from his chest like blood. He dissolved into mist, then into nothing.

Ginny gasped.

And then it was over.

They returned in silence, Ginny pale and limp, but alive. Theo held Harry's hand tightly, never letting go.

Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Pomona were waiting.

Ginny was taken away by Madam Pomfrey.

Harry explained everything.

And as always, Ron and Hermione arrived late. Furious. Entitled.

"You should have waited for us!" Ron shouted.

"This isn’t about you," Daphne snapped, arms crossed.

"You made yourself the hero!" Hermione added.

Snape stepped forward. "Miss Granger. Mr. Weasley. From what I understand, you were told not to interfere after your last escapade ended in petrification."

McGonagall nodded. "The fact that you were uninvolved is the only reason you are not being expelled."

Ron turned red. Hermione looked like she’d swallowed a sock.

But Harry?

Harry smiled, eyes glittering beneath his lashes.

"For once," he said softly, "being underestimated worked in my favor."

Ginny recovered.

The school returned to normal.

And as exams passed and summer loomed, Hogwarts buzzed with a single name:

Harry Potter.

Not just the boy who lived. But the pastel goth Slytherin who wore velvet blazers and saved the school with a dragon, a basilisk, and sheer unflinching nerve.

And his friends? They stood with him. Always.

Chapter Text

Chapter 30– Blossoms After Battle

A Garden Grows from Ash

Hogwarts did not fall quiet after the events of the Chamber--it pulsed louder. It whispered more. Secrets drifted through the stone like perfume, thick and heady, laced with rumor and awe.

For the second time in two years, Harry Potter had faced death and emerged elegant, poised, and untouchable. He hadn’t done it with a wand raised in fury, nor had he charged in with a roar. No--he had faced the basilisk wearing a pastel lace blouse, speaking softly to ancient serpents and coaxing monsters into love.

And the school didn’t know what to do with that.

Theo’s Thoughts and Blossoming Feelings

Theo sat beside Harry in the library, watching him flick through books on serpentine care. Thalassia, the basilisk-turned-familiar, now resided in the expanded Chamber--tended to by spells and soothed by Harry’s voice.

Theo’s fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve as he tried not to stare.

When had he fallen this hard?

Was it the moment Harry, blood-streaked and winged, had cradled Ereshka and whispered lullabies into a burning lair? Was it when Harry had risked his life for a girl who had bullied him? Or was it the quiet way Harry read poems to rose bushes in the greenhouses?

Theo couldn’t say.

But he knew this: he was gone.

“Harry,” he murmured, passing him a velvet-wrapped box.

Harry blinked. “What’s this?”

Theo flushed. “A late Valentine’s. Or early solstice. I... couldn’t pick a moment.”

Inside was a silver hair comb carved like blooming nightshade, inlaid with amethyst. A message engraved on the stem: I see the garden in you.

Harry’s eyes shimmered. “It’s beautiful.”

Theo ducked his head, smiling. “So are you.”

The Final Midnight Bloom Project

Neville paced in front of the Midnight Bloom Society’s meeting circle. “We could end the term with something meaningful. Flower bundles for those who were petrified. Symbolic meanings. A healing charm sewn in.”

“Yes!” Luna exclaimed, her peony earrings bouncing. “Violet for calm, calendula for encouragement, and crocus for new beginnings.”

Harry added quietly, “And rosemary. For memory. For those who had to forget.”

Daphne passed out enchanted petals. “We write our messages in ink. They dissolve when touched by warmth.”

When the bundles were delivered the next day--hundreds of them--every corner of the castle smelled like spring. Even Peeves wept as he floated through a corridor drenched in lavender smoke.

Ron and Hermione’s Frustration

“They’re up to something. I know they are,” Ron muttered, glaring at a passing Slytherin.

Hermione huffed. “Arranging flowers. Writing poetry. How... Slytherin of them.”

“They’re stealing our spotlight.”

“They never had it to begin with,” a passing Hufflepuff girl snapped. “Harry did all the saving while you were frozen like a turkey.”

