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Chapter Text

Privet Drive slept the way it always did: perfectly. Nothing out of place, no voices raised, no sign that anything strange could possibly live behind one of the neat white doors.

Except, of course, under the stairs.

Harry woke before dawn, jolting upright from a dream he couldn’t remember. His scar tingled, faint and awkward like an itch under the skin. The small cupboard was still dark, his blanket twisted around his legs. Old toy soldiers and broken Christmas decorations leaned in the shadows, their sharp edges waiting to catch on skin.

There was no sound upstairs yet. He had time.

Harry pulled on Dudley’s old t-shirt — so oversized it hung off one shoulder like drooping robes — and opened the cupboard door quietly. The hall was still. He moved like habit: silent, invisible, necessary.

He started breakfast without being asked. Bacon today — Dudley always demanded bacon when it was a “special day,” and today apparently was one. Harry scrambled eggs, buttered toast, worked the stove with practiced care.

By the time Uncle Vernon lumbered down the stairs, the kitchen smelled comforting. Harry didn’t look up. It was safer that way.

“Well,” Vernon muttered, looking him over with disapproval, “at least you can cook without burning anything for once.”

Harry didn’t reply. He’d learned silence won arguments better than words ever did.

Dudley thumped downstairs next, already complaining that his eggs weren’t fluffy enough, and Aunt Petunia swooped in behind him, fussing over her son like he was royalty.

Nothing unusual. Nothing kind.

Harry served plates. Nobody thanked him.

Harry waited until the last plate was served before quietly slipping a single slice of toast to his pocket — he wasn’t sure when he’d be allowed to eat properly. Before he could take a bite, Aunt Petunia’s voice sliced through the kitchen air.

“Garden. Now. The weeds are an embarrassment to the neighbors. I want that yard spotless.”

Harry swallowed his sigh. “Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

The back door creaked as he stepped into the morning chill. Dew clung to the grass like silver threads, sparkling in the sun. For a moment, the yard felt like a tiny meadow — wildflowers, patches of clover, a robin tugging at a worm.

Then he saw the tools Petunia had set out.

Gloves with holes. A rusty trowel. No gloves for the thorns.

He knelt anyway.

The work was slow, tedious. Weeds had roots that dug deep—sometimes deeper than his patience—but he tugged and pulled, forming neat piles the way Petunia liked them.

A rustle overhead made him pause.

Cheep. Cheep!

A tiny sound, frantic and panicked. He scanned the branches of the old pear tree and spotted a small, trembling bundle of feathers on the grass below. Barely bigger than his thumb, its wings flailed weakly.

“Oh,” Harry breathed, carefully crawling over. “You’re just a baby.”

He glanced toward the house. The curtains twitched — Petunia was watching — but not close enough to see what he did next.

Gently, Harry scooped the bird into his palms. Its heartbeat fluttered like frightened wings against his skin.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He searched the branches above until he spotted a nest wedged between two limbs — messy, but secure. Stretching on tiptoe, fingers barely brushing the edge, he eased the chick back in beside its siblings.

The baby cheeped softer now — calmer.

The mother bird swooped down moments later, chirping anxiously at her child. Harry stepped back, smiling faintly.

Warmth blossomed in his chest — small but fierce.

Invisible in the Dursleys’ home, but needed by something, for once.

He finished his chores more carefully, leaving wildflowers in neat semicircles rather than ripping everything bare. Bees hummed. The robin finished her worm nearby, eyeing him curiously.

By the time Harry returned to the house, dirt smudged his face and his knees ached, but something inside him felt steadier.

Petunia barely glanced his way. “Don’t track mud in. And you missed the corner by the fence.”

Harry bit his tongue. “Sorry.”

___

The next morning, something whispered through the house — excitement, or a chill, Harry couldn’t tell.

He heard the flap of envelopes hitting tile.

“Mail!” Uncle Vernon grunted, scooping up the stack.

Gas bill. Postcard. Advert.

A thick, parchment envelope slid free, creamy and heavy with wax.

Vernon froze.

It came with the morning post.

A thick envelope, cream colored, heavy, with emerald ink across the front:

> Mr. H. Potter
Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive

 

Harry stared at it, something twisting in his chest — a small, impossible hope.

Vernon went purple.

“You’ve been talking! How do they know where you sleep?!”

“I—I don’t know,” Harry said, voice shaking.

Uncle Vernon ripped it away before Harry could blink. His mustache bristled in fear more than anger.

“No funny business.”

He locked the cupboard door.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when more letters came.

Through the mail slot.

Under the door.

Through the windows.

Petunia shrieked. Dudley hid under the table. Vernon swore loudly enough the neighbor’s curtains twitched.

But Harry — Harry felt something he’d never felt before.

Wanted.

Someone out there wanted him.

Vernon’s panic grew wild. Boarded windows. Hammered nails. Sweaty curses.

___

Soon enough, they fled.
Storm winds battered the car as they crossed pitch-black waves on a ferry. Dudley whined. Petunia fretted.

The hut on the rock loomed in the dark: cracked wood, salt-stained windows, howling wind.

Inside was colder than the storm.

Harry curled on the hard floor by the dying fire, pulling his oversized coat tighter.
He reached into the pocket.

Three tiny toy soldiers tumbled into his hands — scuffed plastic, chipped paint.

His only toys.

He placed them gently at his sides like silent guards.

A ritual he’d never put into words: You protect me. I’ll protect you.

Midnight crept closer, second by second.

Harry’s pulse thrummed.

Tick.

Perhaps the letter was a mistake. Perhaps magic wasn’t real.

Tick.

He hugged his knees, toy soldiers balanced at his sides like brave little knights.

Tick…

The clock struck—

CRASH.

The door smashed inward off its hinges, slammed by a force far greater than wind. Dudley shrieked, scrambling behind his mother. Vernon leapt up, brandishing a broken rifle like a club.

Cold sea air flooded the hut.

A tall figure stepped through the doorway, black cloak snapping like a banner in the storm.

Greasy hair. Hooked nose. Jet-dark eyes narrowed in annoyance.

This was not a gentle giant.

This was Professor Severus Snape.

He surveyed the scene as if deeply offended by the very air.

“Good evening,” he drawled, voice low and dangerous.
“I see the years have not improved your hospitality, Petunia.”

Petunia gasped, paling. She clutched Dudley behind her like a shield.

“You,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

Snape ignored her, boots echoing on warped floorboards. His eyes landed on Vernon—red-faced, spluttering, shaking his rifle.

“Put that ridiculous contraption down before you hurt yourself,” Snape said, flicking his wand.

The rifle bent into a knot, dropping uselessly to the floor. Vernon yelped.

But Snape had already moved on.

His gaze found Harry.

For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his expression.

Black eyes. A sharp breath.

Lily’s eyes.

Just as quickly, the softness iced over.

“Harry Potter,” he said coldly. “I presume?”

Harry stood slowly. “Er—yes, sir?”

Snape’s lip curled faintly. It wasn’t quite disgust — more… annoyance. Inconvenience. “We are already behind schedule,” he snapped, turning sharply on his heel. His cloak flared like a storm cloud. “I will not allow your laziness to make me late for my own appointments.”

Harry blinked, startled. “Um I'm—?”

Snape cut him a sharp look. “Do not whine. It is unseemly.”

Harry’s mouth clicked shut. He hadn’t meant to whine. He hadn’t meant to sound like anything at all. He tucked his chin down, shoulders curling. He pressed his soldiers deep into the pocket of his oversized pants.

Snape strode across the hut in long, impatient steps, wand flicking once toward Petunia. The lights blazed brighter, fire roaring up so suddenly that it made her shriek and stumble back. “You were instructed to be ready at 2 sharp!” His voice was sharp and dangerous. “I will not allow your childish behavior to interfere with my personal time.”

Petunia swallowed, throat bobbing. Vernon sputtered behind her, red-faced and useless.

"We leave now." Snape hisses as he takes ahold of Harry's arm, right atop the clothed bruise his uncle had left the day before. "Hold still." Were the last words spoken before the world went white and Harry stomach turned with a vengeance.

The world snapped back into place with a violent CRACK.

Harry gasped, dropping to one knee on cobblestone. The ground was solid and real and not moving—but his stomach rebelled anyway. He pressed a hand to it, swallowing hard.

Cold morning fog curled along the alley like pale fingers, and lanterns flickered overhead, casting golden halos through the haze.

Wherever they were, it was nothing like Privet Drive.

Snape stood above him, barely winded, expression pinched in irritation.

“Do get up, Potter. Side-along Apparition is hardly debilitating.”

Harry tried not to wheeze. “S–side along what?”

Snape exhaled through his nose—the sigh of a man regretting every life choice leading to this moment.

“Apparition. A method of magical travel. Highly regulated. Highly restricted. Reserved for adult witches and wizards. Meaning,” he added pointedly, “you will not be attempting it on your own for a very long time.”

Harry nodded quickly, scrambling upright.

His arm throbbed under Snape’s grip—where the bruise lay—but Snape had already released him, either unaware or uncaring of the flinch it caused. The shadows clung to his robes like loyal pets.

He pulled a wand from his sleeve—smooth, ebony-dark—and tapped a brick on a narrow wall.

Harry was about to ask what he was doing when—

Click. Grind. Slide.

Bricks folded back like a blooming stone flower, revealing a brilliant, bustling street.

Gas lamps shimmered over crooked shops and colorful stalls. Cats wove between boots. Owls hooted from cages stacked in windows. The air smelled like parchment, cinnamon, and something electric.

Harry’s breath caught.

“Welcome,” Snape said dryly the barest roll of the eyes, “to Diagon Alley.”

Harry stepped through the archway like he was entering a dream.

Witches in plum hats bargained over cauldrons that stirred themselves. Goblins with sharp suits carried bundles of scrolls. A group of students—robes crisp and new—rushed past talking excitedly about broom models.

Snape’s voice cut through the wonder.

“Stay at my side, do not wander, and do not speak unless spoken to. The world needs no more foolishness today.”

Harry nodded obediently, but his eyes were everywhere.

Snape set a brisk pace, robes snapping. He cleared a path simply by existing—people moved around him like tides around a rock.

Their first stop was a gleaming marble building: tall pillars, intricate carvings, and doors so polished Harry saw his reflection warping in the gold.

The sign read:

GRINGOTTS Wizarding Bank

Two goblins guarded the entrance, spears crossed. Their eyes gleamed like coins.

Harry paused, startled by their sharp features.

“Do not stare,” Snape murmured beneath his breath. “It is rude, and despite what you have probably been told, you are not above the rules of decorum.”

Inside, the hall glittered with chandeliers. Goblins perched at tall counters, writing so fast Harry’s eyes crossed trying to follow.

Snape approached one.

“Withdrawals from vault seven hundred and twelve,” he said smoothly, “and vault six-eight-seven.”

The goblin blinked slowly.

“Keys?”

The goblin’s voice was as cool and sharp as cut glass.

Snape reached into a hidden fold of his robes and produced two keys. One was small and brass—Harry’s. The other was longer, rune-etched, heavier with age. The goblin’s eyebrows twitched upward almost imperceptibly at the second key before he nodded.

“Very well. Griphook will take you.”

A smaller goblin—lean, sharp-eyed—appeared as if summoned by thought alone. He bowed stiffly.

“This way.”

Harry followed, staying close to Snape’s billowing robes as they crossed the polished floor toward a set of iron gates. Cool, subterranean air drifted up from below.

Griphook ushered them into a mine cart—little more than a bench bolted onto wheels—and Harry barely had time to sit before—

WHOOSH!

The cart plunged downward, wind tearing at his hair. He yelped, clutching the rails. The tracks twisted like a spiraling dragon, banking hard enough that Harry felt momentarily weightless.

Beside him, Snape sat completely still.

“I—I think I’m gonna be sick—!” Harry squeaked.

“Kindly refrain,” Snape replied, not even blinking. “I have had enough of childish nonsense for one evening.”

The cart lurched to a stop near a round door set into stone: Vault 687.

Snape stepped forward, handed over the long key, and stood back with a curt nod. Griphook touched the lock. The door groaned open, revealing neat stacks of gold, silver, and bronze.

Harry’s eyes widened. He’d never seen more than a handful of coins in his life.

“These are Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, respectively,” Snape said briskly. “Seven Sickles to a Galleon, twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle. As I'm sure you've been busy having everything handed to you, you will need to learn the exchange rates before you embarrass yourself at a till. We will take enough for your school supplies and not a cent more.”

His voice snapped like a ledger closing. He stepped forward with long, practiced strides and began counting — precise, exacting — stacking coins into a small leather pouch. Galleons chimed softly against one another, like locked windows in rain.

“That should suffice,” Snape declared, drawstring tightening with a practiced tug. He turned sharply, black robes swirling as he began to leave the vault.

Harry stayed very still.

His heart was loud in his ears — louder than the echo of the vault door, louder than Snape’s footsteps fading toward the cart.

He looked at the pile — towers of gold that might as well have been mountains, compared to the nothing he’d ever had. Dudley’s old broken soldiers that rested in his pockets. His old shirts that swallowed him whole. Cold nights under a stair.

His fingers twitched.

A new wardrobe, just… clothes that fit. Something that wasn’t ripping at the seams. Maybe a pet, something to love him. Food that was molded, and did come with strings. Maybe — warmth. And if he had something left, maybe he could buy… he wasn’t sure. Something for himself. Something truly his.

Something that wasn’t survival.

He wasn’t stealing. Not really. The vault was his. They’d said so.

Harry swallowed hard and turned back, scooping fistfuls of coin into his oversized pockets — more careful than greedy, counting silently in his head until it felt like enough to last. Not so much the piles would look different.

When he looked up, Griphook was watching.

Not angry. Not surprised.

The goblin’s mouth curled — the smallest sliver of respect.

Harry froze.

Griphook only tapped the side of his nose with one long finger and turned away, eyes glittering.

“Come,” he rasped. “We must not keep your… escort waiting.”

Harry hurried after him.

___

They didn’t linger at the second vault.

Griphook guided the cart deeper, the tracks hissing through cold stone halls and past underground waterfalls that glittered like falling stars. Vault 713 — a strange door with no handle, sealed like a secret.

Snape collected a brown wrapped package with an oddly careful hands and tucked it into the inner pocket of his robes. The vault slammed shut behind them like the lid of a coffin.

Harry blinked. “…What’s in it?”

Snape’s stare was cold iron.

“Certainly nothing that concerns you.”

And that was that.

___

The cart ride back was no less terrifying, but Harry managed not to scream this time — even when they corkscrewed around a pillar of rock. His stomach sloshed unhappily, but pride kept him silent.

Gringotts’ marble warmth was a shock after the chill beneath. Harry stepped into the hallway, blinking as chandeliers stabbed at his eyes.

For the first time, he noticed the whisper.

It rippled through the crowd like wind over wheat.

“…Potter—” “—looks just like Lily—” “—thought he’d be taller—” “—The Boy Who Lived—”

Harry stiffened. The words prickled his spine.

Faces turned. Heads craned. Mouths parted in awe or hungry curiosity.

Harry’s pulse stumbled.

Snape’s voice slashed the air.

“Eyes forward, Potter.”

His robe snapped as he strode for the doors, and Harry had to jog to catch up.

They stepped into Diagon Alley proper, weaving through shoppers. The whispers followed like gnats.

“Is that really—?” “—scar?” “Merlin’s beard…”

Harry hunched a little, wishing he could fold inward.

Snape’s irritation crackled like static.

“If these people spent half as much time on self-improvement as they do gossip,” he hissed, “the world might actually improve.”

Someone gasped, breathless: “Professor Snape! You’re with—!”

Snape’s glare was a guillotine.

The crowd scattered.

Harry’s lungs loosened, fractionally.

___

Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions was quieter, air smelling faintly of lavender and mothballs. Velvet curtains framed fitting stands where other students fidgeted under measuring tapes.

Madam Malkin herself bustled forward, cheeks rosy, pins between her lips.

“Hogwarts, dear?” she asked, eyes warm.

Harry nodded, and she ushered him up onto a stool with gentle hands.

“Arms out, sweetie.”

He complied. The oversized coat slid from his shoulders.

Gasps weren’t uncommon for Madam Malkin — robes did strange things to proportions. But she blinked, just once, eyes lingering on his arms.

Finger-shaped bruises. Old and new. Yellow blooms beneath purple clouds.

Her smile pinched. Almost imperceptibly.

She didn’t comment.

But Snape saw.

He’d been standing behind Harry, half-bored posture and crossed arms designed to discourage conversation. The moment the coat fell, his attention snapped like a trap.

Black eyes scanned the mottled skin with surgical precision. His expression didn’t change, but something in his jaw tightened. A small muscle jumped.

One second. Two.

Then — his face locked itself back into neutrality, mask snapping into place.

“Do not slouch,” he said, voice almost too even. “She cannot take proper measurements if you insist on wriggling like an overcaffeinated pixie.”

Harry flushed and straightened. “Sorry, sir.”

Madam Malkin worked quickly. The measuring tape zipped, wrapped, and coiled like a living thing. Madam Malkin hummed softly, stepping back with a squint.

“Well now… arms up again? Mm. And hold your breath—just a tick.”

Harry did. The tape circled his ribs.

Madam Malkin’s brows pinched.

She tugged gently, clicked her tongue, and wrote something on her notepad.

“…you’re smaller than I expected, dear.”

Harry went still.

“I’m— I’ll grow,” he said quickly.

“I’m sure you will.” Her voice was gentle, but her eyes flicked to his collarbones, sharp like bird wings under skin. “We’ll… adjust your first robe expanding charms, for the future.”

Harry nodded mutely.

She bent, measuring inseams, ankles. Her hand wrapped loosely around his wrist to position him—

—it closed all the way with room to spare.

Madam Malkin’s lips thinned. “Gracious.”

Harry’s cheeks warmed. He tried not to shrink.

Snape watched from the corner, stony as a gargoyle, arms crossed tight. To most, he appeared disinterested… but his stare never drifted far from Harry’s silhouette.

Madam Malkin stepped back with a soft sigh.

“We’ll see you right as rain. Don’t you fret.”

Harry breathed out.

She bustled away to fetch threads. Snape turned and wandered toward a rack of pre-embroidered house patches, pretending to browse — though his expression soured at every golden Gryffindor lion he passed.

Harry swallowed.

This was his chance.

He slid a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing cold metal — the coins he’d taken. Not a fortune. Just enough to finally be warm. To not look like a mistake.

He crept to the counter.

“M–Ma’am? Could I… um… buy some spare clothes? Casual ones? Muggle ones maybe? And—shoes? If you have any?”

He set the coins down: a small, nervous pile of Galleons, Sickles, Knuts.

His voice was tiny. “Just… clothes that fit.”

Madam Malkin blinked — startled. But she softened.

“Oh, dear heart… yes, of course we can arrange—”

A shadow fell.

Cold and tall.

Snape’s hand slammed down on the counter like a thunderclap.

Harry flinched.

Every coin scattered.

“What,” Snape hissed, each letter sharp enough to bleed, “do you think you are doing?”

Harry’s throat closed. “I— I just—”

Snape seized Harry’s wrist, pale skin covering the muddled mess of purple blue, and yellow.

“Stealing from your vault now?” he spat. “How predictable.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “It— it’s my money, sir, I—”

“Oh yes, I’m sure. You believe the world owes you a new wardrobe because you are the Boy Who Lived?” Snape sneered, voice rising. “Already spoiled. Already arrogant. Just like your father.”

Harry froze.

Madam Malkin paled.

Snape’s voice sharpened, low and poisonous.

“James Potter swaggered around believing he deserved everything handed to him on a silver platter. It seems the apple hasn’t rotted far from the tree.”

Harry’s chest caved inward.

“I didn’t— I don’t— I just wanted—”

“What you want,” Snape snapped, snatching the coins, “is irrelevant. The world does not revolve around your whims. You take what you are given and be grateful.”

Harry shook his head frantically.

“It’s not— I wasn’t— I’m sorry— please— I’m sorry—” words tumbled over themselves, dissolving into hiccups. “I’m not— I just— I don’t— I don’t have clothes— they’re— too big— they stink— I’m sorry— I—”

His voice cracked.

His lip trembled.

Snape opened his mouth— likely to continue—

—but Harry broke.

It hit like a dam shattering: a full-body sob that tore from somewhere deep and terrified. Tears streamed hot and sudden down his face. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, shoulders shaking. Ugly sounds escaped — choked, gasping, raw.

People turned. Stared.

Madam Malkin rushed forward. “Oh— sweetheart—”

Snape froze.

His wand hand twitched.

His eyes widened, just a fraction, as if no one had ever reacted to him like this.

Harry covered his head with his arms, curling small, voice jagged:

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t be mad— I didn’t mean— I thought— just clothes— I’m not greedy I promise— I’m sorry— please—”

Tears soaked into the hem of his sleeve. He hiccupped on a sob, whole body shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

Madam Malkin glared at Snape — fiercely maternal.

“Severus Snape,” she hissed under her breath, “what on EARTH—”

Snape stood rigid. Pale.

Something flickered in his mind. A cupboard. A child. Bruises. Belts. Hands.

He knelt slowly. Awkwardly. As if approaching a wounded creature.

“Potter,” he said, quieter. Not soft. But not sharp. “Stop.”

Harry sobbed harder.

Snape’s jaw clenched.

He reached — hesitated — then rested a stiff, gloved hand between Harry’s shoulder blades. A single point of contact.

Not comforting.
Just… anchoring.

“Calm yourself,” he murmured — rough, unused to kindness. “I am not—” his voice caught, “—going to strike you.”

Harry’s sobbing stuttered. His breathing hitched.

Snape’s hand stayed, steady.

“You should have simply asked,” he said, quieter still. “We will… acquire what you require.”

Madam Malkin’s expression softened minutely. She straightened.

“I’ll prepare a proper wardrobe bundle,” she said gently. “Winter coat, Muggle trousers, sensible shoes, underthings, socks. No charge.”

Harry blinked through tears. “N-no charge?”

“Teacher’s discount,” she said firmly, eyes daring Snape to argue.