Ron turned red. “That’s not fair!”

But it was fair. And true.

The school remembered who had gone into the chamber. Who had walked beside a basilisk and returned with a dragon on their shoulder.

And it hadn’t been Ron or Hermione.

Leaving Feast – One Last Sting

At the leaving feast, Dumbledore’s smile was sharp.

“Ten points to Gryffindor for bravery. And twenty to Ravenclaw--for Luna Lovegood’s exceptional creativity. To Neville Longbottom--for bridging houses, thirty points.”

He paused. “And to the founders of the Midnight Bloom Society--for grace, courage, and an unparalleled display of house unity and ancient magic... One hundred points to Slytherin.”

Silence.

Then Slytherin erupted.

Harry turned to his friends and smiled. It wasn’t triumph. It was belonging.

Thornhedge Manor

The manor was carved into the cliffs of the Scottish highlands--curving spires of blackstone draped in ivy, floor-length stained glass depicting witches mid-ritual and serpents coiled in lilies. The magic here was old, breathing.

Ereshka flew freely over the moors, and Thalassia slithered in a massive subterranean sanctuary shaped with Harry’s magic and his plants. Moonflowers bloomed on every balcony, and a spiral greenhouse grew from a fallen tower.

Harry’s bedroom was round, domed in glass and stars. His wardrobe stretched an entire room--black lace, velvet, mesh, leather, silk. A throne of fashion.

Daphne, Theo, Blaise, Luna, and Neville visited weekly. The Midnight Bloom Society continued--digitally, magically, botanically.

And Harry rested.

The Letter

One night, Harry sat on his balcony with Thalassia’s head resting in his lap and Ereshka purring in a basket of moss. The moon hung heavy, casting pale light across the carved stone railings and glinting off his silver rings.

An owl, sleek and cloaked in starlight, swooped silently from the sky and dropped a thick envelope into Harry’s lap. The parchment was cold. Heavy. Embossed with a black and green seal--Gringotts.

Harry blinked, fingers grazing the wax stamp.

He didn’t open it.

He didn’t need to.

Something inside it... thrummed. Ancient. Familiar. Waiting.

He stood, the letter clutched tightly in one hand. The wind tugged at his sheer black robes, and the ivy on the balcony swayed as if whispering secrets.

Far below, the greenhouse lights shimmered like fireflies.

In the distance, thunder rolled.

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: The Letter part 2

The scent of lavender and smoke curled through the air.

Harry sat alone at the writing desk in the sunroom of the Potter estate, morning light pouring through the tall glass panes, filtered by the climbing vines that swayed just outside. The world was quiet, the kind of quiet that came only after something big--like the earth itself was holding its breath.

Thalassia coiled lazily near the windowsill, her sleek stone-scaled body rising and falling with each slow breath. Her eyes glimmered with intelligence and patience. Ereshka snoozed contentedly in a padded nest beside her, her wings twitching in her dreams.

The letter lay unopened on the desk.

Thick. Heavy. Sealed with green wax and the unmistakable crest of Gringotts.

Harry had ignored it for days.

He hadn’t forgotten it. Far from it. The letter hummed with magic that thrummed in his bones. His name was inscribed on the front in silver ink--Mr. H.J. Potter--and below it, a small insignia he’d never seen before: a stylized wolf curled protectively around a star.

Today, he decided, he would read it.

With careful fingers, Harry broke the seal.

The parchment inside was crisp and ornate, penned in flowing, ancient script:

To Mr. H.J. Potter,

We write to inform you that, in accordance with Vault Inheritance Protocol and the Ancestral Magic Accords of 1062, newly unearthed information concerning the affairs of one Sirius Orion Black--formerly of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black--has come to light.

You are requested to appear at Gringotts Wizarding Bank at your earliest convenience for private consultation with your Account Manager and relevant Records Keepers. A secure meeting chamber has been prepared.

Due to the delicate nature of this information, we recommend discretion and immediate action.

Kindly bring any current bonded familiars for identity warding registration and heritage alignment.

Gringotts Bank -- London Branch

~By order of Highwarden Griphorn, Director of Legacy Affairs

Harry read the letter twice.

Then once more.

Sirius Black.

A name he had only seen once--on a document in his vault, long buried in the margins. A name whispered through stories about betrayal, murder, and the war that shaped his world.

But this wasn’t just a name in a headline.

This was a door opening.

A secret unraveling.

Something inside Harry shifted. Not fear. Not hope.

Resolve.

He rose from the chair in one fluid motion, his silk dressing robe rustling behind him. He moved to the enchanted wardrobe and slid it open with a whisper. Inside, velvet and lace and leather awaited--elegant blacks, royal purples, ethereal greys.

Today he chose power.

He dressed with practiced grace, draping himself in Gothic finery: high-collared black coat, silver-detailed vest, violet cravat pinned with an obsidian brooch. He placed Thalassia into the wide, rune-woven handbag at his side, the snake curling into her chosen pocket like liquid shadow. Ereshka climbed into her place as well, blinking up at him with golden eyes before nestling into a soft bed of lavender buds.

"Ready?" he whispered.

Thalassia flicked her tongue. Ereshka gave a soft growl of agreement.

The air shimmered around him as he activated the warded portkey that had arrived with the letter.

And in a blink of wind and violet light--

He vanished.

Chapter Text

Chapter 32: The Meeting at Gringotts

The marble halls of Gringotts gleamed like bone beneath the flickering chandeliers. Harry’s footsteps echoed quietly, soft-soled boots clicking against the veined white stone, trailing the scent of crushed violets and ash behind him. At his side, the rune-stitched handbag housing Ereshka and Thalassia shifted ever so slightly, the dragon and basilisk nestled in their silken compartments, awake and watchful.

A goblin in high ceremonial armor met him near the vaultkeeper's stairs. His nameplate read Archivist Brimclaw.

“Mr. Potter,” he rasped, bowing from the neck only. “Your party awaits in the Blackstone Chamber. This way, if you please.”

Harry inclined his head, his expression unreadable, and followed.

The Blackstone Chamber was silent and dim, carved entirely from volcanic rock veined with silver. A massive table stretched across the center, warded and thrumming faintly with ancient magic.

Three goblins were already seated--Griphorn, the Director of Legacy Affairs; Ledgerblade, an archivist with papery skin and tiny reading glasses perched on his hooked nose; and Rinthscale, his personal account manager.

“Mr. Potter,” Griphorn greeted solemnly. “You received our letter.”

“I did,” Harry replied. His voice was calm, smooth, every syllable perfectly enunciated. “Sirius Black. Let’s begin.”

Rinthscale unfurled a scroll thicker than most textbooks and began to read.

“Sirius Orion Black, blood heir to House Black. Designated godfather to one Harry James Potter by magical oath and legally filed will.” He turned the page. “Falsely imprisoned in Azkaban without trial for the murder of twelve Muggles and one wizard--Peter Pettigrew. Evidence at the time was… circumstantial.”

“Because he laughed,” Harry said flatly.

Griphorn's lips curled. “Indeed.”

Ledgerblade placed a smaller, sealed scroll before Harry. “Here is a copy of your parents’ will. It names Sirius as your magical guardian in the event of their death. Albus Dumbledore sealed this will before it was filed. The Goblin Council only recovered it last month during our scheduled audit.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

“And Pettigrew?” he asked.

“Presumed dead. Left a finger behind,” Rinthscale said grimly. “No body. No trial. Just stories.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “And the escape?”

Griphorn nodded. “Sirius Black escaped Azkaban last month. Two days after we dispatched your letter. He has not attacked anyone. Nor made demands. Nor left a magical trace indicating hostile intent.”

Harry tapped a black-gloved finger against the table.

“And you believe he’s innocent.”

“We believe,” Griphorn said carefully, “that your godfather deserves a voice.”