Snape swallowed.

He nodded once. Tiny. Stiff.

Harry wiped his face with the heel of his palm, still hiccupping.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Snape looked away — expression tight, something ugly twisting across features that were suddenly, painfully human.

“…Stop apologizing,” he muttered.

Harry sniffed.

Madam Malkin guided him gently back to the stool, whispering calm things while she pinned fabric and fetched pre-fit garments.

Snape stood nearby — silent and unmoving — but his posture had changed.

Subtly angled between Harry
and every watching eye.

Guarding.

Even if he’d rather hex himself than admit it.

___

Madam Malkin finalized everything while leveling Snape with a look that said You’d better take care of this one, Severus Snape, or I’ll hex you bald.

"Your wardrobe will be delivered to hogwarts for you sweetheart, it will be right there waiting for you." Harry nodded up at her, tears still clinging to his eyelashes.

Snape inclined his head stiffly. It might have passed for gratitude.

“Come along, Potter,” he murmured.

Harry looked once more at his new clothing in the mirror, running a hand over his right pocket, where his tiny protectors rest soudly, and steadfastly ignoring the bruises still visible on his arms. Shame clung to him like a second shirt, heavy and itchy. He kept his head down as they stepped back into the bustling crowd.

For several long steps, neither spoke.

Then Snape did something… unexpected.

He veered left. Away from the bookshops. Away from cauldrons.

Toward a striped awning with little floating spoons circling lazily above the sign:

Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour

Harry blinked. “Sir?”

“Do not question me,” Snape snapped automatically.

But there was no heat behind it.

Inside, the air smelled like sugar and cold fruit and warm waffle cones. Families chattered. Students laughed. A witch in lime-green robes debated toppings with an exhausted employee.

Snape marched to the counter like a man facing execution.

“One single scoop vanilla,” he said crisply, “with… sprinkles.”

Harry startled. “I didn’t— you don’t have to—”

Snape raised a silencing finger without even looking at him.

“And one lemon sorbet.”

Florean Fortescue beamed as if witnessing the discovery of kindness itself. “Expanding your palate, Professor Snape?”

Snape’s glare could have curdled milk. “Merely… nutritional morale for a student. Nothing more.”

“…Right, then,” Fortescue said cheerfully, and hurried to scoop.

Harry followed Snape to a small booth near the window. The professor settled stiffly, placing his black gloves on the table like shields.

Harry slid in across from him.

The bowls arrived moments later—one pale yellow mound with a twist of lemon peel, the other a soft scoop of vanilla drowned in rainbow sprinkles.

Harry stared.

“…You may eat,” Snape said, sounding vaguely irritated. “It is wasting perfectly good ice.”

Harry picked up his spoon. His hands trembled.

The first bite melted cold and sweet on his tongue.

Then his eyes widened—wonder, disbelief. “It’s… it’s really good.”

Snape huffed. “It is ice cream, Potter. Its sole purpose is to be good.”

Harry took another, then whispered without thinking:

“This is my first time having it.”

Snape froze.

Utterly.

A bead of lemon sorbet slid down the side of his spoon and dripped back into the bowl, unnoticed.

“…Your first?” he managed, voice roughened at the edges.

Harry blinked, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Um… y-yes. Dudley always got sweets. I wasn’t allowed. Thought they’d… make me strange.”

Snape stared at him.

Thousands of memories flickered — Honeydukes displays at twelve, Christmas puddings at the Hogwarts feast, Lily laughing with chocolate on her fingertips. Childhood sweetness. Innocence.

Things Harry had been denied.

His voice came out quieter than intended.

“Absurd.”

Harry tensed, thinking he’d said the wrong thing.

Snape exhaled through his nose, long and slow — to buy control.

“…Ice cream,” he muttered, picking up his spoon, “is hardly a corrupting influence.”

Harry’s shoulders uncurled. He dared another bite. Cold. Sweet. Safe.

Snape watched the boy’s eyes flutter closed as the flavor bloomed — like someone discovering warmth for the first time.

His chest constricted.

He pretended to study a fleck of dust on the table.

What else has he never had? whispered a voice he did not care for.

He ate silently, but the sorbet tasted faintly of ash.

—

When both bowls were mostly empty, Snape cleared his throat.

“We have more errands. First I have a personal stop. Come.”

Outside, Diagon Alley bustled louder now — hawkers shouting, owls hooting, charmed quills scribbling advertisements in midair. Harry trailed behind like a shadow.

Snape slowed his pace by a fraction — so subtle no one would notice, but Harry didn’t have to jog.

They stepped into Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, cool and dim, jars glowing softly with pickled plant matter and glittering powders.

The familiar scent of alchemical ingredients steadied Snape. Order. Precision. Logic.

Ordering his usual store top ups.

Harry drifted to the shelves, reading labels like prayers.

“Powdered moonstone… sliced— what’s that word—?”

“Bezoar,” Snape supplied automatically, not looking up. “From a goat’s stomach. Antidotes. You will not need one if you refrain from reckless foolishness.”

Harry smiled shyly. “I’ll try.”

Snape’s mouth twitched. Might’ve been approval. Hard to say.

When the clerk turned away to package supplies, Snape leaned sideways toward Harry, voice low.

“Hold out your arms.”

Harry blinked, startled. “Sir?”

Snape’s gaze flicked meaningfully to the bruises peeking beneath his sleeve.

Harry’s breath hitched. He hesitated.

“…They don’t hurt much anymore.”

“That,” Snape murmured, “was decidedly not the question.”

Slowly — timidly — Harry rolled his sleeves to the elbow.

Under the apothecary’s soft green light, the bruises were even more ghastly. Pale skin marred by fingerprints and shadows.

Snape’s face went blank.

Emotionless.

Too neutral.

He reached into his inner pocket — not the one holding the mysterious parcel — and withdrew a small tin, round and dented from years of travel.

The lid clicked softly open, revealing iridescent balm that smelled faintly of pine and something colder.

“Essence of bruise-healing comfrey,” Snape said lightly, as if this were routine. “Infused with a pain-numbing draught.”

He extended it.

Harry stared. “You… want me to…?”

A pause.

Snape’s voice softened imperceptibly.

“I can apply it. If you prefer.”

Harry’s eyes widened in a way that made Snape want to hex something.

“…Is it allowed?”

Snape’s hand tightened minutely on the tin.

“Yes,” he said. “Healing is always allowed.”

Harry nodded. Very small. Trust blooming awkwardly, fragile as a new sprout.

Snape gestured. “Sit.”

Harry perched on a narrow bench beside a shelf of dried newt eggs.

“Hold still.”

Snape scooped a fingertip of balm — practiced, careful. He touched it to the darkest bruise, spreading it in small circles.

Harry flinched.

Snape froze, tone instantly clinical. “Pain?”

“N-no,” Harry whispered. “Just… cold.”

“Hmm.” Snape resumed, pressure feather-light.

The purple blotches softened, fading to yellow then nothing. Beneath his precise fingers, skin warmed. Harry’s breath trembled.

No one… had ever done this for him.

Not gently.

“You will apply this twice daily,” Snape murmured, working the balm into each bruise. “It accelerates healing. Prevents scarring.”

Harry swallowed. “Thank you.”

Snape grunted — meaning you’re welcome in fluent Professor.

He finished the last bruise, lingering half a heartbeat longer than necessary — not touching pain, but witnessing it.

Then he capped the tin and pressed it into Harry’s palm.

“Keep it.”

Harry stared at it like treasure. “Are you sure?”

“I stockpile,” Snape lied brusquely. “One missing tin will not implode the foundations of Hogwarts.”

Harry smiled weakly. “…Right.”

Snape stood, smoothing his gloves.

He instructed the shop keep to have the supplies delivered to Hogwarts, billing the headmaster.

When he looked at Harry again, something in his expression was different.

Still sharp. Still guarded.

But aware.

“Come along,” he said. “Wand next.”

Harry scrambled up. “Yes, sir.”

They stepped back into sunlight.

The crowd swirled.

But Harry walked closer now.

Not touching.

Just… near.

Snape didn’t move away.

—

As they walked down the street, Snape spoke without turning.

“Potter.”

Harry blinked. “Sir?”

“Should anyone,” Snape said, voice low as a curse, “lay hands on you again… you will inform me.”

Harry’s step faltered.

“…But Aunt Petunia said—”

“I do not care,” Snape snapped, soft fury burning beneath.

Silence.

Harry’s throat bobbed.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Snape’s jaw eased. Barely.

“Very well.”

Harry exhaled — deep, steadying.

___

The walk to Ollivander’s was short, but the atmosphere was… different than before.

Harry’s shoulders weren’t hunched quite as tightly. The cold ache in his limbs had faded to a soft thrum beneath the bruise balm. And for the first time—maybe ever—someone walked beside him, not behind or dragging him.

Snape’s robes flicked sharply with every turn, but Harry noticed something:

He was cutting through the crowd like a prowling wolf, placing himself between Harry and anyone who leaned too close, who stared too hungrily, whose whisper lasted a second too long.

Once, a witch leaned in, breathless—

“Oh, is that him? May I just—”

Snape’s hand shot out like a striking adder, blocking her before she got within arm’s reach.

“That child,” Snape hissed, “is not a tourist attraction.”

She recoiled as if slapped.

Harry blinked up at him. “…Thank you.”

“I did not do it for gratitude,” Snape muttered. “It was simply… necessary.”

But Harry saw his jaw tighten, his eyes flick to the still healing faint yellow shadows beneath Harry’s sleeve, and he understood.

The bell above Ollivander’s chimed like a whisper of chimes when they entered.

Dust motes danced in the dim shop, piled high with boxes, like a forest of sleeping wands.

A voice floated out of the shadows.

“Ahh… I wondered when I’d be seeing you, Mr. Potter…”

Mr. Ollivander glided into view, pale-eyed, as if he could see straight through skin and bone and into secrets.

Harry swallowed.

Snape stepped half a pace forward, robes settling like a dark shield.

“Keep your theatrics to a minimum, Ollivander,” he said coolly.

“Ah, Severus,” Ollivander murmured with a thin smile. “Protective, are we?”

Snape’s eyes flashed. “Mind your business and fetch the boy a wand.”

Ollivander bowed slightly, amused.

Boxes slid from shelves at a snap of his fingers, and then began the ritual of try, flick, reject— sparks, gusts of wind, one near explosion.

Harry’s palms had started to sweat.

Snape stood stiff by the counter, hands folded behind his back, but his eyes tracked every wand tip, prepared to intercept danger before Harry even realized it existed.

Then—

A box. A whisper of phoenix feather resting in holly.

Harry touched it.

Warmth bloomed up his arm, soft as breath against his palm.

He lifted it, uncertain, and flicked.

Golden fire spiraled into the air, curling into the shape of wings— a phoenix’s cry echoing faintly, before dissolving like dawn mist.

Ollivander sucked in a breath.

“Curious… very curious…”

Snape’s glare sharpened. “Do not start.”

Ollivander only smiled softly at Harry. “A wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter.”

Harry glanced down at the holly wood cradled in his hand— and smiled, small but real.

Before Harry could reach for his pouch, Snape slid several Galleons onto the counter. Effortless. Automatic.

Harry blinked. “Sir— I can pay—”

“You will purchase your textbooks,” Snape said curtly. “Wands are the responsibility of the school’s sponsor. It is tradition.”

…Harry suspected that wasn’t actually a rule. But he didn’t argue.

He hugged the wand box to his chest, and as they stepped back out into the sunlight, he heard a voice call out.

"You may do great things Mister Potter, 'he' certainly did, awful things, but great."

Harry feels a shiver run down his spine.

___

Flourish & Blotts

The smell of parchment and ink wrapped around them like a cloak. Tall shelves towered above rows of tables, students chattering eagerly about potion brews and magical creatures.

Harry drifted toward a display— a shiny stack of cauldron-care manuals, their pages smelling like warmth and glue.

Snape’s voice cut through the air before he could pick one up.

“No. That edition’s instructions are outdated and inaccurate. The publisher hasn’t corrected their dangerous misprint regarding silver sprigs.”

Harry blinked. “…Dangerous?”

“Explosively so,” Snape said, tone dry. “You would lose your eyebrows.”

He plucked the proper edition from a higher shelf and dropped it gently into Harry’s basket.

Harry followed him like a small, curious duck, observing how Snape scanned lists, checked spines for structural flaws, muttered darkly about certain authors.

When Harry reached toward an extra book— Herbology At Home, A Beginners Guide — a large hand descended over the cover.

Snape’s eyebrow arched.

“Are you looking for extra reading material?”

Harry’s ears burned. “I—just thought I could… learn more.”

Snape hesitated.

Then, quietly—

“…Put it in the basket.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Snape’s voice was gruff. “Books are never wasted money.”

Harry smiled. The basket began to fill.

When he strained to lift it, a hand swooped beneath the handle, taking the weight effortlessly.

Harry startled. “I can carry—”

“You will drop it and damage the spines,” Snape said flatly.

But his expression softened almost immediately, like he regretted the sharp edge. He glanced down at the completely bear skin of Harry's wrists— then adjusted his grip so Harry didn’t have to strain at all.

At the counter, the total was announced. Harry reached for his own pouch—

Snape’s voice cut through the air:

“Put it away, Potter.”

Harry froze. “…Sir?”

Snape exhaled sharply, as if the words were heavy.

“Consider it an investment… in your education.”

Harry swallowed past a sudden lump.

No one had ever invested in him before.

Outside the shop, sunlight caught on Snape’s black hair, turning the edges amber for a heartbeat.

Harry hugged his new books to his chest.

“Sir?” he asked softly. “…Why are you helping me?”

Snape stopped walking.

Stood very still.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Careful.

“No child should be sent into the world… ill-prepared.”

Harry’s chest tightened. Warmth bloomed where fear had once lived.

“And,” Snape added, tone shifting gruff as armor snapped back into place, “I refuse to be responsible for a student who blows himself up in Potions.”

Harry laughed—short, startled.

Snape blinked.

“…Was that a laugh?”

Harry flushed. “Sorry— I—”

“Do not apologize,” Snape interrupted immediately. The words escaped faster than he meant.

Harry looked down at his shoes so Snape wouldn’t see him smile.

Snape cleared his throat violently.

“We have one last stop: your potions kit.”

Harry furrowed his brow in confusion, "weren't we just in the potions shop?"

Snape risked, not turning as he answer him, "not quite, we were inside the masters apothecary, it is no place for beginners to place purchases, we are headed to the student shop."

Harry perked up. “Will there be… exploding things?”

Snape’s eyes gleamed slyly. “…Potentially.”

And as they walked deeper into Diagon Alley, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling building in his chest—

A wish. A hope.

A tiny spark that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone anymore.

___

The apothecary smelled like it had been steeped in a thousand simmering cauldrons: peppery herbs, biting acrid fumes, and something Harry suspected was pickled… eyeballs.

Shelves towered around them, jars crowded with ingredients in floating stasis.

Harry’s eyes widened.

And Snape’s hand immediately caught the back of Harry’s shirt.

“Do not breathe too deeply near the powdered scarab,” he said calmly. “It induces nosebleeds.”

Harry clamped his mouth shut.

Snape seemed deeply satisfied with that level of obedience.

They weaved through narrow aisles. Shrunken roots twitched in brine. Bottled plants sighed.

Harry pointed toward a jar of shimmering black beetles.

“What’s that?”

“Boomslang beetles,” Snape replied smoothly. “Do not touch. One bite and you’ll spend a week unable to move your limbs.”

Harry yanked his hand back.

“And that one?” Harry pointed to a beautifully glowing purple flower nestled in snow.

“Deadly nightshade. Particularly lethal. Infants tremble before it.”

Harry tucked his hands behind his back.

Snape actually smirked.

“Good decision.”

A witch popped up from behind a pile of jars.

“Professor Snape! Stocking up?”

“No,” Snape replied dryly, “I’m enrolling the boy in interpretive dance. Obviously I’m collecting student supplies.”

The witch blinked, unsure if she was being insulted.

Harry bit his cheek to hide laughter.

Snape plucked items into a basket with practiced efficiency: dried nettle, horklump juice, powdered asphodel, a shimmering vial of unicorn tears (Harry’s eyes went wide—Snape sighed and plunked it into the basket anyway).

When they reached the counter, the apothecary clerk eyed Harry’s thin wrists and pallor.

“You’ll want burn-salve,” she muttered.

Snape’s voice dropped several degrees.

“He will NOT require burn-salve.”

The clerk froze. Swallowed. Nodded.

Harry’s cheeks warmed.

Chapter Text

The apothecary door shut behind them with a clang of metal and chimes, muffling the murmur of jars that seemed to whisper to each other. Afternoon sunlight spilled over the cobblestones, warm and bright—yet Harry’s shoulders still slumped a fraction.

Snape noticed.

Of course he did.

His gaze slid sideways, dark and assessing. “Your spirits appear diminished,” he observed, tone deceptively casual.

Harry blinked, startled he’d been read so easily. “…I’m fine.”

Snape made a low, skeptical sound. “Children who are ‘fine’ typically look slightly less like collapsing flobberworms.”

Harry flushed. Was he that obvious?

Snape hesitated—just long enough for Harry to see uncertainty flicker in his expression, like he was navigating unfamiliar territory.

“There is… one final errand,” he said slowly. “If you wish.”

Harry tilted his head. “What is it?”

A beat.

“…The Magical Menagerie.”

Harry froze.

“The p-pet shop?”

Snape inclined his head once, crisp. “First-years are permitted certain familiar companions. It is… standard… to choose one.”

The change in Harry was instant—like a lantern flaring bright inside a dim room.

“Really!? I can—Sir, I can have a pet?”

Snape’s lips twitched—tiny, fleeting, almost a smile. “So the rules dictate. Unless you would prefer to return to—”

“No!” Harry blurted. “I—I’d like to see. Please.”

Snape hid the rest of his expression behind a smooth turn of his robes. “Then do not dawdle.”

Harry practically vibrated beside him.

Snape pretended not to notice.

___

Magical Menagerie

The bell above the shop door gave a delighted jingle as they entered.

Noise erupted instantly:

Owls hooted from rows of perches overhead.

Colorful puffskeins chirruped, rolling in plush bins.

A kneazle purred atop a stack of crates, eyes sharp like amber knives.

Something unseen croaked with a windy hiss as it throat deflated.

 

Harry stared, wide-eyed wonder spilling out of him in waves.

Snape moved with his usual disdainful precision—dodging a puffskein that attempted to climb him, leveling a glare that sent it drifting off like a sulky balloon.

The shopkeeper—a cheerful wizard with tufts of hair like hedgehog spines—appeared. “First year, eh? Looking for a familiar?”

Harry nodded eagerly. “I—yes. I’d like— I don’t know yet.”

“Well,” the man said, gesturing upward, “owls are most popular. Useful for mail, loyal if treated well.”

Snape folded his arms. “Practical.”

Harry’s gaze drifted… and stopped on a snowy owl perched alone at the far end of the shop.

Her feathers shimmered faint gold in the sunlight. Her amber eyes locked onto his the moment he looked.

Something thrummed between them.

Slowly, Harry lifted his hand.

The owl launched.

Snape stiffened instantly, wand hand twitching—ready to hex danger to dust.

But the owl swooped down perfectly, talons gentle as silk, landing on Harry’s forearm with precise balance.

She hooted softly—then leaned forward, pressing her head into his chest.

Harry’s breath stuttered.

“…Hi,” he whispered, voice trembling with something too big to name.

Snape exhaled—very quietly, relief flickering across his face like a candle flame.

“She has chosen,” he murmured.

Harry hugged her closer. “She’s beautiful.”

“Indeed,” Snape said softly, surprising them both.

___

They arranged for a birdcage, some owl treats, and a care guide (“Read it,” Snape said firmly, “or she will molt on your pillow”). Harry listened like every word mattered.

Just as Snape signaled toward the door, something caught Harry’s eye.

A tank near the counter. Dim green water. Mossy bark.

And perched atop it—like a tiny, smug monarch—sat a serpent-horned toad. Golden-olive skin with a black spotted pattern and scaley texture. A creamy belly, and two curling black horns. Amber-yellow eyes glimmering with intelligence.

Harry leaned closer.

The toad blinked.

Then—Harry heard it.

'What are you staring at, human? Haven’t you ever seen nobility?'

Harry jerked back. “W—what!?”

Snape turned sharply. “Potter?”

Harry stared at the toad. “You— you spoke.”

The toad snorted. 'Obviously I spoke. You heard me. About time someone had the brain cells.'

Harry’s mouth dropped open.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “You… can hear it?”

Harry nodded helplessly. “He’s— he’s talking!”

The shopkeeper tutted. “Ah! Serpent-horned toads. Rare little devils. Their magic lets them project. But only Parselmouths can hear them, usually.”

Snape went still.

The shop fell quiet.

Harry swallowed. “Parsel…?”

Snape’s voice was soft, but sharp enough to cut glass. “Speak to it again.”

Harry hesitated. “Um… hello?”

The toad puffed up proudly. 'Greetings. I accept you as my servant.'

“Not servant,” Harry muttered.

'Advisor? Princess? We can negotiate.'

Harry blinked. “I— I think he likes me.”

Snape’s face was unreadable. A flurry of emotions stormed behind his gaze:

Shock

Concern

Confusion

 

And beneath them…

Something protective.

Deep and violent.

Snape knelt—level eyes with Harry, voice low and controlled.

“Parselmouths are rare,” he murmured. “And often… feared.”

Harry’s heart dropped. “Feared?”

“Misunderstood,” Snape corrected quickly. “But not dangerous by default.”

Harry hugged the owl closer.

“…Oh.”

Snape’s voice gentled. “Such a gift can be used to protect. To communicate. To understand what others cannot.”

The toad puffed. 'Listen to the tall bat.'

Snape’s eye twitched. “I know that was an insult.”

Harry stifled a laugh.

“…I think I want him too,” he said softly.

Snape stared at the smug little amphibian, then sighed as though accepting his fate.

“Very well.”

The shopkeeper beamed and began bagging tank supplies.

As Snape paid (ignoring Harry’s protests again), the toad hopped onto Harry’s shoulder like he already owned it.

'I shall require crickets. The fat ones.'

Harry grinned and giggled.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “…This was a mistake.”

___

Midas.

Yes Midas, the toad was very adamant he deserved a mighty name for a king, and Harry couldn't deny him.

Midas did not climb.

He ascended.

With a smug croak, the serpent-horned toad hopped from Harry’s shoulder to the top of his head, settling between tufts of messy dark hair like a king claiming his throne.

Higher ground. Better vantage. 'Also—you need a haircut.'
His voice buzzed smugly.

Harry spluttered. “H-hey!”

Midas flicked his tongue leisurely. 'Silence, servant. I am observing my domain.'

Snape’s eyes tracked the movement upward, and for one impossible second he looked like a man reconsidering every decision he’d made in the past ten minutes.

“…He will not remain there,” Snape declared.

'You cannot stop destiny,' Midas croaked.

Snape glared.

Midas stared back.

It was unclear who would break first.

Hedwig—because no other name would fit her—ruffled her feathers at Harry’s side, hooting imperiously. She clearly disapproved of the new crown ornament.

Snape cleared his throat. “The owl must be sent ahead to Hogwarts. Your Muggle residence is… unfit for her.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “Sent? But—what if she gets lost? Or scared?”

Hedwig nipped his ear gently—as if chastising him for doubting her.

Snape softened minutely. “Owls imprint on their wizard. Hogwarts’ wards will guide her. And I will ensure she is cared for until term.”

He paused.

“Trust me.”

Harry swallowed—and nodded.

He carried Hedwig to a post counter jutting out of the side of a large teal building. The clerk attached a small Hogwarts-bound tag to her leg. Hedwig nuzzled Harry’s cheek, then launched into the sky, sweeping once over his head before disappearing into the distance.

Harry’s chest tightened.

Snape’s hand hovered—just barely—above Harry’s shoulder. Not touching. Close enough to be felt.

“She will be there when you arrive,” Snape murmured.

Harry nodded again, more certain. “…Okay.”

Midas croaked. 'Dramatic bird. Not enough warts.'

Snape sighed. “Come. Lunch. Before the amphibian starts trouble.”

___

The Leaky Cauldron was comfortably dim, all warm wood and low chatter, lanternlight flickering like sleepy fireflies against patched brick. The midday crowd buzzed gently—witches comparing cauldron polish, a pair of goblins murmuring over ledgers, somebody’s enchanted violin humming mournfully from a corner shelf.

Harry soaked it in, gawking openly. Magic hadn’t worn off yet. Maybe it never would.

Snape guided him to a small booth tucked away from the worst of the noise. It looked private, but Harry noticed the angle of Snape’s chair—perfect view of the room, easy access to his wand.

Protective.

He really was.

The moment they sat, Midas clambered down—then leapt directly onto the table.

'Ah! A stage worthy of royalty! Kneel, mortals! Bow!'

He proceeded to puff up like a marshmallow balloon, horns glistening dramatically.

A nearby witch shrieked, flapping a napkin. “Is that a serpent-horned—?! Good Merlin, get it off the cutlery!”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it might’ve bruised. “Midas. Table manners.”

'Ridiculous. Tables are made for me.'

Harry hurriedly scooped him up, setting him in his lap. The toad grumbled the whole time.

Snape handed over a menu.

Harry tried to read.

Really tried.

He squinted. Pulled it closer. Pushed it away. Blinked hard.

The words were to small.

“Something wrong?” Snape asked lightly.

Harry froze. “…No.”

Snape’s eyebrows rose. “Potter. That… is the exact tone you used while insisting you ‘did not’ need assistance lifting your basket.”

Harry colored. Slowly, reluctantly, he offered the menu back.

“…I can’t read it very well.”

Snape’s expression sharpened. “When were your spectacles last updated?”

Harry blinked. “My what?”

Silence.

A very special, very cold silence.

“Prescription,” Snape clarified, voice cooling noticeably. “When did a healer or optometrist last examine your eyesight?”

Harry fidgeted. “Um. I don’t think… ever?”

Snape closed his eyes.

Slow inhale.

Long exhale.

Midas croaked smugly. 'The servant is defective. Refund him.'

“Midas,” Harry whispered fiercely, “stop.”

Snape opened his eyes again, expression smooth but his magic had gotten sharp, like a pressure in the air. “We will address it at Hogwarts. I will arrange for a proper exam. Left uncorrected, vision problems can cause headaches, reading difficulties, and—”

Harry stared at the table. “…Oh.”

Snape snapped his fingers at a server. “We will have two shepherd’s pies, an orange fizz, and a pumpkin juice. And water.” A glance at Midas. “…Plenty of water.”

She hurried off.

Harry blinked. “How’d you know I’d like—?”

“You are underweight,” Snape said simply. “A hearty meal will do more good than something sugary.”

Something warm fluttered in Harry’s chest.

“…Thanks.”

Snape shifted, almost awkward. “You… are welcome.”

For a beat, quiet settled.

Then—

“I have a godson,” Snape said, tone casual-but-not. “He will be starting Hogwarts as well. You are likely to meet him before term.”

Harry perked. “Really? What’s he like?”

Snape considered.

“…Sharp-tongued. Clever. Loyal, though he hides it. Raised by… people with expectations.”

That sounded… complicated. Harry felt a twinge of empathy.

“Is he nice?”

Snape’s mouth flexed. “…He can be. When he chooses. And I suspect he may choose around you.”

Why that sounded significant, Harry wasn’t sure.

Midas hopped up, sticking his face into Harry’s pumpkin juice.

'Hmm. Acceptable mouth-feel, notes of cinnamon. Needs more flies.'

Harry yanked it away. “Stop drinking my drink!”

The next table over stared.

Snape looked like he might either hex the ceiling down or lay his face on the table and pass away.

“I will be drafting a behavioral contract for amphibians,” he muttered.

The server returned with steaming plates. Harry’s stomach growled so loudly the nearest goblin snorted.

He hesitated—then dug in, cheeks flushing.

Snape ate neatly, watching Harry’s posture, pace, the way he blinked too often at the text on the drink coaster.

“…We shall remedy this,” he murmured. “No child should struggle simply because adults failed to notice.”

Harry swallowed around the sudden burn in his throat.

“…Adults usually don’t notice much, sir.”

Snape’s eyes went dark, storming.

“They will now.”

Midas smacked his cricket bowl with his foot. 'Yes! Service my needs, minions! More fat ones!'

Snape’s eyebrow twitched violently.

Harry laughed—bright, unguarded.

___

A loud clatter shattered the comfortable quiet.

Harry winced as Midas—apparently tired of mere crickets—launched himself toward the dessert tray passing by on a serving platter, slipped, and sent a nearby teacup flying from its saucer.

It hit the ground.

SMASH.

Half the room jumped.

The server gasped. “Oh! Sir— I’m so sorry—”

Snape’s wand was already out.

“Reparo.”

Glass shards rose in a neat spiral, glinting like tiny stars before knitting themselves seamlessly back into a perfect porcelain cup. It landed back on its saucer with a polite ding.

The server blinked. “…Thank you, Professor Snape.”

Midas blinked too, wide-eyed.
'I meant to do that.'

“No you didn’t,” Harry hissed through his teeth, scooping him up.

Snape exhaled through his nose. Something halfway between relief and why me, Merlin.

Harry stared at the cup—whole again, unbroken.

His heartbeat quickened.

Magic.

Fixing broken things.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached inside the pocket of his new slacks, wrapping his hand around his most precious possessions.

He laid them out on the table like they were delicate treasure.

Snape’s attention snapped to them at once. “What are those?”

Harry swallowed and moved his hands slowly out of the way.

There lay three little plastic soldiers—scuffed, melted slightly at the edges, battered from years of play and misuse. One was missing his head entirely; Harry held it carefully like it might fall apart.

“…They’re my soldiers,” he whispered. “My toys.”

Snape wrinkled his nose faintly. “Toy soldiers.” Like the words tasted strange. “Muggle plastic?”

Harry nodded quickly.

“I know they’re not magic or valuable, and they’re kind of ugly, but—” His voice broke at the edges, surprising even himself. “They were all I had.”

He hunched.

“I used to pretend they guarded my cupboard. Watching over me. They were… my protectors.”

Snape went very, very still.

Midas, surprisingly quiet now, crawled down Harry’s arm and perched beside them.
'Small warriors. Battle-scarred. Honorable,' he croaked solemnly.

Harry blinked at him. “…Right.”

Snape’s expression shifted—just barely. Something dark and aching flickered in his eyes. Recognition. Rage. Grief.

“Potter,” he said softly, “most children have dozens of toys.”

Harry shrugged one shoulder, eyes on the soldiers.

“I had these three.”

The silence was heavy—full of all the things no adult ever bothered to see.

Slowly, Snape extended one hand.

“May I?”

Harry hesitated—then placed the tiny, headless soldier into his palm.

Snape lifted his wand.

His voice was smooth, controlled—but a thread of anger wove through the spell. Anger at who these toys had been protecting Harry from.

“Reparo Maxima.”

Not just a fixing charm—an improvement charm layered within.

The little figure glowed. Plastic smoothed, edges straightened, melted spots unwarped.

The head knit seamlessly to its neck.

Color brightened.

As the glow faded, the soldier stood straighter than Harry had ever seen him—like he’d been fresh out of the box.

Snape set him gently in front of Harry.

Harry’s breath caught.

“He looks… new.”

“Better than new,” Snape murmured. “As toys should be when cared for.”

He repaired the other two with the same careful precision. Plastic gleamed. Scuffs vanished. Their rifles straightened. One came out with a surprisingly heroic stance.

When Snape set them all down, three little soldiers stood lined up neatly before Harry, like they were saluting.

Harry blinked hard.

“…Thank you.”

The words were soft. Raw. Heavy with years of never being given anything.

Snape nodded once, something tight in his throat.

“No child,” he said quietly, “should have to imagine protection.”

___

Snape didn’t say anything else after that.

He didn’t have to.

Harry sat a little straighter as he finished his shepherd’s pie, cheeks flushed with warmth—not from the food, but from the strange, unfamiliar feeling of being seen.

Midas slurped water obnoxiously and demanded additional crickets with imperious flicks of his webbed foot, but even he was quieter than usual, as if sensing the gravity of the moment.

Eventually, Snape dabbed his mouth with a napkin and stood.

“Come,” he said. “We have time for a final errand.”

___

They returned to the cobblestone bustle of Diagon Alley. Snape directed them into a small luggage shop where stout leather trunks shimmered behind glass.

The keeper bowed, recognizing him instantly.

Snape selected a sturdy, brass-cornered trunk with compartments spelled for dryness, temperature control, and—apparently—noise reduction. That last one was aimed pointedly at a smug amphibian.

Outside, with the sun tilting westward, Snape placed the new trunk on the ground and flicked his wand.

“Packio Totalum.”

Harry’s books, cauldron, robes, parchment rolls, quills—every item they’d bought leapt neatly into the trunk through the air like well-trained birds.

Finally, Snape added the apothecary basket, double-checking the lid to ensure unicorn tears couldn’t break loose.

Then he tapped the side of the trunk sharply.

“Reducio.”

The trunk shrank to palm-size—about the size of a thick wallet. Snape handed it over.

“Keep it in your pocket until you board. Then enlarge it.”

Harry stared, dumbfounded. “You can—shrink anything?”

Snape’s lips curled faintly. “Useful for luggage. Not recommended for… anything living.”

Harry snorted a laugh before he could stop himself.

___

The Muggle crowds of King’s Cross were louder than any dragon Harry could imagine.

Commuters rushed past with echoing footfalls, luggage wheels squeaking and children crying. The air smelled like petrol and warm brick. Snape strode forward like a dark ship cutting through churning waters, his coat snapping behind him.

Harry hurried to keep up, Midas wobbling on his head like a slightly seasick crown.

‘Your gait is uneven,’ the toad complained. ‘Regal strides, servant. Regal.’

Harry whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Stop calling me servant—”

“Stop muttering to your amphibian,” Snape muttered back.

‘He is jealous,’ Midas croaked, smug.

Snape’s eye twitched.

They passed platforms eight… nine…

Harry frowned at the empty barrier. “Sir? There’s no—”

Snape raised one dark eyebrow and nodded toward the brick column between platforms nine and ten.

“You walk through it, Potter.”

Harry opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“I’m—I’ll hit the wall.”

Snape leaned down slightly, voice lowering. “Do you trust me?”

Harry hesitated—then nodded.

Snape’s expression softened by a fraction. “Good. Walk straight at the barrier. Do not stop.”

He placed one long-fingered hand on the small of Harry’s back. “I am right behind you.”

Harry drew in a breath—and started forward.

Halfway there, a booming voice shouted, “—packed with Muggles, that was! All right—everyone stay close!”

Harry flinched so hard he squeaked, spinning around and plastering himself behind Snape’s leg.

A crowd of redheads descended like a cheerful plague.

“—Percy, don’t shove!—”

“—Mum, Ginny’s got my rat—hey!”

“—Fred, George, don’t you dare—”

Snape closed his eyes as though petitioning the heavens for strength.

“Wonderful,” he drawled.

Molly Weasley bustled forward, clutching knitting needles. “Severus! Fancy seeing you here!”

“You have,” Snape answered flatly, “a very loose definition of ‘fancy.’”

Fred and George perked up in unison when they spotted the toad.

“Ooh—who’s that?”

“New student?”

“Tiny—”

“Terrified—”

Their grins sharpened as they noticed Harry peeking out.

Harry squeaked harder and clung to Snape’s coat like it was a lifeline.

Snape blinked down at him. Something melted behind his eyes—just a little.

“Potter,” he said dryly, making no move to shake him off, “they are loud, not lethal.”

Everything stopped.

Molly gasped.

Percy blinked rapidly.

Fred’s and George’s jaws dropped.

Ron’s freckles drained of color.

“P-POTTER?” Ron blurted.

“The Harry Potter?” Percy whispered.

Fred leaned in. “Blimey, Mum, his hair really does look like that!”

“And he’s tiny!” George added, delighted.

Harry went scarlet, shrinking further behind Snape.

Midas, however, croaked smugly. ‘Behold. Royalty.’

Ginny shoved past her brothers, eyes huge and shining—not in awe of Harry, but of Midas.

“LET ME HOLD HIM!” she shrieked.

Harry yelped, two-handing the toad defensively.

“M-maybe not—he can be rude—”

‘LIBEL,’ Midas hissed dramatically.

Ginny stomped her foot, fists balled.

“BUT I WANT HIM! Mum! Make him give me the frog!”

“It’s not a frog,” Harry squeaked.

‘INSOLENCE! AMPHIBIAN NOBILITY!’ Midas puffed like a peacock.

Molly sighed. “Ginerva, that’s quite enough.”

Ginny’s lower lip wobbled. “That’s not fair! I deserve him more!”

Snape’s head snapped toward her, voice dropping to a glacial register.

“Deserve? Animals are not prizes. Nor are they yours to demand.”

Ginny froze.

Fred whispered to George, “I think I saw her soul leave her body.”

George whispered back, “We’ll bury it with honors.”

Ginny huffed, tossing her hair, but backed off—partially because Snape looked like he might hex entitlement itself.

Molly turned apologetic. “First-day nerves, Severus.”

Snape’s jaw went tight—protective. “Potter was startled enough before being assaulted by grabby children.”

Ginny shrieked, “I WASN’T GRABBY!”

“You were reaching,” Percy whispered primly.

Ron swallowed, staring at Harry with awe and disbelief. “So…you’re really him?”

Harry shrank, eyes darting anywhere but faces.

He tugged Snape’s coat again—small, unsure.

Snape placed a steadying hand between his shoulder blades.

“We were just about to go through,” he said curtly. “Potter.”

Harry latched back onto his leg as the twins howled.

“Oh he’s brilliant!”

“Snape’s got himself a—”

“—shadow!”

Harry squeaked louder, ears bright red.

Snape lifted his chin. “Enough.”

Miraculously—they stopped.

He guided Harry, hand firm and warm, toward the barrier.

“Deep breath,” he murmured.

Harry nodded and—

—they passed through the bricks like mist.

On the other side, the scarlet steam engine roared, billowing warmth and smoke beneath a wrought-iron arch. Owls hooted, cats wove between trunks, and students buzzed with excitement.

Harry’s eyes went huge.

Midas croaked reverently. ‘Now this is a domain.’

Snape cleared his throat.

“This,” he gestured grandly, “is Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.”

Harry just stared, awestruck. His hand found Snape’s coat again—not out of fear this time, but grounding.

Snape’s stern features softened. “You will manage. Better than you think.”

Ron tumbled out of the barrier after them, still gaping.

Ginny followed, sulking and shooting wounded looks at Midas.

The twins were already plotting.

Snape sighed—ancient and weary. “Come. Let us board. And for the love of Merlin—keep that toad away from impressionable children.”

‘HA!’ Midas croaked. ‘TOO LATE.’

Harry giggled.

And—for the first time—it didn’t feel strange.

It felt like the start of something real.

The platform was alive with sound and color—the hiss of steam, the trill of owls, the chatter of families saying goodbye.
Amid it all, one voice rose above the rest.

“IT’S NOT FAIR!” Ginny Weasley wailed somewhere behind them. “WHY CAN’T I GO TOO? I’M OLD ENOUGH!”

Molly’s voice floated after her, weary but firm. “You’ll go next year, dear—now stop making a scene!”

Snape didn’t even glance back. His stride was measured, deliberate—the sort of pace that made crowds part instinctively. Harry trailed beside him, clutching his reduced trunk, trying not to gawk at the scarlet train gleaming like molten metal in the sunlight.

Midas shifted atop his head, puffed and smug.
‘Behold, my chariot of fire.’

Harry muttered under his breath, “It’s not your chariot.”

‘Silence, servant. The peasants watch their monarch depart.’

Snape sighed without breaking stride. “If that creature gains any more self-importance, I shall be forced to enroll him as a faculty member.”

Harry tried not to giggle and failed. “You’d regret it, sir.”

Snape’s mouth twitched. “I already do.”

They climbed aboard together, Harry keeping close to snape.

A familiar drawling voice spoke up from the doorway just as Harry turned.

“Uncle Severus!”

A pale-haired boy in pristine robes stood there, posture perfect, chin lifted just enough to suggest his family had a long-standing feud with gravity. Two other children—both broad-shouldered and smirking—waited behind him.

“Draco,” Snape greeted evenly, a rare warmth undercutting the tone. “I had hoped to find you before departure.”

Draco’s sharp gray eyes darted curiously toward Harry. “Who’s that?”

Harry immediately ducked half-behind Snape’s robes, peeking out like a startled rabbit.

Snape angled his body slightly—shielding Harry without making it obvious. “A new student,” he said mildly. “Harry Potter.”

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then—

“The Harry Potter?” Draco’s voice cracked in astonishment. Crabbe and Goyle blinked in slow stereo.

Harry fidgeted, cheeks pink, mumbling, “Er—hi.”

Midas croaked from his head—something smug and echoing, dripping with self-importance.
‘Bow before us.’

To everyone else, it was a throaty Ribbit.

Draco blinked. “You… brought a toad?”

Harry flushed harder. “He’s… sort of… my friend.”

“Fascinating,” Snape drawled, though the corners of his mouth twitched again. “Now, Draco—make sure you find a compartment with sensible company. And do not antagonize the prefects.”

Draco smiled a touch too sweetly. “I’d never, Uncle.”

Snape gave him a look that implied he was quite capable of reading his godson’s thoughts—and was unimpressed by most of them.

Then he turned to Harry, voice lowering just enough that only he could hear.
“I must join the rest of the staff before departure. When you arrive, the prefects will guide you to the boats or the carriages. You will be fine.”

Harry’s throat felt tight. “Oh. Right. Okay.”

Snape paused, gaze softening. “You have done remarkably well today, Potter.”

‘He means we,’ Midas croaked proudly.

Snape’s eye flicked up to the toad. “…Yes. Even you.”

Harry grinned despite himself.

The whistle shrieked. Steam rolled across the platform. Snape stepped back, one hand resting briefly—almost unconsciously—on Harry’s shoulder.

“Go on, then,” he murmured. “The start of term awaits.”

Harry nodded, clutching his courage and his ridiculous toad-crown.

“Thank you, sir.”

Snape inclined his head once, then turned—coat flaring, silhouette cutting sharp against the mist—as he strode toward the professors’ end of the train.

Harry watched him disappear through the smoke, chest warm and strange.

‘He shall make a decent servant one day,’ Midas declared.

Harry snorted. “He already kind of is, isn’t he?”

‘Blasphemy. But true.’

A laugh bubbled up before he could stop it. He wiped his nose, squared his shoulders, and climbed aboard the train—ready, at last, to see what waited for him at Hogwarts.

___

The train jolted, hissing steam and creaking metal as it began to move.
Harry stumbled slightly before righting himself and slipping into an empty compartment halfway down the corridor.

The noise outside dulled as he shut the door behind him. The seats were soft and faded crimson, the glass a bit smudged, the faint scent of sweets and polish clinging to the air. It felt… safe.

He climbed up onto the bench, pulling his knees close and setting Midas gently beside him. The toad regarded him with those odd golden eyes, the faintest shimmer tracing his horns.

‘You look like a boy who swallowed a citrus,’ Midas said.

Harry gave a soft laugh. “Just… a bit nervous, I guess. Feels weird. Leaving everything behind.”

‘Nonsense. You are entering greatness. My greatness, by extension.’

“Of course.” Harry smiled faintly, brushing a thumb over Midas’s warty head. “You’re… really not like other toads.”

‘Obviously.’

For a few minutes, they sat quietly—the countryside beginning to roll past in blurs of green and gold outside the window. Harry pressed his forehead lightly to the cool glass.

Then Midas croaked softly.
‘There are realms to survey. I will return before the sun dips.’

Harry looked down quickly. “You’re going to… wander?”

‘Explore,’ Midas corrected, puffing himself up. ‘The peasants must know their king.’