A long silence passed between them.

Harry’s eyes were cold, but calculating. Not angry. Not afraid. Just thinking. Then:

“If I find him,” he said quietly, “I will speak with him. Under Veritaserum.”

The goblins inclined their heads in unison.

“And if he’s guilty?”

“I’ll turn him over myself.”

“And if he’s innocent?”

Harry’s lips twitched--just slightly.

“I have room at Thornehaven Hollow. He can stay. For now. Whether he remains will depend on his behavior.”

“Reasonable,” Griphorn said approvingly. “And what of Albus Dumbledore?”

“I imagine,” Harry said dryly, “he’ll throw a fit. But I’ll deal with him when the time comes.”

Thalassia shifted in the bag, sensing her master’s growing focus.

Ledgerblade slid a final scroll across the table. “Should you choose to pursue this course, we can activate the ancestral ward compasses to track Sirius Black through the Black bloodline’s link to your magical inheritance. He carries the ancestral ring.”

Harry nodded once, slowly.

“Do it.”

The chamber pulsed briefly as the scroll accepted Harry’s magical signature, glowing a deep shade of indigo before fading back to parchment.

Griphorn smiled with sharp teeth. “Then we await your return.”

Harry stood, smoothing his coat.

As he left the chamber, shadows dancing around his boots, the promise of confrontation curled inside his chest like smoke.

He would find Sirius Black.

He would uncover the truth.

But not yet.

Not today.

Today, he would return home, write in his journal, sip enchanted tea with rose petals, and sit in the garden beneath the thorn-covered trellis with his familiars.

Because tomorrow, the hunt would begin.

And Harry James Potter never hunted without a plan.

Chapter Text

Chapter 33: The Hunt Begins

Morning filtered gently through the high arching windows of Thornehaven Hollow, casting rippling shadows of ivy and blooming foxglove across the marble floor. It was not loud or demanding. It whispered. Like lace on the breeze. Like an omen dressed in perfume.

Harry Potter sat before his antique vanity--ornate and claw-footed, etched with black thorns and pearl inlay--watching his reflection.

Today was not for war.

Not yet.

But it was for something close.

On the vanity, his wand lay nestled between two perfume bottles--lavender and clove--beside a small tray of shimmering powders and golden jewelry. A soft knock at the door didn’t disturb him. Ereshka rustled softly from the chaise near the hearth, her eyes half-lidded. Thalassia curled silently on a sun-warmed cushion, the size of a coiled scarf, flicking her tongue as if she already knew what her master would do.

Harry rose.

He slipped into the gown with practiced ease--pastel periwinkle silk, flowing like captured mist, cinched slightly at the waist with a golden ribbon. The sleeves draped like poetry, open at the sides to reveal flashes of elegant forearms. Over this he fastened a dulled pastel violet shawl, its edges lined in soft gold trim and embroidered with tiny stars and crescent moons, each one catching the light as he moved.

His earrings were tiny golden stars, elegant and subtle. The headpiece, however, was unmistakable--a golden circlet, fine and regal, with an amethyst crescent moon resting just at the center of his brow, casting faint violet reflections over his emerald eyes.

He adorned his wrists in a set of gold bangles, soft chimes following each flick of his hands. Stockings white as snow, patterned faintly in swirling clouds, vanished beneath high-rise lavender boots stitched with constellations.

He sat again.

His makeup was a ritual: pastel periwinkle shadow dusted across his lids, gold glitter swept over the brow bone and inner corners of his eyes. A thin trace of black liner winged at the edges, making his eyes sharper, more pointed. Just a hint of rose on the lips. A final dusting of gold across his cheekbones.

He studied himself--this soft, deliberate elegance, this balance between myth and menace.

It was important to look exactly like this.

He was not hiding.

He never had been.

He descended the staircase with Ereshka draped across one shoulder like a velvet scarf, wings tucked, tiny horns shining. Thalassia curled in his handbag again, eyes slitted, coiled and ready.