Harry hesitated. “Promise you’ll come back?”

Midas tilted his head, regal and indignant.
‘I am bound by destiny—and by your clumsy heart, servant. I will return.’

With that, he hopped onto the windowsill, then onto the corridor floor through a gap in the door, vanishing with a faint plop.

Harry exhaled a half-laugh, half-sigh. “He’s going to get us both in trouble…”

The rhythmic clatter of the tracks filled the space. The countryside unfurled endlessly outside, dotted with tiny cottages and sheep. For the first time in years, the quiet wasn’t heavy—it was gentle.

He was so caught up watching the world rush past that he didn’t hear the door slide open.

“Er—hi.”

Harry jumped, turning fast. A lanky red-haired boy stood awkwardly in the doorway, his ears already red.

“I, uh… I’m Ron. Ron Weasley.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I just—wanted to say sorry. You know, for earlier. My family’s… a lot.”

Harry blinked, then smiled a little. “Yeah. They’re… loud.”

Ron gave a nervous chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s one word for it. Mind if I sit? Everywhere else is kind of full.”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No, go ahead.”

Ron dropped into the seat opposite him, the relief obvious. For a few seconds they just sat there, the train rumbling beneath them.

“So,” Ron said finally, fiddling with his sleeve, “you really are him, yeah? The Harry Potter?”

Harry looked down at his hands. “I guess so.”

Ron flushed again. “Sorry. That sounded stupid.”

“It’s okay,” Harry said, smiling softly. “I’m still getting used to it, too.”

Ron grinned, the tension melting. “Well, if it helps, I think it’s brilliant. You don’t act like—y’know—people said you would.”

Harry tilted his head. “How’d they say I’d act?”

“Tall, shiny, probably glowing.”

Harry laughed—actually laughed—and Ron beamed like he’d won something.

The train rattled on, sunlight streaming through the glass, and for the first time in a long time, Harry didn’t feel alone.

Outside the door, unseen, a faint ribbit echoed down the corridor—mischievous, triumphant, and entirely Midas.

___

The air between Harry and Ron was comfortably warm with laughter when Harry pulled the tiny trunk from his pocket.

“I think I’ll get my robes out before we get too close,” he said, placing the matchbox-sized case on the seat.

Ron leaned forward eagerly. “Blimey, did Snape do that for you? Wicked charmwork, that is—”

Harry nodded, careful to point his wand. “Engorgio.”

With a faint whump, the trunk expanded back to its proper size, gleaming brass corners and all.

“Brilliant,” Ron breathed. “Did you know that with food, and pretty much anything?"

Before Harry could answer, the door slid open with the practiced force of someone on a mission.

A bushy-haired girl in neat Muggle clothes stood in the doorway, flanked by a round-faced boy clutching a battered wand and looking like he might faint.

“Excuse me,” the girl said crisply, “but has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one.”

The boy beside her stammered, “H-he keeps hopping off…”

Harry blinked. “A toad?”

___

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the train—

‘Disgraceful,’ Midas croaked, inspecting a sweet trolley with deep disdain. ‘Sugared frogs. Mockery.’

The trolley witch smiled faintly, oblivious to his regal outrage, and rolled on.

A soft “ribbit” caught his attention.

He turned.

On the floor beside a passing shoe sat a small, plump brown toad with wide, brilliant eyes.

Midas froze.
Oh.

‘A vision,’ he murmured. ‘Such delicate mottling. Such—such wobble.’

Trevor blinked. “Huh?”

‘Your name, noble beauty?’ Midas croaked suavely.

“My person calls me Trevor.”

‘Trevor,’ he decided dreamily. ‘An unassuming name for a goddess.’

Trevor blinked again and hopped toward him.

Midas puffed up. ‘Fate has smiled upon me.’

___

Back in Harry’s compartment, the girl had crossed her arms.

“You shouldn’t be doing magic on the train,” she said, eyes narrowing at the trunk. “We’re not even at school yet! You could get in serious trouble!”

Harry froze, wand still raised. “But—it’s not—I was just—”

“That’s no excuse,” she said briskly, marching closer. “You’re supposed to wait until the term begins. Everyone knows that.”

Ron groaned quietly. “Blimey, who died and made you Head Girl?”

“I’m only trying to help!” she shot back, bristling. “I’ve read Hogwarts, A History twice and it clearly says underage magic—”

“—isn’t allowed outside of school,” Ron interrupted, waving a hand. “We’re technically on school property now, aren’t we?”

The girl sputtered. “That’s—that’s not how it works!”

Neville piped up weakly, “Er… could we maybe just find Trevor?”

Harry jumped at the name. “Oh! A toad named Trevor?”

Neville nodded miserably. “He’s gone missing again. He’s brown, sort of plain—”

Ron snorted. “I wouldn’t go calling your pet plain in front of him, mate.”

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “If you see him, please bring him back. Honestly, how hard is it to keep track of one toad—?”

___

Midas, meanwhile, was busy escorting Trevor through the corridor like an adventurer leading his queen.

‘Fear not, fair Trevor. I will return you to your lesser caretaker once our fates intertwine.’

Trevor blinked.

‘Ah, silence. The language of the divine.’

He paused dramatically as a group of older Slytherins walked by, each giving him a curious glance. One girl shrieked as he hopped neatly onto her shoe.

‘Bow before royalty!’ he declared—though, to everyone else, it came out as a very loud RIBBIT.

___

Back in the compartment, Hermione huffed, smoothing her jumper. “Just be careful, all right? I’d hate for anyone to get expelled before term even starts.”

She turned on her heel, dragging Neville with her, muttering something about “irresponsible boys and dangerous charms.”

Ron slumped in his seat. “Mental, that one.”

Harry smiled faintly, stowing his trunk properly this time. “Wonder what she'd say if I told her I had a professors permission.”

Ron waved him off. “Bet she’s memorized every rule in the book. You’ll see—she’ll probably be best mates with Percy by the end of the week.”

They both laughed softly, the tension ebbing away as the countryside continued to blur past.

___

Meanwhile, two compartments down—

‘You must be returned, fair Trevor,’ Midas declared, marching importantly through the aisle. ‘Your servant awaits.’

Trevor hopped beside him, looking skeptical. “You talk funny.”

‘Articulately,’ Midas corrected. ‘And you—talk adorably.’

Trevor’s throat puffed. “You’re strange, but… nice.”

‘Nice?’ Midas puffed up like a balloon. ‘I am regal. Dignified. Glorious.’

Trevor blinked. “You’re also dripping pumpkin juice.”

Midas looked down, scandalized. A trail of sticky orange drops marked his path.

‘Battle scars,’ he decided. ‘Proof of adventure.’

Just then, the compartment door opened behind them, and a familiar voice cried, “TREVOR! There you are!”

Trevor sighed. “That’s my human.”

‘Go,’ Midas said magnanimously. ‘But remember me, noble heart. Should fate be kind, we shall meet again.’

Trevor gave a shy little croak. “Okay… bye, Midas.”

As Neville scooped him up, the toad turned once—just long enough to see Midas give a solemn, regal bow before hopping away down the corridor.

___

Back in Harry’s compartment, Harry glanced at the door as Midas returned—slightly damp, a bit sticky, and looking rather smug.

“Where have you been?” Harry whispered.

‘Diplomatic relations,’ Midas said loftily. ‘I have found love.’

Harry blinked. “…You what?”

‘Do not interrupt a monarch in mourning,’ Midas croaked dramatically, and flopped into his lap.

Ron snorted. “Weird little bloke, isn’t he?”

Harry smiled, scratching Midas’s head. “Yeah,” he said softly. “He is.”

Outside, the countryside rolled by in blurs of green and gold, and for the first time in his life, Harry felt like the world was opening up—wide and warm and waiting.

___

The train began to slow as evening shadows stretched across the rolling hills. A voice called down the corridor, announcing they’d soon arrive at Hogsmeade Station. The compartment filled with the gentle rustle of robes, the clatter of trunks, and the faint hiss of Midas sighing dramatically on Harry’s shoulder.

‘Parting,’ he lamented, gazing out the window as the lights of the station flickered into view. ‘The cruelest curse of all. My heart is broken.’

Harry smiled faintly, tugging on his cloak. “You knew him for ten minutes.”

‘Time is but a construct,’ Midas said solemnly. ‘Love eternal knows no clock.’

Ron muffled a laugh. “He sounds so dramatic.”

The train finally halted with a screech, and the doors opened to crisp night air and the sound of rushing voices.

“First years! First years over here!” came the booming call.

Harry blinked as the crowd parted—and there, holding a lantern aloft, stood Professor Snape. His black robes billowed in the chill wind, a pale flicker of lamplight dancing across his face.

Harry’s heart leapt. “Professor Snape!” he called before he could stop himself.

Snape’s dark eyes snapped toward him—and for a fraction of a second, softened. “Mr. Potter,” he said evenly. “You are not to wander. Keep close and watch your footing.”

Ron glanced between them. “I forgot how friendly you are with him."

Harry nodded shyly. “He… He's not so bad.”

Snape gave Ron a brief, unreadable look before turning to the crowd. “Follow me. Boats are waiting. Do not dawdle.”

Midas, still perched on Harry’s shoulder, let out a loud, heart-wrenching croak.

‘What elegance, what sorrow,’ he said. ‘Even the stars mourn with me.’

“Drama queen,” Harry muttered.

Down by the lake, dozens of tiny boats bobbed in the water like scattered candles. The moonlight painted silver streaks across the surface, and Hogwarts loomed in the distance, magnificent and half-shrouded in mist.

“Four to a boat!” Snape called.

Harry, Ron, and Neville found themselves hesitating until Draco Malfoy appeared beside them, chin lifted in faint disdain. “All the other boats are full,” he said coolly.

Harry gestured toward theirs. “There’s room with us.”

Draco blinked—clearly not expecting such quick kindness—but slid in, careful not to wrinkle his robes. “Thanks,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Neville clambered in last, clutching Trevor protectively.

At once, Midas perked up. His bulbous golden eyes widened.

‘Trevor!’ he croaked joyfully. ‘The stars have favored me!’

Trevor gave a startled ribbit. “Midas? You’re here?”

‘Destiny could not keep us apart!’ Midas declared, hopping into Neville’s lap and puffing his chest.

Neville nearly dropped his wand. “Oi—Harry! Your toad—!”

Harry tried not to laugh. “He’s fine, Neville. They’re friends.”

“Friends?” Ron said, grinning as the boat began to move on its own. “Looks like he’s about to propose.”

Draco smirked faintly. “At least one of them has good taste.”

Harry gave him a look that was half amusement, half surprise—and for the first time, Draco’s smirk faltered into something that almost resembled a smile.

As the boats glided forward, ripples shimmered across the dark water. The castle rose higher with every stroke of moonlight, towers piercing the mist like something from a dream.

Harry leaned forward, awed. The reflection of Hogwarts gleamed across his glasses; it was everything he’d imagined and somehow more.

Beside him, Ron whispered, “Blimey… do you think we’ll really live there?”

Neville nodded numbly, eyes wide. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

Draco tilted his head slightly. “It’s home,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

And on the edge of the boat, Midas crooned softly to Trevor, who blinked back at him with sleepy affection.

‘Ah, sweet reunion,’ Midas sighed. ‘May our kingdoms unite beneath the moon.’

Trevor yawned. “You’re dramatic.”

‘Romantic,’ Midas corrected. ‘There’s a difference.’

Harry chuckled under his breath, watching the two toads as the boat passed beneath the shadow of the great cliff. Above them, the lanterns of Hogwarts flickered like stars caught in stone.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt like he was going somewhere that might finally feel like belonging.

And even Midas, in all his theatrical misery, seemed content—singing softly under his breath as the boats drifted toward the waiting shore.

Chapter Text

The boats bumped gently against the stone dock, their lanterns flickering as the first years scrambled out—some tripping, others wide-eyed and silent. The air was sharp and cool, the scent of lake water mixing with moss and candle wax from the torches burning along the walls.

“Follow me, please!” came a crisp voice.

A tall witch in emerald robes stood waiting, posture impeccable and eyes keen. Her square spectacles glinted in the torchlight.

“Professor McGonagall,” Snape said, stepping forward.

“Severus,” she greeted with a curt nod, though her gaze softened ever so slightly when she saw Harry among the crowd. “I trust the journey was uneventful?”

“Relatively,” Snape replied, though his tone implied it could have been far worse.

At that, Midas let out a mournful croak from Harry’s shoulder.
‘My heart was shattered, but I endured,’ he declared.

“Ribbit,” said everyone else’s ears.

Harry quickly patted him. “He’s fine,” he whispered.

Snape’s lips twitched—just faintly. Then, to McGonagall, “I’ll leave them in your capable hands.”

She inclined her head. “As always.”

Snape’s robes swirled as he turned, striding away through a side door that led into the Great Hall. For a heartbeat, Harry wanted to follow—to stay close to that one familiar face in all this strangeness. But Snape glanced back just once, catching his eye.

A small nod. Steady yourself. You’ll do well.

Harry took a breath and joined the others.

___

McGonagall led them through a vast archway into a stone passageway lit by flickering torches. Their footsteps echoed on the flagstones as they climbed a short flight of stairs. The castle hummed around them—alive in a way no building had any right to be. Paintings whispered, shadows shifted, and the air buzzed faintly with enchantment.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” McGonagall began, her voice carrying effortlessly over the murmur of awe. “In a few moments, you will enter the Great Hall and be sorted into your houses. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.”

Ron nudged Harry, whispering, “Mum said there’s a test. Fred said you’ve got to fight a troll.”

Harry blanched. “A troll?”

Draco snorted softly. “Don’t be ridiculous, Weasley. It’s a hat.”

Ron frowned. “A hat?”

“Yes, my father told me all about it,” Draco said smugly, but his tone carried more nerves than confidence. “You’ll see.”

Neville was clutching Trevor again—though Trevor was craning his neck toward Midas across the corridor.

‘My beloved!’ Midas croaked, trying to wriggle free.

Harry whispered quickly, “Stay. You’ll see him later.”

Midas huffed, puffing his throat like an indignant balloon. ‘Love denied is cruelty incarnate.’

McGonagall’s sharp eyes flicked to Harry. “Everything all right, Mr…?”

“Potter, ma’am,” Harry said, flushing.

Her expression softened just a touch. “Ah. Yes. Quite all right, Mr. Potter. Best to keep pets contained during ceremonies.”

“Yes, Professor,” he murmured, cupping a hand over Midas, who hissed mournfully.

___

They reached a tall set of double doors. McGonagall turned to face them, her voice calm but commanding.

“When I call your name, you will step forward, place the Sorting Hat upon your head, and wait for your house to be announced. Your house will be your family here at Hogwarts.”

Behind the doors, the low hum of voices and the clatter of cutlery echoed faintly—the Great Hall alive with anticipation.

For a moment, Harry’s chest tightened. He glanced toward where Snape had gone, wishing he could see him again, just for reassurance.

But held himself back.

He straightened a little. Ron gave him a quick grin, Draco tried not to look nervous, and Neville adjusted his grip on Trevor, who croaked softly toward Midas.

Midas sighed dramatically. ‘Farewell, my heart. Until the morrow.’

“Farewell,” said Trevor fondly.

The heavy doors swung open.

And the Great Hall unfolded before them—glorious and golden, candles floating above long tables, four banners hanging in their house colors, and an enchanted ceiling mirroring the night sky.

Gasps filled the air. Even Midas was briefly speechless.

‘By the moon’s reflection,’ he whispered reverently. ‘What splendor.’

Harry swallowed hard. His fingers brushed the tiny trunk in his pocket—the first gift he’d ever been given that felt like his.

And just beyond the front table, Snape stood among the professors, arms folded, eyes sharp and watchful.

Harry met his gaze for half a second.

Snape inclined his head once, almost imperceptibly.

Harry took a deep breath, the glow of the candles reflecting in his wide green eyes.

Whatever came next… he was ready.

___

The first years filed into the Great Hall, their footsteps echoing as hundreds of faces turned toward them. The ceiling shimmered with a thousand stars, candles hovering like warm orbs of sunlight over the long, glittering tables.

Harry’s stomach swooped. He’d never seen anything so breathtaking—or so intimidating.

At the far end, the teachers sat at a grand table. Dumbledore twinkled beneath his silver beard; Professor Sprout smiled warmly; Professor Flitwick was practically vibrating with excitement.

And there, beside them—black robes, stillness like midnight—sat Snape. His gaze swept the new students, unreadable.

Midas croaked softly from Harry’s pocket.
‘The tall one watches with interest. We are favored, servant.’

Harry whispered, “He’s not— I mean—maybe…”

“Shh!” Ron hissed, elbowing him.

Professor McGonagall placed a ragged old hat on a stool. Its seams twitched—and then it spoke.

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin.

Songs about bravery, loyalty, wit, and cunning followed, echoing through the hall. Then, one by one, McGonagall began calling names.

“Abbott, Hannah!”

A small blonde girl stumbled forward, shaking. The Hat barely touched her head before shouting, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

Applause filled the room.

Harry craned to see, heart pounding as more names were called.

“Granger, Hermione!”

The bushy-haired girl from the train nearly ran to the stool, face pinched with nerves. The Hat dropped over her eyes, paused—then declared, “RAVENCLAW!”

The table in blue and bronze erupted in cheers.

Hermione looked delighted and terrified all at once.

Ron groaned. “Knew she’d be a know-it-all. Figures.”

“Malfoy, Draco!”

Draco strode forward, confident but pale. The Hat didn’t take long—“SLYTHERIN!”

Cheers erupted from the table draped in green and silver. Draco shot Harry a look that was almost smug—but not cruel. A silent challenge, maybe.

Then came:

“Longbottom, Neville!”

Neville trembled as he sat, clutching Trevor. The Hat murmured for longer than expected, and finally declared, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

The cheers this time were softer, welcoming.

Ron stood with a large grin beside him, leaning closer to mumble, "knew he was a puuf, adorable."

Harry smiled for him. Midas whispered, ‘A fitting court for a gentle knight.’

"Weasley, Ron," the hat called out, and the red head shuffled forwards, taking the hat onto his head. It was barley a moment before "GRYFFINDOR!" Is called out across the hall. Ron places the hat back down and runs to the table of lions.

Then:

“Potter, Harry!”

The room fell into complete silence.

Every eye turned toward him.

Harry froze.

Whispers erupted like wind through leaves—
“Did she say Potter?”
“The Harry Potter?”

He swallowed hard, forcing his legs to move. The stool looked miles away.

Midas croaked once in quiet support.

Snape’s gaze followed him all the way there, unreadable but steady. Harry clung to that.

He sat.

The Hat dropped over his eyes, plunging him into darkness.

“Well, well,” murmured a dry, amused voice. “Difficult. Very difficult.”

Harry flinched slightly. “H-Hello?”

“Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either… there’s talent, oh my yes. And a thirst to prove yourself… fascinating…”

Harry’s heart thumped. “Slytherin?” he whispered, uncertainly echoing something he didn’t quite understand.

“Slytherin huh?” the Hat repeated. “You could do great things there. And there’s someone waiting who sees more in you than most.”

Harry blinked. “You mean—Professor Snape?”

The Hat chuckled darkly. “Ah, that’s the reason you hesitate. You wish to stay near the one who steadies you. Rare loyalty for one so young…”

“I just… feel safe when he’s there,” Harry admitted softly.

A long pause. Then, quietly:

“Very well. Better be… SLYTHERIN!”

The word rang through the hall like a thunderclap.

For a moment—silence.

Then the Slytherin table erupted in cheers, some surprised, some delighted. Draco’s eyes went wide—then he grinned, genuinely pleased.

Harry slipped off the stool, cheeks pink, head spinning.

The Gryffindor table looked stunned. Ron’s jaw had dropped.

He risked a glance at Snape.

The professor’s expression was impossible to read—but there was the faintest gleam in his eyes, the tiniest quirk of approval.

As Harry took his seat beside Draco, Midas peeked out of his pocket, croaking with pride.
‘We have ascended, my servant. A kingdom of serpents suits us well.’

Harry smiled nervously, half at the toad, half at the room.

For the first time, he felt like he belonged somewhere—though not in the way he’d ever imagined.

___

The Great Hall glittered under candlelight. Platters of golden roast chicken, steaming potatoes, and gleaming puddings appeared with a shimmer of magic. The four long tables filled instantly with chatter, laughter, and the clatter of cutlery.

At the Slytherin table, the new first-years settled among the older students. Harry sat small and uncertain between Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, the green-and-silver banners above them rippling in the draft.

He’d never seen so much food in his life.

Midas peeked from his pocket, eyes gleaming.
‘A veritable banquet. Accept the tribute, servant.’

Harry whispered, “It’s not for you.”

‘All is for me,’ Midas corrected, flicking his tongue regally.

Draco snorted softly. “He's very loud.”

Harry smiled a little. “He’s opinionated.”

Pansy Parkinson leaned forward across the table, dark eyes sharp. “So, it’s true then. You’re him.”

Harry blinked. “Me?”

“The Boy Who Lived,” Blaise supplied smoothly. “Harry Potter.”

Harry tilted his head. “The boy who—what?”

The table fell silent.

Even Draco’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.

Theo Nott whispered, “You’re joking.”

Pansy’s jaw dropped. “You don’t know?”

Harry hesitated. “Know what?”

Draco frowned. “You don’t know why everyone’s been staring at you since you walked in?”

Harry flushed, looking down at his plate. “People have been staring at me since I got here..”

“You don’t know about him?” Blaise asked softly. “You-Know-Who?”

Harry blinked again. “Who?”

A few older students further down the table went quiet, pretending not to listen but clearly straining to hear.

Theo muttered, “Merlin help us.”

Pansy leaned closer, voice hushed. “You really don’t know about the night your parents—”

Draco cut her off, tone sharp. “Enough.”

Everyone looked at him in surprise.

“He doesn’t know,” Draco said firmly. “So shut it before you make it worse.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Protective already, Malfoy?”

Draco scowled. “He’s in my House now.”

Harry blinked between them, lost. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

Draco sighed, softer this time. “You didn’t. You just… surprised everyone.”

Before Harry could reply, the murmuring died away. Dumbledore had risen.

His silver beard shimmered in the candlelight, his eyes—bright as stars—swept the room.
“Welcome!” he said warmly. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our term, I have a few words to share—Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”

The older students laughed and clapped.

Harry blinked. “Is he—?”

Draco muttered, “from what I hear, yes.”

Dumbledore’s smile turned fond, but his tone carried a weight that rippled through the hall.
“Now, before we truly begin, a few important notices.”

“First, the Forbidden Forest remains, as ever, strictly forbidden to all students who do not wish to die a most unpleasant death. I remind you that it is called the Forbidden Forest for a reason.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the students—nervous, uneasy.

Harry shivered.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, though the smile never reached them. “Secondly, the corridor on the right-hand side of the third floor is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to suffer a fate worse than death.”

That sobered the room instantly.

Harry glanced at Draco, whispering, “Is he serious?”

Draco looked uneasy for the first time. “When Dumbledore says things like that… yes.”

“Lastly,” Dumbledore added, “Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to remind you all that magic in the corridors between classes will not be tolerated. And Madam Hooch wishes me to assure the new first years that broomstick lessons begin next week.”

He spread his arms wide again, the twinkle returning to his gaze. “And now, let us all raise our glasses—to another year of learning, laughter, and perhaps even friendship.”

As the cheers rose, Harry couldn’t help glancing toward the staff table—Snape, is still seated, expression unreadable but eyes sharp and steady. When Harry’s gaze met his, something softened. A faint nod.

Reassuring.

Harry smiled before he realized it, and quickly looked away, cheeks warming.

Midas croaked softly, ‘Your dark guardian watches from afar.’

Harry whispered, “He’s just my teacher.”

‘And yet,’ Midas said smugly, ‘he sees you.’

Blaise leaned forward again, watching Harry curiously. “You really dont know anything?”

Harry shook his head. “I didn’t even know magic existed until a few days ago.”

The Slytherins stared. Even Draco seemed to be recalibrating his entire worldview.

Theo muttered under his breath, “We’re sitting with the most famous boy in the world, and he doesn’t even know what for.”

Draco nudged him sharply. “Shut it.” Then, turning back to Harry, he said a little awkwardly, “You’ll find out eventually. For now, eat before the food disappears.”

Harry blinked. “Disappears?”

Draco smirked. “House elves don’t like wasting leftovers.”

Harry hesitated, then glanced down the table — mountains of roast chicken, golden potatoes, glazed carrots, steaming bread rolls. His stomach twisted, sharp and empty.

He hadn’t eaten properly in… well, ever. Except for lunch that very day.

So, when he reached for a roll and buttered it, then another, and then some chicken and potatoes and gravy—no one stopped him. He ate quickly at first, like someone afraid the food might vanish mid-bite, then slower as warmth spread through his chest.

Midas sat contentedly beside his plate, puffing up proudly.
‘Feast, my chosen one. The kingdom approves.’

Blaise raised an eyebrow as Harry reached for a third helping. Draco didn’t say anything—just pushed the gravy boat closer.

Across the table, Theo whispered to Pansy, “Does he mean to eat the tablecloth next?”

Pansy elbowed him, but her smile softened a little.

By the time Dumbledore clapped his hands and the food vanished from the tables, Harry had leaned back in his seat, one hand on his stomach, eyes dazed and dreamy.

The enchanted ceiling shimmered above, full of drifting stars.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt warm, full, and safe.

Midas gave a satisfied croak, settling in his pocket.
‘Long live the feast,’ he murmured sleepily.

Harry smiled faintly. He didn’t know much about magic or fame or destiny. But as the candles floated higher and the Slytherins rose to follow their prefects below, one thing was certain—
he’d never, ever forget his first meal at Hogwarts.

___

As the feast ended and benches scraped back, the prefects called their Houses to order. The Great Hall buzzed with chatter and echoing footsteps as the first years gathered in nervous clusters.

“First-years, this way!” a tall girl with a Slytherin badge called—Gemma Farley, the fifth-year prefect.

Harry followed, blinking drowsily from the warmth of food and candlelight. Midas peeked out from his pocket, croaking softly.

Then, from across the Hall—

‘My heart!’ Midas cried dramatically, chest puffing.

Trevor, nestled in Neville’s trembling hands, gave one shy croak in reply before the boy was swept away with the Hufflepuffs.

‘Farewell, my beloved!’ Midas wailed, stretching one little arm out over Harry’s collar.

Draco blinked. “Is your toad—crying?”

Harry smiled faintly. “He’s… dramatic.”

‘You wouldn’t understand true love,’ Midas sniffed, retreating into Harry’s pocket.

The prefects led them down torchlit corridors and steep staircases until the air grew cooler, damper. Finally, they stopped before a bare stretch of stone wall.

Gemma turned, chin high. “The password changes weekly. This week’s is Pure Intentions.”

The wall melted into an archway, revealing the Slytherin common room: a vast, green-glowing chamber with low ceilings, silver lamps, and windows that looked out into the murky depths of the Black Lake. Shadows rippled across the walls where fish glided past the glass.

Harry’s mouth fell open.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“Of course it is,” Draco said, sounding smug but smiling anyway.

Professor Snape was waiting near the hearth, robes trailing like smoke, eyes cool but—just faintly—pleased.

“Welcome to Slytherin House,” he said, voice carrying like silk over stone. “Here, ambition and cunning are valued—not cruelty. You will find that respect is earned, not demanded.”

He paced slowly, hands clasped. “You will obey curfew. You will not hex your classmates in the corridors. And you will remember that I expect Slytherin to lead this school in both discipline and decorum.”

His gaze flicked to Harry for a moment—something unspoken in it, half-warning, half-assurance.

“Your dormitories are through the left arch. Girls to the right, boys to the left. You will find your luggage already delivered. Prefects will assist you if necessary.”

He paused, dark eyes sweeping the group. “Do not test me with nonsense tonight. I am not in the mood.”

A quiet ripple of nervous laughter followed him as he swept toward the door and vanished into the corridor.

The boys trudged down into their dormitory—round, with green lamps and carved wooden beds. The air smelled faintly of lake water and polished wood. Harry found his name on a plaque above one of the four-posters and sank onto it, dazed.

Midas flopped onto his pillow with a croak.
‘Royal accommodations! And yet… so cold without my beloved.’

Harry chuckled softly, curling up beneath the heavy green blankets.

Across the room, Draco was tugging the hangings on his bed straight, muttering about wrinkles. Theo Nott was quietly unpacking, arranging a few worn books in a precise row on his trunk. Blaise Zabini leaned against a bedpost, watching everyone with amused detachment, while Crabbe and Goyle sat side by side on one bed, already half-asleep.

The silence stretched—awkward, uncertain—until Theo cleared his throat. “So… that was quite a feast, wasn’t it?”

“Best food I’ve ever had,” Blaise admitted, flopping onto his bed. “My mum says the house-elves here are unmatched.”

Harry smiled faintly, rubbing his stomach. “It was… a lot.”

Draco eyed him from across the room. “You looked like you’d never seen a banquet before.”

Harry flushed. “I—I hadn’t.”

The other boys exchanged quick glances, but to their credit, no one laughed.

Theo hesitated. “So not a pampered prince?”

Harry shook his head. “Not really, I didn't grow up like this.”

Blaise hummed thoughtfully. “Explains why you were looking at everything like it was Christmas morning.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He was watching Harry again—curious, not cruel. Then his gaze drifted to Midas, who was now sitting very proudly on Harry’s pillow, chest puffed like a prince surveying his court.

“Why do you talk to it like it understands you?” Draco asked finally.

Harry blinked. “He does understand me.”

Draco smirked, skeptical. “Right. And what’s he saying now? Plotting world domination?”

‘Not domination,’ Midas huffed. ‘A gentle and benevolent rule.’

Harry bit back a laugh. “He says he’s a benevolent ruler.”

Theo snorted into his sleeve. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Harry grinned. “He’s… opinionated.”

‘Regal,’ Midas corrected, affronted.

Harry added obediently, “Regal.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re mental, Potter.” But there was no venom—just disbelief and maybe, secretly, a hint of amusement.

Blaise yawned. “If his toad wants to run a kingdom, he can start with Crabbe and Goyle. They’ll follow anything that croaks.”

Crabbe blinked, half-awake. “Wha’?”

Theo chuckled quietly, and the tension broke.

Before long, the room was filled with the soft rustle of blankets and low murmurs. Someone snored. The lanterns dimmed to a cool green glow.

Midas nestled near Harry’s ear, mumbling sleepily, ‘You have found good soldiers, my servant. Loyal hearts.’

Harry smiled in the dark. “They’re friends, Midas. Not soldiers.”

‘Semantics,’ Midas croaked, already drifting off.

And as Harry closed his eyes, listening to the steady breathing of his roommates and the distant whisper of the Black Lake beyond the window, it struck him—
for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sleeping alone.

___

The Slytherin dormitory slept soundly beneath the green glow of the lake. Shadows rippled over stone and glass, and all was still—until a soft, strangled sound broke the quiet.

Harry jerked upright in bed, clutching his stomach.

The pain hit like fire. He barely managed to lean over the side before his body convulsed—he retched, once, twice, again, trembling so violently the bedposts creaked.

Midas leapt away with a startled croak, landing on the bedside table.

'My Servant!’ He exclaimed. ‘You are leaking.’

Harry gagged too hard to answer. His skin was pale and slick with sweat.

Draco’s curtains flew open. “What—what’s going on?”

Theo blinked blearily, then gasped. “He’s sick—someone get the professor!”

Blaise was already sprinting barefoot for the door. Crabbe and Goyle stood frozen, horrified.

Harry clutched the sheets, tears mixing with sweat. “I—I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice trembling. “Didn’t mean to—”

He doubled over again.

Theo dropped to his knees beside him, fumbling for a towel. “It’s okay, Potter, just—just breathe—Merlin—”

Then the door slammed open.

Professor Snape filled the doorway like a thundercloud—robe belt loose, hair tousled, wand already drawn. “What—”

His gaze landed on Harry. His expression changed instantly.

He crossed the room in three strides. “Move.”

The boys scrambled back as Snape knelt beside the bed, wand flicking sharply. “Scourgify.”

The air shimmered, the mess vanished.

Harry whimpered, trying to pull away. “’M sorry, sir—I didn’t—”

“Quiet,” Snape said softly. His voice wasn’t angry, but it left no room for disobedience. “You have done nothing wrong.”

Another flick. A vial appeared in his hand—soft blue potion glowing faintly. He tipped it against Harry’s lips. “Drink.”

Harry tried, but his hands shook too hard. Snape steadied them, his grip firm but careful.

The potion went down, and warmth spread through Harry’s belly, easing the twisting pain. His breathing slowed. His face went from ashen to flushed pink.

Snape exhaled quietly. Then, from another pocket, came a golden vial. “Calming Draught. Small sips.”

Harry swallowed, blinking through tears. “I—I just… ate too much—didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” Snape’s tone softened, the words almost gentle. “Your body is unaccustomed to proper meals. Starvation followed by feasting—foolish, but easily remedied.”

Harry sniffled, half a sob. “I’m sorry—made a mess—everyone—watching—”

“Hush.”

The single word cut through the shaking. Snape brushed a hand through the boy’s damp hair, checking his forehead. “No apologies. You’ve done nothing shameful.”

Harry’s breath hitched again. “Didn’t want to—cause trouble—”

Snape’s face tightened, something dangerous flashing behind his eyes. “The only trouble, Potter, is that others allowed you to believe needing help was a crime.”

He adjusted the blanket, then—without hesitation—lifted Harry into his arms.

Gasps rippled through the room.

Draco, Theo, Blaise—none of them had ever seen Snape touch anyone, much less hold them like that.

Harry blinked up, dazed, against the black folds of Snape’s robes.

“Easy,” Snape murmured. “Rest now.”

He laid Harry back onto the bed, drew the blanket tight, and traced a warming charm across it. “Sleep. The potion will settle your stomach.”

Harry mumbled weakly, eyes closing. “’M sorry…”

Snape shook his head. “Enough. Sleep.”

When Harry’s breathing evened out, Snape turned to the other boys. His eyes were cold as polished obsidian.

“If I hear a single word of this repeated outside this room,” he said softly, dangerously, “I will personally ensure that every last one of you regrets ever learning to speak.”

Draco swallowed hard. “Y-yes, uncle.”

“Understood,” Theo murmured.

Blaise nodded quickly. Crabbe and Goyle looked ready to faint.

Snape gave one final look at Harry—pale, but peaceful now. Then he straightened, wand flicking once more to dim the lamps.

“Sleep,” he ordered quietly. “All of you.”

As he swept out, the door clicked shut behind him, and silence returned—broken only by the faint ripple of water against the windows.

Midas climbed onto Harry’s pillow, croaking softly.

“What do you think he's saying?” Draco whispered from his bed.

Harry stirred faintly, 'It's okay servant, your king shall watch over you.' Midas proclaimed, settling down against the side of Harry's head.

The boys didn’t understand.
But they all felt it.

___

Harry woke to soft murmurs and the low hum of water outside the dormitory windows. Green light shimmered faintly across the walls. His stomach ached dully but no longer twisted; Midas sat watchfully atop his trunk, his throat puffing with slow, steady croaks.

‘You live,’ Midas declared solemnly. ‘I guarded you all night. Heroic, I know.’

Harry smiled weakly. “Thanks, Midas.”

The other boys were dressing for breakfast. They all tried to act casual, though Harry caught their quick glances.

Draco, pretending to adjust his tie, finally asked, “You alright, Potter?”

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “Better.”

Theo offered a small grin. “Good. We thought Snape was going to murder us if anything happened to you.”

Harry flushed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Draco muttered. “It’s… weird, but I think he actually likes you.”

Before Harry could respond, the prefect called them to breakfast.

___

The Great Hall was bright with morning light, the enchanted ceiling a crisp blue sky. The smell of toast and pumpkin juice filled the air.

Schedules were passed down the tables, and Harry unfolded his parchment eagerly.

Monday:

Breakfast

Potions – with Hufflepuff

Herbology – with Gryffindor

Lunch

Charms – with Ravenclaw

History of Magic

Dinner

 

Draco leaned over to peek. "Potions first thing. Brilliant. My favorite subject.”

Harry smiled sheepishly. “I think it's gonna be mine too.”

Before Draco could reply, a small parchment owl dropped onto Harry’s plate, scattering crumbs.

He unrolled it:

Mr. Potter,

Please report to the Hospital Wing immediately after breakfast.

— Professor S. Snape

 

Draco whistled low. “Already in trouble?”

Theo smirked. “Or he’s checking if you can keep food down.” He teased non-maliciusly

Harry frowned but obeyed the note.

___

The hospital wing was bright and clean, smelling faintly of herbs and polish. Madam Pomfrey stood at the far end, bustling with vials, while Snape waited beside her—arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Sit, Mr. Potter,” he said softly.

Harry obeyed, perching on the edge of the nearest bed. Midas poked his head out of Harry’s pocket, croaking once before settling.

“I spoke with Madam Pomfrey this morning,” Snape said. “I promised you would get vision care here, and I believe the sooner the better.”

Pomfrey nodded briskly. “He’s right. You’ve been straining your eyes for years, haven’t you, dear?”

Harry fidgeted. “I—I guess so. Things have always been a bit blurry.”

“Then we’ll fix that.” She passed her wand in front of his face. Rings of soft gold light shimmered around his eyes. “Oh, heavens. You’ve been nearly blind.”

Harry stared down at his hands, embarrassed. “My relatives never got me new ones.”

Something flickered behind Snape’s expression, dark and sharp, but his tone remained calm. “You will not be returning to that neglect, Potter. Madam Pomfrey?”

She opened a small wooden case, revealing a sleek pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. “These are spelled to adjust as your vision heals and grows. Professor Snape retrieved them from the infirmary requisition stores for you.”

Harry blinked up at him, wide-eyed. “You—you got these for me?”

Snape’s mouth pressed thin. “As your head of house, it falls under my duty to ensure your basic needs are met. That includes vision.”

Harry swallowed hard and nodded, taking the glasses with shaking hands. When he slipped them on, the world sharpened—crystal clear. The stone floor, the silver buttons on Snape’s robes, even the individual threads on Madam Pomfrey’s sleeve came into focus.

His breath hitched. The world had never looked this clean. This real.

And before he could stop himself, tears welled up.

Pomfrey’s face softened immediately. “Oh, dear…”

Harry ducked his head, scrubbing his sleeve across his eyes. “Sorry—I just—everything’s so clear. I didn’t know it could look like this.”

There was a long silence. Then, softly, Snape said, “There is nothing to apologize for.”

Harry looked up, startled. Snape’s expression was unreadable, but his voice had gone almost gentle. “You are seeing what the world truly looks like, Mr. Potter. You deserve that much.”

Pomfrey smiled faintly. “You’ll find it easy to keep up in class now, dear.”

Harry nodded, still blinking through the last of his tears. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Snape inclined his head. “See that you eat smaller meals from now on, and slowly. Your body needs time to adjust.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Off to class, then. I'll meet you there.”

As Harry stood to leave, Midas gave a low croak from his pocket.

‘You see now, my liege,’ Midas whispered grandly, ‘the world has been restored to its proper beauty.’

Harry smiled faintly. “Yeah, Midas. It really has.”

Snape, catching the tail end of Harry’s murmur, gave him an amused look look but said nothing.

When the door closed behind him, Madam Pomfrey turned to Snape, her voice low. “He’s far worse off than I expected.”

Snape’s gaze lingered on the empty doorway. “I know,” he said quietly. “But he will not be again.”

___

The dungeons smelled faintly of earth and parchment, their stone walls slick with the chill of the lake above. Lanterns glowed green along the walls, their reflections wavering like light through deep water.

Harry trailed behind the other Slytherin first years, clutching his new cauldron and freshly cleaned glasses. Every step echoed. The anticipation fizzed in his chest like a potion about to boil over.

It wasn’t just his first lesson at Hogwarts—
It was Snape’s class.

He didn’t know why that mattered so much, but it did.

The moment they entered, Snape was already there—robes whispering around his ankles, expression unreadable but watchful. The room was quiet enough to hear the steady drip of water somewhere in the dark.

“Seats,” Snape said smoothly. “Slytherins to the left, Hufflepuffs to the right.”

Harry found a spot near the front, beside Draco.

Moments later, the door opened again and a small group of Hufflepuffs entered, led by a nervous-looking Neville Longbottom.

Harry perked up instantly, waving. “Hey, Neville!”

Neville brightened at once. “Hi, Harry!” He glanced down at his hands. “Trevor’s behaving this time, promise.”

A faint croak came from Harry’s pocket.
‘My beloved!’ Midas cried dramatically, wriggling free and nearly toppling onto the table.

Across the aisle, Trevor gave a small, startled croak of his own.

‘Fate smiles upon us!’ Midas proclaimed. ‘Love, reborn from the depths!’

Harry smothered a laugh behind his hand.

Draco blinked at him. "Your toad is so worried.”

Harry smiled awkwardly. “He’s… very expressive.”

Before Draco could reply, Snape’s voice sliced through the air.

“Mister Potter.”

Harry stiffened, caught mid-laugh.

Snape’s dark eyes flicked to the toad. “Please keep your King Toad under control.” He said with a slightly amused quirk of the lips.

Draco mouthed the words, 'King Toad,' with a confused and horrified expression, Harry just giggled.

‘Cruel tyrant,’ Midas hissed softly, puffing up but obediently hopping back into Harry’s pocket after one last sorrowful glance toward Trevor.

Snape turned to the class, voice dropping to that deep, silken register that made even the flickering torches seem to lean in closer.
“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making…”

Harry hung on every word. It wasn’t boring like he’d feared. Snape’s speech wasn’t kind, but it was powerful—and to Harry, it sounded like magic itself.

When they began brewing their first Boil-Cure Potion, Draco leaned toward him with an almost conspiratorial grin.

“You know,” he whispered, crushing a dried nettle leaf with meticulous care, “He cares about you."

Harry blinked. “What do you mean?”

Draco shrugged. “I’m his godson, and until 24 hours ago, I thought I was the only kid he tolerated, let alone liked. But he cares about you.”

Harry’s face went pink. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, I do,” Draco said easily. “He doesn’t even look that patient with me.”

Harry didn’t know how to reply. So he just focused on stirring his potion clockwise—counting each rotation, willing his hands not to shake.

When Snape glided past, his sharp eyes flicked to Harry’s cauldron. The faintest hum of approval—barely a breath—passed his lips before he turned to reprimand a Hufflepuff whose mixture was smoking.

Draco smirked. “See? Told you.”

Harry ducked his head, smiling quietly.

From his pocket, Midas whispered dreamily, ‘Success, servant. It suits you. Also, love thrives nearby—Trevor gazes longingly.’

Harry murmured, “You’re hopeless.”

‘Romantic,’ Midas corrected.

The rest of the lesson passed in a haze of steam and simmering mixtures. When it ended, Snape dismissed them with his usual clipped grace:

“Clean your stations. Five points from anyone who leaves so much as a fingerprint of frog liver on my tables.”

Harry wiped his area spotless. Across the room, Neville carefully scooped Trevor back into his box. Trevor gave one small, affectionate croak.

‘Until we meet again, my heart!’ Midas crooned from Harry’s pocket.

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop smiling all the way to his next class.

___

The morning sunlight slanted golden through the glass panes of Greenhouse One, catching on dewdrops and the faint mist that hung in the air. Everything smelled alive—earth and mint and something faintly acidic.

Harry stood at one of the worktables, sleeves rolled up, his new gloves creaking faintly as he tugged them on. Midas perched proudly on a clay pot beside him, watching the rows of potted puffapods sway gently under the charm of a breeze spell.

‘A kingdom of flora,’ Midas announced dramatically. ‘And I—its rightful monarch.’

Harry whispered, “Please don’t start a war with the plants.”

‘They started it first,’ Midas hissed, glaring at a nearby spiky vine.