“Griphorn has already sent the blood tracker,” he murmured to them both. “It’s time.”

Out the front doors of Thornehaven Hollow and into the twisting hedges of his private apparation circle, Harry turned once to look back at his estate.

No one could take this from him.

Not anymore.

The world may not understand him, but he had clawed out this place with grace and glitter and fury.

He spun on his heel.

CRACK.

He reappeared in a shadowed alley in a small village near Cairngorms--a jagged landscape of wind, forest, and lonely stone. The blood tracking compass he held--black obsidian rimmed in silver--quivered gently in his palm, the needle pointing east into the mist-wrapped forest beyond.

Ereshka let out a soft trill.

“I know,” Harry murmured. “He’s close.”

He moved like a dream, drifting through the rising fog, violet and periwinkle and gold against the grey. No one heard him. No one saw him. But the forest bent for him, leaves rustling low, moss softening beneath his boots.

The blood compass glowed.

And then--there. At the base of a ruined hunter’s cabin, smoke rising faint from inside.

A rustle. A shadow moved behind the broken wall. Harry raised a hand. Ereshka hissed low.

“Show yourself,” Harry said softly, but it carried like wind through trees.

A man stepped out, ragged, unshaven, his eyes hollow but sharp--grey and cold and brilliant. His wand hand twitched.

“I won’t run,” he said.

Harry stared at him. This wasn’t the man the Prophet had painted. This wasn’t a mad dog. This was someone shattered and sharp, held together by vengeance and grief.

“You’re Sirius Black.”

“I am.”

“You knew my parents.”

“I did.”

“You’re my godfather.”

“I was.”

Silence.

Harry reached into his coat and produced a vial. Veritaserum.

“Sit.”

Sirius didn’t argue.

By the end of the questioning, Sirius was shaking. His hands trembled as the potion wore off.

“You believed I betrayed them,” he said hoarsely.

Harry just looked at him. Not unkindly. But not gently, either.

“I believed what I was told. I believe something else now.”

Sirius looked away.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he rasped. “But if I can--stay--until it’s over--until I can clear my name--”

Harry turned.

“You’ll stay at Thornehaven Hollow,” he said calmly. “You’ll follow my rules. You’ll tell me everything. And if you prove untrustworthy, I will end this myself.”

Sirius looked like he might cry. But instead, he stood. Straightened. Bowed his head.

“Understood.”

Harry reached into his bag. Ereshka peeked out with a hiss. Thalassia shifted.

“I have space,” Harry murmured, eyes flashing gold under the falling dusk. “But not for lies.”

They walked away together. Two broken legacies. Two names buried in war.

Back at Thornehaven Hollow, as the moon rose above the thorns and curling branches, Harry set down a single letter on his desk--an invitation to a private meeting with Dumbledore.

He didn’t open it yet.

Instead, he sat before the window, moonlight on his face, and let the dragon and basilisk curl around his chair.

The hunt had begun.

And Harry Potter--beautiful, bitter, beloved by magic--was going to change everything.

Chapter Text

Chapter 34 – Roots and Rumors

Thornehaven Hollow, in all its eerie elegance, was not built for the broken.

It was built for those who bloomed in defiance.

And Sirius Black--mad, sharp, newly free--was struggling to bloom at all.

Thorns and Ashes

Sirius stood in the garden, shirtless beneath the early autumn sun, his ribs like brittle branches, his skin a canvas of prison rot and haunted memory. The wind curled through the tall hedges of ironroses--plants that looked like silvered steel but smelled of peppermint and fire.

Harry watched him from the study window, sipping warm jasmine tea with a twist of lavender. Beside him, Thalassia’s sleek, iridescent head rested on a windowsill pillow, and Ereshka blinked slowly from her perch high on a hanging swing made of black iron and vine.

It had been four days.

Sirius still flinched when doors closed. He wandered the Hollow at night, talking softly to paintings and touching the walls like he was trying to prove they were real. But he didn’t lie. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t beg.

And Harry was starting to believe in him.