Before Harry could respond, the door clanged open and Professor Sprout bustled in, cheerful and mud-spattered as always. Behind her trailed the Gryffindors, chattering and laughing.

Harry’s face lit up when he saw a familiar mop of red hair.

“Harry!” Ron waved, grinning wide.

Harry grinned back. “Hey, Ron!”

"I'm so glad we have class together so soon. How’s Slytherin treating you?”

Harry shrugged, smiling shyly. “It’s… honestly alot. But not bad. The beds the best I've ever seen.”

Ron snorted. “Bet they are. Probably lined with silk or snake scales or something.”

Harry laughed, the sound bright in the humid air. “You’re not far off.”

Draco, standing at the next table, mid-measurement of compost, stopped and headed over.

“Good evening, Weasley." Draco said with a practiced nod, and a expression that made it obvious he's hiding a smile.

"Back at you, Malfoy," Ron responds in good humor.

Midas croaked triumphantly, puffing his chest. ‘I have defended the plants from bugs! Victory feast!’

Ron snorted. “Blimey, he’s noisy.”

Harry grinned. “You’ve no idea.”

‘Rude! I am a scholar of diplomacy,’ Midas huffed, hopping toward a puffapod.

The plant quivered.

“Midas—don’t you dare—”

With a loud pop, the puffapod burst open, scattering glittering pink seeds into the air. They hovered like bubbles, slowly drifting down until they popped into little bursts of fragrant light.

Half the class gasped.

Professor Sprout turned. “Who—who set off a puffapod early?”

Harry’s hand shot up instinctively. “Sorry, Professor! That was—er—me.”

From his pot, Midas gave a satisfied croak. ‘Royal fireworks. You’re welcome.’

Sprout sighed, but she was smiling. “Well, at least it’s a harmless one. Five points from Slytherin, Mr. Potter—but two back for the honesty.”

Harry flushed but smiled. “Yes, Professor.”

Ron leaned over as they swept up the remains of the seed pods. “Your toad’s mental.”

Harry snickered. “Yeah. But he’s mine.”

‘Correct,’ Midas croaked proudly, sitting on the rim of Harry’s watering can like a king surveying his domain.

As class ended, the Gryffindors and Slytherins filed out in their respective groups, but Ron lingered just long enough to whisper, “See you at lunch, yeah?”

Harry grinned. “Yeah.”

Draco, walking beside him, didn’t say anything for a long while—then finally muttered, “We could do worse for a friend, I suppose.”

Harry smiled faintly. “He’s nice.”

“Mm,” Draco said, frowning ahead. “Still loud.”

‘He speaks truth,’ Midas agreed gravely. ‘But he laughs well.’

Harry chuckled to himself as they made their way down the stone path, the sunlight gleaming off the glasshouses behind them.

It felt… good.
Warm.
Almost like belonging.

As they neared the castle steps, Ron jogged a few paces to catch up, cheeks pink from the brisk air.

“Hey—uh, Harry,” he said, voice casual in that way people sound when they’re trying very hard to sound casual. “You had Herbology with the Hufflepuffs last hour, right?”

Harry blinked. “Yeah?”

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to study the castle walls. “How’s—uh—Neville? He doing all right?”

Harry’s brow furrowed, then lifted in quiet realization. “He’s fine,” he said, smiling softly. “Still nervous, but he’s getting better. His toad’s doing great, too.”

“Oh—yeah?” Ron asked quickly. “That’s good. Good for him. I mean—uh—for Trevor. You know. The toad.”

Draco gave a soft snort beside them.

Harry hid his grin behind his hand. “Right. The toad.”

Ron’s ears were red now. “Just checking! Haven’t seen Neville since the train. Wanted to make sure—er—he’s settling in.”

‘Ah,’ Midas croaked knowingly. ‘The red one pines for the soft-spoken herb gatherer. A love tale in the making.’

Harry tried not to laugh aloud.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was a hum of voices and clattering cutlery when the first-years filed in for lunch. Golden light poured through the enchanted ceiling, dappling the long tables where platters refilled themselves with roast chicken, steaming vegetables, and buttered rolls.

Harry slid into a seat between Draco and Blaise, feeling the comforting rumble of conversation around him. His stomach gave a hesitant growl—but he remembered last night, the dizzy ache, and Snape’s sharp voice turning unexpectedly gentle.

Before he even reached for a plate, that same voice sounded behind him.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked up. Snape stood at the end of the Slytherin table, arms crossed, his gaze sharp but not unkind.

“You will eat slowly,” he said quietly, so only Harry and the nearest few could hear. “And stop the moment you feel full. Understood?”

Harry nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Snape’s eyes softened—just a flicker—and he swept away toward the staff table.

Draco gave Harry a sideways glance. “He really does like you,” he muttered, sounding half-amazed, half-jealous.

Harry flushed. “He’s… looking out for me, I think.”

Across the hall, Midas croaked loudly from Harry’s pocket.

‘Permission to depart, my liege! My heart senses my beloved near!’

Harry whispered back, “Fine, but don’t get caught.”

‘Ha! Royal stealth is unmatched.’

With a dramatic wriggle, Midas leapt from his pocket and disappeared under the table.

___

Beneath the benches and shuffling feet, Midas bounded determinedly toward the Hufflepuff table, where Trevor sat contentedly in Neville’s lap.

‘My heart!’ Midas croaked, leaping onto Neville’s shoe.

Trevor blinked, delighted. “Midas! You came back!”

‘Nothing—not walls, not Houses, not destiny itself—can keep me from you,’ Midas declared, puffing up with romantic zeal.

Trevor croaked shyly. “You’re all shiny today.”

‘Love makes one radiant,’ Midas said gravely.

Neville jumped at the sudden appearance of a second toad. “Oh! You again!”

Harry, spotting the commotion from across the hall, tried not to laugh into his pumpkin juice.

___

Between bites, Draco and Blaise started talking about Quidditch teams, but Harry’s attention wandered to the Gryffindor table. Ron was waving enthusiastically before Percy leaned over from his seat nearby to scold him for “projecting crumbs into open space.”

Harry stifled a laugh—then realized Dumbledore was watching him with that strange, twinkling look. When their eyes met, the Headmaster gave him a small nod, as if to say you’re doing just fine, my boy, before turning back to his soup.

Harry relaxed, finally starting to eat.

He chewed slowly this time, tasting everything properly. The potatoes were buttery and warm; the pumpkin juice sweet. He didn’t even realize Snape had glanced his way again—checking his pace, not with impatience, but with quiet approval.

Harry looked down at his plate, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips.

Midas chose that moment to return, glitter-speckled and smug.

‘The reunion was a success,’ he declared proudly, hopping back into Harry’s lap. ‘We have promised eternal devotion, weekly visits, and shared insects.’

Harry snickered softly. “That’s great, Midas.”

‘Love conquers all,’ Midas sighed dramatically, curling up against his robe.

___

The afternoon sunlight filtered softly through the arched windows of the Charms classroom. Dust motes shimmered in the air, catching the golden light as first-year Slytherins filed in alongside the Ravenclaws.

Harry slipped into a seat beside Draco near the middle, setting his wand carefully on the desk. His new glasses still felt strange on his face—like the world had sharpened too much—but he didn’t mind. Everything looked clearer now.

Professor Flitwick stood on a tall stack of books at the front, squeaking cheerfully as he took attendance. “Ah! Good afternoon students, I'm sure you’re rather eager to learn.”

Hermione, sitting primly in the front row, beamed. “Yes, Professor!”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Bet she’s memorized the textbook twice already.”

Harry bit back a laugh, feeling lighter than he had in days.

Flitwick clapped his hands. “Now, the Levitation Charm! A simple incantation, but precision is everything. It’s Wingardium Leviosa. Swish and flick, just so!”

He demonstrated with a flourish—his feather floating gracefully into the air. The class gasped in delight.

Pairs were formed, desks cleared. Draco ended up across from Blaise, leaving Harry to share with Hermione Granger.

She adjusted her wand grip like a duelist preparing for battle. “I’ve read that pronunciation is the key to proper wand control,” she said briskly. “You’ll want to keep your vowels rounded.”

Harry considered this for a second. “I think intent is the key to magic.” He mumbles.

Hermione gave him a glare.

They practiced the motion a few times before Hermione tried first. “Wingardium Levio—sah!”

Her feather wobbled, twitched, and rolled off the desk.

Hermione frowned. “Oh—oh no. It should’ve floated!”

Harry bit his lip, recalling the sound. “Maybe lets try it with a bit more will?”

He tried it, soft and certain. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The feather shot smoothly into the air, spinning like a white ribbon.

The room gasped.

Harry blinked at it, amazed. “Oh—oh! Look!”

Hermione froze, color rushing to her cheeks. “That’s not—You just got lucky!”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Hermione’s face scrunched tight with frustrated tears. “You’re not even saying it right!”

She slammed her book shut—too hard—and in the same motion, raised it high and brought it down hard atop his head.

The hit was brutal—loud, jarring—and his whole body seized up. His chair scraped back sharply.

For a heartbeat, the classroom went silent.

Then Harry’s breath hitched.

The noise, the impact, the pain, the rush of everyone’s eyes on him—it was too much. His chest tightened painfully, air stuttering in and out. His hands raisin, trembling.

“I'm sorry, but you really should follow the rules better,” Hermione stammered, reaching out a hand.

Draco was out of his seat instantly. “Don’t touch him!” he barked, stepping between them.

Blaise’s wand twitched in his hand, protective. “Back off, Granger.”

"I didn't do anything!” Hermione squeaked, frozen in shock.

Harry’s breathing quickened—too fast, ragged. His glasses fogged, his vision closing in. The world had gone too bright, too loud—just like the cupboard when Uncle Vernon shouted—

The door burst open.

“WHAT is going on in here?”

Snape’s voice sliced through the chaos, sharp and commanding. The Slytherins fell instantly silent.

Flitwick, flustered, hopped down from his perch. “A—a small accident, Severus, no harm done—”

But Snape was already moving. He knelt beside Harry’s chair, every movement smooth, deliberate. His tone dropped, low and steady.

“Potter.”

Harry’s gaze flicked up, eyes wide and glassy.

“Breathe,” Snape said softly. “In. Slowly.”

He demonstrated, exaggerating the motion until Harry’s shaking breaths started to match. “Good. Again.”

The trembling eased, bit by bit.

Snape conjured a faint mist of calming draught around him, the scent of chamomile and mint hanging in the air. “You’re safe,” he murmured quietly enough only Harry could hear. “No one will harm you here.”

Hermione was near tears. “I didn’t mean to—he just—he corrected me and—”

Snape turned his head, expression cold and cutting. “Then perhaps, Miss Granger, next time you will exercise restraint rather than resorting to physical assault.”

“I—yes, Professor—”

“Out,” he said crisply. “You will wait in the corridor until I am done.”

Hermione fled, shaking.

When Harry finally managed to breathe normally again, Snape rose, dark robes whispering across the stone floor.

He looked to the Slytherin side of the room—Draco, Blaise, Theo—all watching with tight jaws and wide eyes.

His tone lowered into that silken warning voice that carried danger like a hidden blade.

“If anyone speaks of what just occurred,” he said evenly, “I will know. And your detention will make you pray for silence in the future. Is that clear?”

A chorus of rapid nods.

“Good.”

He turned back to Harry, gentler again. “You will come see me after dinner. We will discuss proper breathing techniques for when panic sets in.”

Harry managed a small nod, voice trembling. “Y-yes, sir.”

Snape’s gaze lingered—protective, but unreadable. Then he turned sharply to Flitwick. “Continue, if you can. Potter will rest the remainder of the lesson.”

And as he swept from the room, every Slytherin glare that followed Hermione’s retreating form said clearly—
no one touches one of theirs again.

___

By the time History of Magic rolled around, Harry’s head felt stuffed with fog.
The excitement, the nerves, the constant talking—his body wasn’t used to it. He’d never spoken this much in one day in his life.

Now, sitting in the dim, dusty classroom beneath floating candles, his eyelids drooped as Professor Binns droned about the Goblin Rebellions of 1612. The ghost’s voice was so monotone that it almost felt like white noise.

Midas sat in his usual perch on the edge of Harry’s desk, croaking softly to himself.
‘This realm smells of parchment and despair,’ he muttered.

Harry stifled a yawn. “You’re not wrong,” he whispered.

The Slytherin first-years were spread across the back rows. Draco leaned lazily against his chair, Blaise had doodled a snake eating a goblin on his parchment, and Theo was quietly flicking bits of parchment at Crabbe and Goyle.

For a while, it was peaceful—just the scratch of quills and Binns’s endless droning.

Then, halfway through the lecture, Pansy leaned over her desk toward Harry.
“So, Potter,” she whispered, “is it really true you don’t know anything about—you know—what happened?”

Harry blinked, confused. “What happened?”

Draco frowned, "I'm not sure nows the time."

Harry hesitated, shaking his head slowly. “I… I’ve heard people whisper, but… no one’s told me anything.”

Blaise leaned in, curiosity gleaming in his dark eyes. “Merlin, you really don’t know.”

Theo lowered his quill, his usual smirk gone. “I still can't believe no ones told you.”

Draco hesitated—then sighed, resting his chin on his hand. “All right. But you can’t—don’t freak out, all right?”

Harry nodded, uneasy.

Draco glanced toward Binns (who hadn’t noticed a thing) and dropped his voice.
“There was a war. A dark wizard—Voldemort—tried to take over the wizarding world. He… killed a lot of people.”

The name made Harry’s stomach twist. “Killed?” he whispered.

Draco nodded grimly. “Yeah. No one was safe—not even purebloods. He went after anyone he thought was against him. Your parents were part of the people who fought him.”

Harry’s hands clenched in his lap. “My parents… fought him?”

Theo added quietly, “They were heroes. Everyone knows the story.”

Pansy leaned closer. “You were just a baby. He tried to kill you, but the curse—his killing curse—it didn’t work. It rebounded. Killed him instead.”

Harry went still. “He tried to kill me?”

“Yeah,” Blaise said softly. “You were the only one who ever survived it. That’s why everyone calls you the Boy Who Lived.”

The words hung there, heavy and strange.

Harry stared down at his ink-stained fingers. The room felt smaller suddenly. “So… my scar—”

“Yeah,” Draco said quietly. “That’s from him.”

‘Monstrous,’ Midas croaked low, his tone uncharacteristically somber. ‘No creature of sense strikes a hatchling.’

Harry swallowed hard, voice trembling. “And my parents?”

There was a long pause. Then Draco nodded. “Died the night he did. I’m sorry, Harry.”

Harry looked away, blinking fast. “The Dursleys—they never told me anything. Just that my parents died in a car crash.”

Theo’s quill stopped scratching. “A car crash?” he repeated, scandalized.

“Bloody Muggles,” Blaise muttered.

Draco hesitated, then said more softly, “My mother told me… your mum was brilliant at Charms. And your dad—well, he annoyed my father to no end.”

That startled a shaky laugh out of Harry. “That sounds kind of nice.”

Draco smirked faintly. “Yeah. It does.”

Binns floated right through the blackboard then, scattering parchment and startling half the class. “—and thus, the goblins of the Welsh Rebellion signed a peace treaty in 1631…”

The Slytherins fell silent again, quills scratching. But the air around Harry was heavier now, full of thoughts that wouldn’t settle.

He stared at his open notebook, the words swimming. His chest ached with something deep and hollow.

Midas nudged his arm with a damp, cool foot. ‘You breathe, little serpent. They are gone—but they made sure you remain. That is legacy.’

Harry managed a tiny nod. “Thanks, Midas.”

‘Always,’ the toad murmured.

And as the class droned on, Harry sat a little straighter, listening—not to Binns, but to the faint hum of his quill against paper, and the realization that he wasn’t just the boy who lived.

He was the boy who didn’t know.
And now he did.

___

When Professor Binns finally dismissed them, the first-years stumbled out of the classroom like ghosts themselves.
No one spoke much. The Slytherins were subdued, glancing at Harry now and then with uncertain expressions. Even Draco, who usually filled any silence, kept quiet as they made their way back to the dungeons.

They changed into fresh robes, washing the ink off their fingers and dust off their sleeves before heading to dinner. The walk up from the lower halls was slow and strangely solemn. The castle’s torches flickered across the walls, throwing long shadows.

Harry trailed a little behind, Midas perched on his shoulder. The toad’s golden eyes flicked about, alert and protective.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, the chatter and clatter of dinner had already begun—plates magically filling, goblets brimming. The air smelled like roasted chicken and warm bread. Normally, Midas would have hopped off immediately to find Trevor, croaking something about “true love’s reunion.”

But tonight, he stayed put, pressing closer to Harry’s neck.

Harry managed a faint smile. “You’re not going to see him?”

‘Not when your scent is sorrow,’ Midas replied quietly. ‘He can wait.’

Harry reached up to stroke his smooth back. “I’m okay. Just… thinking.”

Midas made a soft, doubtful croak.

A moment later, a familiar brown blur appeared at the end of the table—Trevor, hopping purposefully along the bench until he reached Harry. He gave a concerned ribbit.

Midas perked up but didn’t move from his spot. ‘He says you worry him,’ Midas translated softly. ‘That your eyes have lost their spark.’

Harry blinked, a watery laugh escaping him. “Tell him I’ll be all right. I just learned a lot today.”

Midas turned to Trevor and croaked back a few soft notes. Trevor answered with a longer, lower trill before nudging Midas’s foot gently.

‘He says you have a strong heart,’ Midas translated again, sounding a little proud. ‘He likes you.’

Harry smiled faintly. “I like him too.”

A shadow fell over the table. “Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked up quickly. Professor Snape stood behind him, robes whispering across the floor, dark eyes sharp—but not cold. There was a softness at the edges, one that only those who knew him well could see.

Draco straightened beside Harry, watching his godfather carefully.

“Good evening, Professor,” Harry said quietly.

Snape inclined his head. “How are you feeling?”

Harry hesitated, glancing down. “I’m fine, sir. Just… tired.”

Snape studied him for a long moment. His voice softened a fraction. “I imagine you’ve learned more today than anyone should have to in a single lesson.”

Harry’s throat felt tight, and he could only nod.

Draco shifted, eyes flicking between them. “He’s been quiet,” he muttered. “Didn’t even laugh when Blaise nearly set his quill on fire.”

Snape’s gaze lingered a moment longer before he said, “If you experience any dizziness or nausea, report to Madam Pomfrey immediately. I’d prefer not to have another midnight incident.”

Harry flushed faintly. “Yes, sir.”

Snape’s expression didn’t change, but there was a glimmer of something like reassurance there. Then he lowered his voice. “Regarding Miss Granger.”

Harry blinked, confused.

“She has been properly reprimanded,” Snape said quietly, so only Harry, Draco, and the nearby Slytherins could hear. “Her actions were unacceptable. I apologize that I was not able to prevent it.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “You… you don’t have to apologize, sir. It’s not your fault.”

“I am your Head of House,” Snape replied evenly. “It is my duty to ensure your safety. And while I cannot shield you from every foolish blow, I can ensure such behavior is not repeated.”

Something warm and unfamiliar twisted in Harry’s chest—something that almost hurt, but not in a bad way. “Thank you, sir.”

Draco looked oddly proud, sitting straighter. “He means that, Uncle Sev,” he said softly.

Snape gave him a look that was equal parts warning and fondness. “I am certain he does.”

Then he turned back to Harry, his tone lowering into that dry drawl again. “Eat slowly, Potter. You are still recovering from the previous night’s... enthusiasm.”

That earned a few quiet chuckles from the surrounding students. Harry blushed, but there was a tiny spark of comfort in it.

As Snape swept away, Midas croaked once—low and satisfied.

‘The dark one guards you well,’ he said.

Harry smiled faintly, spearing a piece of chicken. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think he does.”

Trevor gave a happy chirp, bumping Midas before hopping back toward the Hufflepuff table.

And as the candles flickered above them, Harry felt—for the first time since arriving—that maybe Hogwarts could be more than just a place to survive.

Maybe it could be home.

___

The dungeons were quiet that night.

The faint drip of water echoed from somewhere far off, and the lake’s greenish light shimmered faintly across the ceiling. The Slytherin dorms were dim and warm, each bed curtained in heavy emerald velvet.

But none of the first-year boys were asleep.

Theo Nott lay on his back, staring at the canopy. Blaise was absently flicking his wand to make tiny sparks dance above his hand. Draco was sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed, still in his pajamas, a faint scowl on his face. Crabbe and Goyle were whispering half-heartedly about food, but even they didn’t sound interested.

Harry lay curled on his side, watching Midas doze at the edge of his pillow. The toad gave a soft croak every few minutes, almost like he was checking if Harry was still there.

Finally, Theo broke the silence. “Can’t sleep?”

Draco snorted quietly. “Obviously not. You’ve been sighing for ten minutes.”

Theo threw a pillow at him. “You’ve been counting.”

Harry gave a small, tired laugh, muffled by his blanket.

Draco turned toward him, expression softening. “What about you, Potter? You’ve been quiet since dinner.”

Harry hesitated. Everyone was watching him now — five curious faces in the dark, each lit faintly by the glow of a distant lantern.

He sat up slowly, drawing his knees close. “Just… thinking,” he said.

“About what?” Blaise asked gently.

Harry’s fingers twisted in his blanket. “About how different this all is. The beds, the food, the classes. I didn’t know—” His voice caught a little. “—that life could be like this.”

Theo frowned. “What do you mean?”

Harry hesitated again, but something in the quiet — the stillness, the way they were all waiting — made it feel safe to speak.

“I didn’t… have much before,” he said softly. “My aunt and uncle— they don’t like magic. Or me. They made me sleep in a cupboard under the stairs. And if I messed up, they’d… make sure I didn’t do it again.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Draco went still, his eyes darkening. “They what?”

Harry flinched at the sharpness of his voice. Midas stirred, giving a soft croak of concern.

“They just didn’t like me,” Harry said quickly. “They said I was a burden. A freak. I didn’t really— I mean, I thought that was normal, for a long time.”

Theo sat up, his normally calm face tense. “That’s not normal.”

Blaise’s jaw clenched. “You were starved, weren’t you? That’s why you got sick the first night.”

Harry’s eyes widened a little at how quickly Blaise put it together. He didn’t answer, but the way his shoulders hunched was enough.

Draco slid off his bed and crossed the room before anyone could stop him. He sat beside Harry, the mattress dipping slightly. “They hurt you,” he said quietly, fury trembling beneath the words.

Harry swallowed. “Sometimes.”

Goyle’s hands clenched around his blanket. “We should— tell Professor Snape,” he said uncertainly.

Draco’s voice came out low. “I think he already knows.”

Blaise nodded. “The way he looked at you in the Great Hall… yeah. He knows.”

Theo leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Then what happens now?”

No one answered right away. The faint sound of the lake pressing against the glass filled the room.

Finally, Draco spoke again — quieter now. “Then we make sure no one hurts him again.”

Theo nodded once. “Agreed.”

Blaise’s lips curved faintly. “Slytherins look after our own.”

Even Crabbe and Goyle muttered their agreement, their faces uncharacteristically serious.

Harry blinked at them, eyes stinging a little. “You don’t have to—”

Draco cut him off. “We do.” His voice softened, the usual arrogance gone. “You’re one of us now. And no one touches a Slytherin.”

Midas gave a quiet, approving croak from his pillow. ‘Wise words from the pale one,’ he murmured.

Harry laughed weakly, rubbing his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Theo yawned and flopped back onto his bed. “Get some sleep, Potter. Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Blaise added, extinguishing his sparks. “We’ll hex anyone who looks at you wrong.”

“Promise?” Harry asked, half joking.

“Swear on Salazar’s portrait,” Draco said solemnly.

That made Harry laugh for real — soft and genuine.

When they finally drifted off, the dorm was warm and quiet again.
Midas crept closer, curling up by Harry’s cheek.
Draco’s bed was a little closer to Harry’s than before.

And for the first time in his life, Harry fell asleep knowing that someone cared enough to be angry for him.

___

A week later the morning air was crisp with autumn chill, sunlight spilling across the Quidditch pitch in golden streaks. The scent of grass and broom polish hung in the breeze, and the chatter of first years filled the space with nervous excitement.

A line of school brooms lay on the ground, slightly frayed but serviceable. Madam Hooch paced before the students, sharp-eyed as ever.

“Attention everyone,” she barked. “Stand beside a broom, hold out your right hand, and say Up!”

Harry stood among a mixed knot of Hufflepuffs, Slytherins, Gryffindors, and Ravenclaws. But his little group wasn’t exactly ordinary — around him stood all of the Slytherin first years, along with Ron and Neville.

Draco tilted his head, studying his broom. “It looks like it’s been used for centuries.”

Ron snorted. “That’s because it probably has. Bet it’s seen more crashes than Madam Hooch.”

Neville smiled shyly. “I just hope it doesn’t take me for a crash.”

Harry laughed under his breath. “You’ll do fine. Just—say it clearly. Like you mean it.”

He lifted his hand. “Up!”

The broom shot neatly into his palm.

“Brilliant,” Ron breathed.

Madam Hooch’s sharp eyes found him. “Good, Mr. Potter. Confidence, everyone!”

Draco’s broom obeyed instantly too, and he smirked. “Not bad.”

Ron’s broom rolled over lazily before half-floating up to slap him in the stomach. Neville’s flipped upside down, hitting him on the knee.

Harry grinned, trying not to laugh. “We’ll get there.”

That’s when Midas peeked his golden head out from Harry’s robe pocket.
‘The wind calls to me!’ he croaked dramatically.

Harry whispered quickly, “Not now, Midas.”

‘To soar, or not to soar—that is the question!’

Ron chuckled. “He's always so loud, tou’ve got to teach him to be quiet.”

Harry sighed. “Tried. Doesn’t work.”

Before anyone could comment, a loud, mocking voice rang across the pitch.

“Hey, Potter!”

A tall Gryffindor boy reached out a hand, and before Harry could react, snatched Midas up by the leg.

Harry’s heart dropped. “Midas!”

The boy grinned. “Didn’t think you’d bring your little slimeball to lessons!”

“Put him down!” Ron snapped.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

But he did. The boy swung a leg over his broom and kicked off from the ground, rising fast. “Let’s see if it can fly!”

“MIDAS!”

The toad flailed in midair, croaking in terror. ‘NOT TO SOAR! NOT TO SOAR!’

Harry didn’t think — his broom jerked off the ground like it had read his panic.

“Harry!” Neville shouted. “Wait—!”

But he was already soaring upward, wind whipping his hair and the world tilting beneath him. The Gryffindor laughed from above — then opened his hand.

Midas fell.

Everything inside Harry went silent.

He dove. The air screamed past his ears, his hands outstretched, eyes locked on that tiny speck of green plummeting toward the grass.

He caught him — barely — and yanked the broom upward just before they hit the ground. His breath came out ragged, and his knuckles were white around the handle.

For a moment, the field was silent.

Then:

‘A triumphant rescue!’ Midas wheezed. ‘My knight of destiny prevails!’

Harry gave a shaky laugh, clutching him close.

Madam Hooch was already storming forward. “Are you mad, Potter?! You could’ve been killed!”

But another, colder voice cut through her words.

“Indeed.”

Professor Snape stood at the edge of the pitch, his black robes snapping in the wind like a thundercloud.

Every Gryffindor went still.

Snape’s eyes swept over the scene — from the trembling toad in Harry’s hands to the guilty boy still on his broom. His expression darkened.

“You,” Snape said, voice low and dangerous. “Come with me. Now.”

The Gryffindor boy stammered, “I—It was just a joke—”

“Twenty points from Gryffindor,” Snape snapped. “And you will spend your next week cleaning the trophy room. By hand. Perhaps you’ll learn restraint.”

The boy fled.

Snape turned to Harry, his tone softening almost imperceptibly. “You are uninjured?”

Harry nodded faintly. “I—I’m fine, sir.”

Midas puffed out his throat proudly. ‘We conquered the skies!’

Snape’s lip twitched, but only slightly. “I may not understand him, but I know that was ego. I want you to go to the Hospital Wing directly after class.”

As Snape swept off toward the castle, Madam Hooch muttered under her breath, “He’s got nerves of steel, that one.”

Harry sat down on the grass, still trembling. Ron flopped beside him. “That was—bloody amazing.”

Neville’s eyes were wide. “I thought you were going to crash.”

Draco looked grudgingly impressed. “You didn’t even flinch. That was… actually brilliant, Potter.”

Harry managed a small smile. “Thanks. But I’d rather not do it again.”

Ron laughed. “Fair.”

From the sidelines, Neville’s toad hopped closer—Trevor, eyes wide with concern. He croaked softly, nudging Midas’s leg.

‘Midas! Are you okay? I thought i was gonna lose you!’ Trevor croaked, voice trembling.

Midas leaned against him dramatically. ‘No one, not god himself, could keep me from you.’

Trevor croaked again, exasperated but relieved, and nudged him closer to Harry’s lap as if scolding him for scaring everyone.

Harry chuckled, petting them both gently. “You two are ridiculous.”

Ron grinned. “They do make a cute pair.”

Harry smiled, softer this time, the last of his fear fading away as Midas croaked contentedly and Trevor kept a protective watch beside him.

___

The Hospital Wing was quiet in the afternoon light, the smell of potions and polished brass filling the air. White sheets billowed faintly in the breeze from the tall windows.

Harry sat on the edge of one of the beds, still pale from adrenaline. Madam Pomfrey was fussing over him with a diagnostic charm, her wand humming faintly.

“No broken bones,” she muttered, sounding almost impressed. “A bit of shock and muscle strain, but that’s to be expected after such… reckless heroics.”

Harry looked down at his hands. “I had to,” he mumbled. “He would’ve died.”

Pomfrey softened. “Yes, well… it was brave. But next time, do try not to fall off a broom on your first week.”

Harry gave a shy, sheepish smile.

At that moment, the doors creaked open.

Two figures stepped inside — one tall and dark, robes trailing like shadow, the other broad-shouldered and unmistakably a Quidditch player, broom slung casually over one arm.

“Professor Snape,” Pomfrey said sharply. “If this is about class discipline—”

“It’s not,” Snape said smoothly. “I am here to speak with Mr. Potter. And I brought… someone relevant.”

Harry blinked. “Professor?”

Marcus Flint gave him a lopsided grin. “Hey, kid. Heard you went chasing frogs and nearly out-flew gravity.”

Harry flushed. “I didn’t mean to. He just—”

“I know,” Marcus interrupted, still grinning. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, you flew.”

Snape moved closer, hands clasped behind his back. “And quite well, from what I observed. Controlled dive, excellent reflexes, and—” his mouth twitched faintly, “—a disregard for self-preservation I will not encourage, but cannot ignore.”

Harry blinked, unsure if that was praise or a scolding.

Marcus chuckled. “Translation — you’ve got the instincts, Potter. Natural flier.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Marcus said, leaning on his broom. “Even first-years don’t usually get off the ground like that without tumbling. You caught a toad mid-drop. That’s precision.”

Snape arched a brow. “Mr. Flint happens to be our Quidditch captain. He and I have discussed certain… possibilities.”

Harry’s stomach fluttered. “Possibilities?”

Marcus smirked. “Snape’s thinking of bending the rules a bit. First-year on the house team. Never been done before — except for legends.”

Pomfrey looked scandalized. “Severus, he’s eleven!”

Snape’s tone was smooth, but there was that faint spark of challenge beneath it. “And quite capable, if properly trained. I have no intention of throwing him into a match unprepared.”

Harry looked between them, heart racing. “You… you want me to play?”

Marcus nodded. “As Seeker. Small, quick, and apparently impossible to knock off a broom — sounds perfect.”

Harry’s breath caught. “But— I’ve never even—”

“—flown properly?” Marcus finished for him. “You just did. Instinct’s half the battle.”

Snape’s dark eyes softened ever so slightly. “The position is yours if you wish it, Potter. But understand — Quidditch is dangerous. Far more dangerous than rescuing amphibians.”

Midas croaked indignantly from his perch on the nightstand. ‘I heard that!’

Harry stayed silent for a couple seconds before answering, "I'll think on it."

Snape nods, accepting the answer without argument, "that's all I ask."

"Let me know when you make your decision." Marcus hollers heading towards the door.

As Marcus left, Snape lingered a moment longer. His voice dropped, quieter now.

“Potter,” he said. “You did well today. Foolishly, but well.”

Harry blinked in surprise. “Thank you, sir.”

Snape’s gaze softened. “And next time someone attempts to harm your familiar…” his tone sharpened like a blade, “…do not intervene alone. Leave retribution to those with experience.”

Harry hesitated. “You mean— you?”

A faint smirk ghosted over Snape’s lips. “Precisely.”

With a sweep of his robes, he turned and left.

Midas croaked softly from the table. ‘The dark one claims vengeance rights. Wise.’

Chapter Text

The library was quiet except for the soft rustle of pages and the scratch of quills. Afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, glinting off dust motes and the edges of inkwells.

Harry sat tucked in one of the far corners with Draco, Theo, Blaise, Ron, Neville, and even Pansy—who had appeared with a pile of Arithmancy homework and decided, for reasons known only to her, that they were tolerable company.

Midas and Trevor were curled together on the table between them, dozing in a patch of sunlight.

“So,” Draco said, leaning forward with his usual mix of curiosity and authority. “Snape wants you to try out for the Slytherin team.”

Harry nodded, fiddling with his quill. “Yeah. He and Marcus both. Said I had the instincts for it.”

Ron’s eyes lit up. “Of course you do! You caught a toad in midair, Harry! That’s practically Seeker-level skill already!”

Neville smiled shyly. “It was really brave. I don’t think anyone else could’ve done it.”

Harry blushed a little. “I don’t know… it feels weird. First years don’t usually get on House teams. What if everyone thinks it’s just because I’m—”

“Famous?” Pansy supplied dryly, quill tapping her parchment. “They’ll think what they want. But if Snape and Marcus both saw something in you, you’d be stupid not to at least try.”

Draco nodded in agreement. “For once, Parkinson’s right. You were born for the sky, Potter. You don’t even realize it.”

Harry looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “You really think so?”

Draco’s lips twitched. “I know so. And if you don’t take it, you’ll regret it.”

Ron grinned. “Exactly! Besides, think about it—flying, the crowd cheering, catching the Snitch—”

“—and falling to your death if you miss,” Blaise added dryly, earning a glare from Ron.

Theo smirked. “Ignore him. You should do what you want, Harry. Not what anyone expects.”

Harry glanced around at them all, warmth creeping into his chest. “You guys really think I could handle it?”

“Handle it?” Draco scoffed. “You caught a falling toad while Madam Hooch was screaming. I think you’ll manage a ball.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “You’re all ridiculous.”

But before he could say more, a sneering voice cut through the quiet.

“Well, well. Look who’s getting special treatment.”

A tall third-year Slytherin boy was standing at the end of the aisle, arms folded, smirking down at them. “The Boy Who Lived gets whatever he wants. What’s next, Potter? Professor Snape carrying your broom for you?”

Harry stiffened. “That’s not—”

The boy stepped closer. “Don’t play dumb. Everyone knows Snape’s got a soft spot for you. Probably thinks he’s your new daddy or something.”

Ron’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood. “Watch it.”

Draco rose too, his wand slipping into his hand. “Say that again.”

The third year sneered. “Oh, what? Gonna duel me, Malfoy? Gonna let Potter hide behind you like he always does?”

Harry’s temper, which rarely flared, snapped. He stood up so fast his chair tipped backward. “That’s not true! Professor Snape would never do something like that! He believes in me!”

The boy laughed. “Believes in you? You’ve been here a week! The only thing he believe in, is your popularity!”

“Enough!” Draco snapped, stepping between them, wand raised.

Ron mirrored him instantly, his own wand pointed at the third-year’s chest. “Say one more thing about him and I’ll hex you.”

The older boy grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Two little first years against me? Adorable.”

Before anything worse could happen, Madam Pince appeared like an avenging ghost. “OUT! All of you! I will not have duels in my library!”

Within minutes, they were herded to Professor McGonagall’s office, where she listened grimly before handing down the sentence.

“Detention. All of you. Trophy room, tonight. Perhaps you’ll learn that wands are not to be drawn in anger.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue.

As they shuffled out, Ron muttered, “Totally worth it.”

Harry sighed, but he couldn’t help smiling faintly. “Thanks, you two.”

Draco shrugged, pretending indifference. “You’re one of us, Potter. Nobody insults our friends.”

Ron grinned. “Exactly. House lines or not.”

Midas croaked from Harry’s pocket, muffled but proud: “My champions of honor triumph again!”

Even Pansy snorted. “You’re all insane.”

Harry smiled — warm, tired, and strangely happy.

___

The trophy room gleamed with the soft glow of candlelight, the golden plates and cups reflecting flickering shadows across the walls. The air smelled faintly of polish and old dust.

Harry, Draco, Ron, Neville, Theo, Blaise, and Pansy were each armed with a rag and a small bottle of cleaner. Madam Pince had personally escorted them down before handing over their supplies and warning, “If I hear one spark from a wand, you’ll be cleaning the dungeon floors next.”

The moment she left, Ron groaned. “You know, for a detention, this isn’t so bad. Could be worse.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You mean like scrubbing the cauldron room? Snape’s punishments involve fumes.”

Theo smirked. “He does it to build character.”

“Or because he enjoys watching us suffer,” Blaise added lazily.

Pansy rolled her eyes and began wiping down a tall silver cup. “You’re all babies. My father says every proper witch or wizard should do at least one detention before graduating. Builds humility.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah? How many have you done, then?”

“None,” she said primly. “Because I’m not an idiot.”

That got a laugh from everyone — even Harry, who was polishing a nameplate at the far end of the room. The easy banter made the work go quicker, and soon the air was filled with clinking trophies, occasional laughter, and Midas croaking from his perch on the window ledge, pretending to “supervise.”

‘They shine with the pride of ancient victories!’ the toad announced dramatically.

Neville chuckled. “He really does love the sound of his own voice.”

Harry smiled faintly, running his cloth along the edge of a long wooden plaque. His reflection stared back at him from the polished brass nameplates — a little uncertain, a little tired, but not unhappy.

Then his eyes caught on one of the engraved names.

James Potter — Seeker — 1975–1979

Harry froze.

For a moment, everything else faded — the soft chatter, the scraping, the distant croak of Midas. All he could do was stare at the shining letters. His dad’s name.

“Harry?” Draco’s voice came softly from behind him. “You okay?”

Harry swallowed, brushing his thumb gently over the name. “This was my dad’s,” he said quietly. “He was a Seeker too.”

Draco stepped closer, reading the plaque. His expression softened. “So that’s where you get it from.”

Ron leaned over his shoulder, grinning. “See? It’s in your blood! You have to take the spot now.”

Harry let out a shaky laugh, torn between awe and disbelief. “I didn’t even know he played.”

Neville smiled. “Then maybe this is your chance to follow in his footsteps.”

For a moment, Harry could almost picture it — his dad, young and laughing, soaring through the air after a golden glint. The thought filled him with something warm and fierce.

He set down the rag, eyes still on the nameplate. “Maybe,” he murmured. “I’ll think about it.”

Draco gave him a gentle nudge. “Don’t think too long, Potter. Slytherin needs a Seeker who doesn’t fall off his broom.”

Harry smiled, shaking his head. “No promises.”

___

By the time they were dismissed, the trophies gleamed like new. The group drifted back toward their dorms, joking and yawning, the tension of earlier long forgotten.

That night, as Harry lay in bed, Midas tucked beneath his chin, he stared up at the canopy and thought about the name on that plaque.

James Potter.
Seeker.
Brave.
Fearless.

Could he really be like that too?

Midas gave a sleepy croak. ‘If you soar, I soar with you.’

Harry smiled faintly. “Yeah… we’ll see.”

Sleep came quickly after that — deep and dreamless.

___

The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with chatter and the clatter of breakfast dishes. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, golden and bright.

Harry walked in with the Slytherin boys, hair still messy from sleep and a faint smile on his lips.

Draco was halfway through buttering his toast when he asked, “So, have you decided?”

Harry nodded, sitting down beside him. “Yeah.”

Every head turned.

“I’m going to do it,” Harry said simply. “I’ll be the Seeker.”

Theo whooped, earning a glare from a nearby prefect. “Knew it!”

Draco smirked, looking quietly pleased. “About time.”

Blaise beamed. “You’ll be brilliant.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but there was a small, reluctant smile on her lips. “Try not to die during practice.”

Midas puffed his throat proudly. ‘The skies shall tremble before us!’

Harry laughed, heart light.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel like he was stepping into someone else’s shadow.
He was following it — and making his own path in the sky.

___

The Quidditch pitch gleamed under the Saturday sun, banners of green and silver fluttering in the wind. From the stands, a small cluster of Slytherins and a few brave Gryffindors waved and shouted encouragement.

Harry stood on the grass in borrowed Quidditch robes, heart thudding in his chest. The leather of the gloves creaked softly as he adjusted his grip on the broom — a school model, not nearly as sleek as the Nimbus Marcus Flint was leaning against nearby.

“Alright, Potter,” Marcus said, voice carrying easily across the pitch. “You know the rules. Fast, accurate, and don’t fall off.”

“Encouraging,” Draco muttered from the stands.

“Motivating,” Blaise countered dryly.

Ron cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Go, Harry! Show ’em how it’s done!”

Harry’s stomach fluttered, but in a good way this time. He swung one leg over the broom and took a deep breath.

Marcus raised a hand, his whistle gleaming in the light. “Ready—GO!”

The whistle cut the air, and Harry kicked off.

The world fell away.

Wind roared in his ears, the ground shrinking beneath him. His heart soared with every tilt and dive — he’d never felt so alive. His broom responded like it was an extension of himself, gliding through the air with smooth, effortless precision.

Marcus tossed a golf ball high into the air. “Show me you can track it!”

Harry leaned forward, eyes sharp. The sunlight flashed against the ball for only a second before he was off — a blur of green and motion. He weaved through the air, hair whipping wildly, and caught it just inches before it hit the ground.

The stands erupted.

“YES!” Ron bellowed, leaping up and nearly toppling into Neville.

Draco grinned, unable to hide his pride. “That’s my....” he stops talking, but no one notices as Pansy screams out.

"That's our little snake!"

From the stands, Midas croaked dramatically. ‘The boy takes flight! The sky bows to him!’

Trevor lay beside him, sleeping.

Neville chuckled. “I’ll never get used to that toad.”

Down on the pitch, Marcus was watching closely, arms crossed. “Not bad, Potter. You handle like a professional.”

Before Harry could reply, another boy — a broad-shouldered second-year named Mulveny — dropped his broom and stomped forward, face red with anger.

“This is rubbish!” he shouted. “You’re just giving him the position because he’s the Boy Who Lived!”

The words sliced through the air like a curse.

Harry stiffened, but Marcus’s expression turned to stone. “Is that so?” he said calmly. “Then maybe you’d like to prove you’re better.”

Mulveny grabbed his broom, glaring at Harry. “Gladly.”

“Fine,” Marcus said coolly. “First one to catch the practice Snitch keeps the Seeker slot.”

The Snitch was released with a glittering flash — and the chase began.

Mulveny was faster at first, his heavier broom diving like a hawk. But Harry was smoother, lighter, his instincts sharper. He darted through the air, reading the Snitch’s every feint and flicker like he’d been born to do it.

The Snitch darted toward the stands — then looped sharply toward the goalposts. Harry leaned forward, breath burning in his lungs. Mulveny was just behind him.

Then the Snitch shot straight up.

Harry reacted instantly. He pulled his broom up in a perfect climb, wind screaming past his face. Mulveny tried to follow — but his broom wobbled under the sudden strain.

Harry reached out—

His fingers closed around the Snitch.

The pitch erupted in cheers.

Harry landed shakily, heart pounding. He held the Snitch up, wings fluttering between his fingers.