"Let him rebuild," Daphne had said during their most recent Floo call. “Like we all did.”

So Harry had given Sirius a small wing of the estate, a room full of deep reds and old Gryffindor tapestries, and access to every library not marked with blood-sealed runes. In return, Sirius did his best to not fall apart.

They hadn’t discussed Pettigrew yet.

They hadn’t needed to.

Glass and Fire

On the fifth day, Harry descended into the vaults.

He walked past glowing plants in terracotta jars, past floating crystals, and into the Sable Gallery, where the truth was stored.

A Pensieve bubbled softly in the center of the room, beside a black marble pedestal with three items: a scroll from Gringotts, a list of Death Eater trials sealed by the Wizengamot, and a portrait of Regulus Black--Sirius's younger brother, who had once burned bright and fallen fast.

Harry stood still. He breathed. He thought.

It was time.

Later that evening, dressed in rich moss green with spider-lace sleeves and silver rings, Harry stood before the fireplace, parchment in hand.

It was a formal declaration.

An intent to summon the Council of Magical Law, as per ancient right of magical heirs wrongfully connected to criminal accusations. A relic of law unused in a hundred years--but still valid.

And Harry was invoking it.

“I’m not doing this for Sirius,” Harry said aloud.

Ereshka chirred from the chandelier.

“I’m doing it because I hate liars. And the Ministry’s full of them.”

He signed it.

Howlers and Headlines

Back at Hogwarts, word of Sirius Black's "connection" to Harry Potter spread like venom in tea.

The Prophet had run the headline that morning:

“POTTER HIDES WANTED FUGITIVE IN UNKNOWN LOCATION!”

The subheadline read:

“Boy-Who-Lived Seen with Former Mass Murderer; Ministry Issues Statement.”

Ron Weasley exploded over breakfast, slamming the paper onto the Gryffindor table. Hermione looked pale and furious.

“Why would he do that?! He’s probably been cursed!”

Ginny stared blankly at her eggs, whispering under her breath and doodling spirals around Mrs. Potter in her Herbology notes.

Meanwhile, Slytherin was oddly…quiet.

Daphne sipped pumpkin juice like it was wine. Blaise flipped the paper once, snorted, and muttered, “Idiots.”

Theo gripped his fork tight, but didn’t speak.

He hadn’t heard from Harry in two days.

And that worried him more than any news article.

The Letter and the Leak

That afternoon, Professor McGonagall summoned all Prefects and House leaders for a closed-door meeting in the staff tower. They returned ashen-faced.

Soon after, the whisper spread: the Ministry would be sending Aurors to Hogwarts “to assist with the situation.”

No one said it, but everyone knew.

They were coming for Sirius.

The next morning, another leak.

Not from the Prophet.

From Harry himself.

A printed letter, magically multiplied and dropped--fluttering like silver leaves--into every classroom, dormitory, and corridor.

It read:

“Sirius Black is not the traitor. Peter Pettigrew lives. The Ministry has failed us before. It is failing again.”

--Harry James Potter, Heir of House Potter and Champion of Verity

Chaos followed.

Dumbledore tried to ban discussion. That only made it worse. Professors Sprout and Flitwick, clearly displeased, whispered together in the corridors. Even Snape said nothing, which was more terrifying than rage.

And the worst part?

Sirius had shown up in Hogsmeade that very morning--hooded, gloved, standing behind a glamour--but unmistakable to anyone who looked closely enough.

He’d been seen.

Two Sides, One War

That night, Theo received a scroll from one of Harry’s enchanted hawks. The letter was short.

_“I'm coming to Hogwarts in three days. Have everyone ready. We will speak the truth.

Yours,

Harry”_

Theo stared at the parchment.

Outside, the wind howled over the lake.

Inside the dungeons, the Midnight Bloom Society met in secret, as Luna, Daphne, Neville, Blaise, and Theo all gathered with worried eyes and scattered petals.

The war was coming.

But this time?

It would be fought in light.

With poems. With magic.

With truth.