Marcus smiled — a rare, real smile. “Congratulations, Potter. You’re Slytherin’s new Seeker.”

Mulveny scowled. “That’s ridiculous! I was right behind him—”

“And that,” Marcus cut in sharply, “is where you’ll stay. Behind him. Dismissed.”

Mulveny stormed off, muttering under his breath.

Draco, Blaise, and Theo raced down from the stands, grinning ear to ear. Ron and Neville weren’t far behind, ignoring the stares they got from other Slytherins.

Draco smirked. “You did it, Potter! You actually did it!”

Harry laughed breathlessly. “I—yeah, I think I did.”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “You were brilliant! I mean, terrifying, but brilliant!”

‘My knight of the skies has triumphed!’ Midas croaked proudly from Ron’s shoulder. ‘Let it be known, none can match his aerial prowess!’

Neville chuckled. “I don’t know what that means, but I think it’s a compliment.”

Marcus gave Harry’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Practice tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

Harry nodded quickly. “Yes, sir!”

___

A few days later, mist hung over the pitch, the air cool and sharp. Marcus barked instructions while the team warmed up, his tone firm but not unkind.

“Flint, pass to Derrick! Bletchley, watch your angles! Potter—good instincts, but you’re turning too wide on the dives!”

Harry nodded, adjusting his grip. The broom thrummed beneath him as he rose higher, scanning the pitch for the practice Snitch.

Below, Draco, Ron, Neville, and Pansy sat huddled in their robes, steaming mugs of cocoa in their hands.

“Does he ever stop flying?” Neville asked, awed.

“Not when he’s showing off,” Draco said, smirking — though the pride in his voice was unmistakable.

Up in the air, Harry caught sight of the glint of gold — and dove.

He was faster this time, smoother, sharper — until the Snitch was trapped in his hand once again.

Marcus blew the whistle, grinning. “Not bad, Potter. Keep that up, and we might just win the Cup this year.”

Harry’s chest swelled, his grin wide and real. “I’ll do my best, Captain.”

‘Of course you will,’ Midas croaked from the stands. ‘The sky belongs to you now.’

___

Classes had settled into a steady rhythm over the next weeks.
Charms was quickly becoming a favorite — Professor Flitwick’s cheerful energy made even tricky wand movements feel like fun. Potions remained intense, but Snape’s sharp gaze had softened slightly when it landed on Harry, and the other Slytherins had learned to stop whispering behind his back.

Defense Against the Dark Arts, however… was another story.

Harry sat stiffly at his desk as Professor Quirrell stammered through another lecture about vampires. The room smelled faintly of garlic and burnt parchment.
Draco leaned close and whispered, “If he says ‘vampyre’ one more time, I’m hexing my own ears shut.”
Ron snorted, earning them a weak glare from Hermione across the room.
Harry, though, wasn’t amused. There was something off about Quirrell — something beyond the nerves and awkwardness. Every time the man looked at him, a cold prickle ran down Harry’s spine, like an invisible thread tugging somewhere deep inside.

When class ended, Harry didn’t linger.
Neville caught up with him as they left. “You okay, mate? You went pale back there.”
“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “He just… makes me feel weird. Like I’ve walked into a room that doesn’t want me there.”
Draco frowned. “I don’t trust him either.”
From Harry’s shoulder, Midas croaked lowly.
‘The man’s aura is unbalanced. He smells of smoke and secrets.’

___

That evening, after dinner, the boys were on their way back to the common room when the staircase beneath them gave a sudden, creaking lurch.
“Uh-oh,” Neville muttered.
The stairs shuddered and swung around with a loud clang, depositing the group on an unfamiliar landing.

“Brilliant,” Draco groaned. “The castle’s trying to kill us again.”
Ron tugged on the nearest handle. “Door’s locked.”
‘Perhaps it’s meant to be locked,’ Midas offered wisely.

Harry, however, noticed something shiny glinting at the end of the corridor — a polished brass doorknob half-hidden behind a tapestry.
Curiosity won. He pushed it open.

The four of them stepped into a large, dimly lit chamber — and froze.

A growl rolled through the air.

Three enormous heads lifted, eyes gleaming like lanterns.

The creature took a lumbering step forward, claws scraping the stone.

“Merlin’s beard—” Neville squeaked.

“Don’t move,” Harry whispered.

Fluffy — a massive, three-headed dog — was towering over them, muscles rippling under thick fur. All three heads snarled, breath hot and foul.

Then Midas, ever the dramatist, croaked softly:
‘Behold… a guardian.’

The middle head snapped toward him, growling louder.

“Time to go!” Ron hissed.

They bolted.

Draco yanked the door shut behind them, chest heaving. “What was that?”
“A dog,” Neville gasped, “with three heads!”
“And it was standing on a trapdoor!” Harry added, eyes wide.

They all turned toward each other, panting, hearts racing.

“Whatever it’s guarding,” Draco said finally, “I think we’re not supposed to know.”
‘Then we should probably not go back,’ Midas said gravely.
Harry swallowed hard. “Yeah. Definitely not.”

They all agreed — though none of them could stop thinking about it.

___

A few evenings later, the mood in the dorm was far lighter.
Midas had been strangely insistent all day, muttering about “romantic obligations” and “the delicate balance of amphibian affection.”

At last, during free period, he leapt onto Harry’s shoulder and announced,
‘My dear knight, I require your assistance. I wish to secure a date—with Trevor.’

Harry blinked, before a wide smile beamed on his face. “Really?"
‘Indeed!’ Midas puffed up proudly. ‘Our chemistry is undeniable. I simply need your help arranging… ambiance.’

Harry translated softly to Draco and
Draco snorted dropping his head into his elbow.
Harry smacked his arm lightly, "Of course I'll help."
‘Excellent,’ Midas replied dramatically.

___

With some insistence, Harry was able to rope everyone in.

By dusk, Harry, Ron, Neville, and Draco were gathered near the edge of the lake.
They’d set out tiny lily pads and glowing pebbles charmed by Pansy to sparkle like starlight.

Trevor sat on a smooth rock, blinking uncertainly.
Midas approached with all the grace of a miniature prince, croaking low and soft.

‘Good evening, my radiant pond jewel.’

Neville covered his face, laughing as Harry tells them whats being said. “Oh, Merlin—”
Harry grinned, leaning closer. “Shh, let them have their moment.”

Trevor blinked once… then gave a soft, shy croak in return.
‘You look lovelier than the reflection of moonlight on a still pond,’ Midas said earnestly.
Trevor gave a tiny hop closer.
‘You’re ridiculous,’ Trevor murmured, though his tone was warm.

The two toads sat together on a lily pad, the lake reflecting the twilight glow around them.
For a long while, none of the boys said a word. It was oddly sweet — ridiculous, yes, but sweet.

After a while, Trevor leaned lightly against Midas.

‘He said yes,’ Midas whispered proudly to Harry. ‘We are now official.’

Harry smiled. “Congrats, Midas.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Only you could make a toad love story work, Potter.”
Ron grinned. “Guess that makes you best man.”

The group laughed until the stars came out, the sound echoing softly across the water.

And though none of them said it aloud, each boy — wizard and toad alike — felt that Hogwarts didn’t seem quite so cold anymore.

___

The Halloween feast was in full swing—candles floating above the tables, jack-o’-lanterns flickering, and dishes refilling themselves faster than anyone could eat. The Great Hall glittered with light and laughter, the air thick with sugar and roast spice.

Midas and Trevor were spending the meal in private (The Slytherin common room).

“Best night yet,” Blaise said, leaning back with a grin.

Harry nodded happily. “Definitely. Everything’s perfect.”

Pansy smiled, daintily spearing a slice of pumpkin pie. “I’m going to the girls’ room before dessert disappears.”

Draco waved her off. “Hurry up or I’ll eat yours too.”

She rolled her eyes and slipped away through the crowd of students.

Then—

The doors of the Great Hall crashed open with a thunderous bang.

Professor Quirrell stumbled through, his turban askew, his face white as chalk. “T-T-TROLL!” he stammered, gasping for breath. “In the d-dungeon! Thought you ought to know—!”

He collapsed in a dead faint.

For half a second, there was silence. Then chaos erupted—screaming, benches overturning, food flying.

“SILENCE!” Dumbledore’s voice thundered magically, shaking the chandeliers.

All noise died.

Dumbledore raised his arms, grave and calm. “Prefects, lead your Houses back to their dormitories immediately. Teachers—follow me to the dungeons.”

At the staff table, Snape shot to his feet, his face twisting in alarm. “Headmaster, our dormitories are in the dungeons!”

Dumbledore met his eyes evenly. “Then take them through the Entrance Hall until the corridors are secure.”

Snape’s jaw tightened. “Very well.”

He swept down the Slytherin table like a storm cloud. “All Slytherins—up. Now. Move quickly and quietly.”

Harry scrambled to his feet with the others, the students began filing toward the doors in uneasy silence.

But as they reached the Entrance Hall, Harry’s stomach dropped.

Pansy wasn’t there.

He turned, scanning faces—Draco, Blaise, Theo, Crabbe, Goyle—no Pansy.

“Where is she?” he whispered urgently.

Draco’s face went pale. “She hasn’t come back from the bathroom.”

Snape was near the front of the group, counting heads as they reached the hall. His eyes flicked over the line—sharp, precise—and then narrowed. “Keep close.”

Everyone continued in single file down the stone hall.

And that was all it took for Harry to bolt.

“Harry, no—!” Draco hissed, but he was already gone, sprinting down the side corridor.

The others exchanged looks, cursed under their breath, and ran after him.

___

The dungeons were darker now, torches guttering weakly. The smell hit them first—a thick, rotten stench that made Harry gag.

Then came the sound.

Heavy, dragging footsteps. A low, wet grunt.

They rounded the corner—and froze.

The troll was massive, gray and warty, with a club the size of a tree branch dragging against the stones. Its small eyes gleamed in the torchlight as it lumbered into the girls’ lavatory.

“Pansy’s in there!” Draco whispered, horrified.

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Come on!”

They charged in.

The sight was chaos—sinks smashed, pipes spraying water, Pansy crouched behind a shattered stall. The troll raised its club high, roaring.

“Hey!” Harry yelled, grabbing a bit of broken pipe from the floor and hurling it. It clanged off the troll’s shoulder.

It turned toward him, snarling.

“Great idea, Potter!” Blaise shouted, snatching up another shard of metal and throwing it too. “Now it wants you!”

“Move!” Draco yelled, and they all dove behind a line of sinks as the club came crashing down, shattering porcelain. Water sprayed everywhere.

Chunks of porcelain flies everywhere, a large piece striking Blaise in the side, sending him to his knees. His wand rolls as he presses his hand to the cut.

Pansy scrambled toward them, slipping on the wet floor. Harry reached out, grabbed her hand, and hauled her behind a broken basin.

“Get behind us!” Draco barked. “Theo—distraction, now!”

Theo flung his wand up, shouting, “Lumos Maxima!” The flare of light blinded the troll for a second—just enough.

Harry stared at Blaises crumpled form and everyone elses horrified faces, and yelled the first spell that came to mind.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

The club jerked upward suddenly, ripped from the troll’s grasp. It dangled in the air for one stunned moment—then crashed down on the creature’s head with a sickening thunk.

The troll staggered once—and collapsed in a heap.

Silence.

Steam rose from broken pipes. Water trickled down the tiles.

Then Harry slumped against the wall, trembling. “Is… is it dead?”

“Unconscious,” Blaise panted. “Hopefully.”

Pansy let out a small sob of relief. “You idiots could’ve been killed.”

“So could you,” Draco muttered, helping her stand.

“Fair point.”

Harry tried to laugh—but the room tilted. His knees gave out and he hit the floor hard. Blaise caught him halfway down—but wobbled, wincing and clutching his arm.

“Blaise!” Draco shouted. “You’re bleeding—”

That was when the door banged open.

Snape stormed in, wand blazing. “Finite Incantatem!”

The light cleared, revealing the wreckage—shattered sinks, unconscious troll, and five drenched, trembling first years.

Snape froze, horror flickering behind his mask of fury. “Merlin’s—”

He strode forward, kneeling beside Harry first, his voice sharp but trembling at the edges. “You fool child—what were you thinking?!”

Harry flinched. “Pansy—she was—”

“I know,” Snape snapped, but he was already scanning Harry for injuries. “You could have been killed!”

He flicked his wand, murmuring diagnostic charms. The faint blue light washed over Harry, revealing a long bruise down his side.

Then he turned to Blaise, his anger faltering completely when he saw the deep gash on the boy’s arm. “Hold still.”

Warm light pulsed from Snape’s wand, sealing the wound.

When both boys were stable, Snape rose to his full height, robes dripping from the water that now coated everything. His voice dropped to a deadly quiet.

“If you ever—all of you—disobey orders like this again,” he said, eyes burning into them, “you will wish you’d never left your cradles.”

Draco swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

But Snape’s expression softened slightly as his gaze landed on Pansy, pale and shaking. “You’re all remarkably lucky,” he said, quieter now. “And Merlin help me… foolishly brave. Like Gryffindors.”

He ignored the indignant looks on the students faces.

He swept his wand once, levitating the unconscious troll aside, then turned toward the door. “Come. Infirmary. Now.”

As they shuffled past him, dripping and silent, Harry caught Snape’s voice muttering low under his breath—words he wasn’t meant to hear.

“…Potter, you’re going to drive me to an early grave.”

___

The morning of the match dawned clear and cold, the kind of chill that crept through robes and turned every breath to mist. The Quidditch pitch shimmered under a pale sun, every blade of grass rimmed with silver frost.

By the time the Slytherin team strode out of the locker room, the stands were already shaking with cheers. Emerald banners fluttered in the wind, the air alive with excitement and the smell of damp earth and pumpkin pasties.

Harry’s heart was hammering in his chest. His gloves felt too tight, and he kept checking his broomstick handle like it might suddenly vanish.

Beside him, Marcus Flint barked last-minute orders, pacing like a caged dragon.

“All right, listen up! We play clean, we play hard. Potter—stay light on the broom. You’ve got good instincts, trust them. No fancy dives until you’ve got the Snitch in your sights.”

Harry nodded, the words settling somewhere between reassurance and command.

Flint gave him a brief, sharp grin. “You’ve got this, kid. You fly like you were born to it.”

That sent warmth flooding through Harry, the nerves in his stomach twisting into something more like determination.

Madam Hooch’s whistle cut through the roar.

“Mount your brooms!”

___

The moment his feet left the ground, Harry forgot to be nervous.
The air rushed cool and fierce around him, tugging at his robes. The field spread out beneath him — vast and brilliant, with sunlight glinting off the golden hoops.

He could hear the crowd faintly below — shouts, laughter, someone calling his name.

Up here, everything else disappeared.

The Quaffle was released; Bludgers shot into the air like cannonballs. Flint and the Chasers darted into formation, green blurs slicing through red.

Harry hovered higher, scanning for the Snitch. He could just make out Draco and the others in the stands — Ron and Neville wedged between Slytherins, cheering themselves hoarse.

Down by their feet, Midas and Trevor were perched together, Midas waving his tiny hands dramatically.

Harry grinned to himself.

And then his broom jerked.

At first it was just a tremor — a faint shiver under his fingers. But then it wrenched hard to the right, nearly throwing him off.

“What—?” Harry clutched the handle tighter, trying to steady it, but the broom bucked again, wild and violent.

Gasps echoed from below.

“Potter!” Flint’s voice carried over the wind. “Get control!”

“I’m trying!”

The broom gave another vicious jolt and began to climb, higher and higher, ignoring every pull of Harry’s hands. His stomach twisted as the ground dropped away, the wind screaming past his ears.

“Come on, come on—!” he muttered through gritted teeth, but the broom wasn’t listening.

Down below, the game had come to a halt. Players hovered midair, staring upward. The crowd was on its feet. Someone screamed.

“His broom’s gone mad!”

Harry’s grip was slipping; his palms were slick with sweat. The broom gave a sudden twist — he clung to it by sheer instinct, eyes stinging from the cold wind.

In the staff stands, Professor Snape was standing now, black robes billowing, his eyes fixed like knives on Harry.
Across the field, Professor Quirrell was muttering to himself, pale and trembling.

Snape’s wand flicked once. Twice. His lips moved soundlessly.

Then — abruptly — the broom went still.

The sudden calm nearly threw Harry off balance again. He was hovering, chest heaving, heart slamming so hard it hurt.

He looked down and caught Snape’s eye across the pitch. The professor’s expression was unreadable, but the intensity in it made Harry’s throat tighten. He managed a tiny nod of thanks.

Snape only gave a slight incline of his head before turning away.

___

Harry stayed frozen for a few seconds, willing his breathing to slow. Then the familiar glint of gold flashed just below him.

The Snitch.

It darted near the Slytherin goalposts, quick as sunlight.

Everything inside him snapped back into focus.

He leaned forward, the broom responding instantly now — smooth, obedient, alive. The wind roared in his ears as he dove, the air rushing past in a blur of sound and color.

The Gryffindor Seeker was coming in fast from the other side, red robes flaring. The Snitch looped sharply, shooting downward.

Harry followed without hesitation, the pitch rushing up to meet him. He flattened himself against the broom, muscles straining, eyes locked on the tiny gleam.

Closer—closer—

He reached out—fingers grazing air—then metal—and caught it.

The whistle shrieked.

The stands erupted in thunder.

“Slytherin wins!” Madam Hooch’s voice boomed across the field.

Flint whooped, looping in the air before flying straight at Harry and grabbing him in a crushing midair hug.

“You did it! You absolute legend!”

Harry laughed, breathless. “That was insane!”

Flint grinned. “And bloody brilliant! You’ve got talent, Potter. Real talent.”

They landed on the pitch to a storm of cheers and waving green banners. Draco, Neville, and Ron ran down to meet him, shouting and clapping him on the back.

Midas hopped close, Trevor settled atop his back, snoozing. ‘Our victory sings across the skies!’

Trevor croaked sleepily.

Harry couldn’t stop smiling. His hands were shaking from adrenaline, his face windburned, his hair a complete disaster—but he’d done it.

He looked up just in time to see Flint removing his helmet, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples, grin wide and bright. The sight made Harry’s pulse skip for reasons he didn’t want to think too hard about.

Wow, he thought faintly, he really does look incredible in that uniform.

But before he could dwell on it, Flint slung an arm around his shoulders and raised his other hand high, Snitch gleaming in Harry’s grasp as the crowd roared again.

For the first time since coming to Hogwarts, Harry felt like he truly belonged.

He wasn’t “the Boy Who Lived” right now. He wasn’t anyone’s legend or story.

He was just Harry — Slytherin’s new Seeker — and the pitch was his.

Chapter Text

8 Days Later

The moon was thin and sharp as a sickle when Kenton Avery, the third-year Slytherin who had mocked Harry in the library, trudged behind Hagrid toward the treeline. His detention had been quiet so far—unsettlingly so. The Forest loomed ahead, shadows stretching like fingers across the ground.

“All yeh have ter do,” Hagrid rumbled, holding out a lantern, “is help me check on the unicorn tracks. Something’s been hurtin’ ’em. Stay close, yeh hear?”

Kenton swallowed and nodded, gripping his wand tighter than he meant to. He’d taken detentions before—Polishing cauldrons, scrubbing floors—but being marched into the Forbidden Forest at night was an entirely different matter. He’d never admit it, but his stomach was twisting.

They followed a faint trail of silver along the leaves—a ribbon of unicorn blood, glowing eerily in the dim. Hagrid knelt to study it closer.

“Poor creature,” he muttered. “This one’s bleedin’ fast. Must be near.”

Kenton shifted, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. The forest was too quiet. Even the insects had fallen silent.

“Hagrid…” he whispered, but the half-giant had already lumbered forward deeper into the brush.

Left alone for only a moment, Kenton felt cold settle over him. Real, unnatural cold.

A rustling. A whisper.

He spun, wand shaking. “H-Hello? Show yourself!”

Something moved between the trees—wrong, gliding, not quite touching the ground. Pale. Hooded. Hungry.

Kenton froze, unable to breathe as the thing drifted toward the silver trail… then crouched low over a unicorn collapsed in the bracken.

He watched—paralyzed—as it lowered its face to the creature’s flank.

And drank.

The unicorn screamed, a thin, horrible sound that tore through Kenton’s chest. His legs finally obeyed him and he turned to run—

—but the wraith moved faster.

A flash of silver. A blur of movement.

Then pain—white-hot—slashed across Kenton’s shoulder as he was thrown backward into the roots of an ancient oak. He hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of him, wand spinning out of reach.

The creature loomed over him now, the hood falling back just enough to reveal—nothing. A void. A hollow face that seemed to suck the warmth out of the world.

It reached for him.

Kenton tried to scream, but no sound came.

“GET AWAY FROM ’IM!”

Hagrid crashed through the clearing like a living avalanche, crossbow raised. An enchanted bolt flew, crackling with purple sparks. It streaked past the wraith’s shoulder—close enough to make it recoil with a shriek that chilled the air.

It retreated, melting into the shadows between the trees.

Hagrid didn’t wait. He scooped the trembling boy into his arms as if he weighed nothing.

“Hold on, lad. Dumbledore needs ter hear ’bout this. Stay with me!”

But Kenton couldn’t respond—not a word, not even a breath of sound.

His throat felt locked. His voice trapped somewhere deep, strangled by terror.

He simply stared ahead, shaking violently, as Hagrid sprinted out of the Forest.

___

Madam Pomfrey gasped when Hagrid burst in, depositing Kenton gently on a bed.

“What happened—Merlin above—his arm—he’s white as parchment!”

“Hagrid!” Snape stormed through the doors moments later, robes billowing, face carved in fury. “I was told one of my students—”

He stopped cold at the sight of Kenton.

The boy sat stiffly, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted as if he meant to speak but couldn’t. Tears ran silently down his face.

“Mr. Avery,” Snape said, softer now. “Look at me.”

Kenton’s gaze flicked to him—but still no sound, no reaction beyond trembling.

Hagrid wrung his enormous hands. “Somethin’ attacked ’im. The thing tha’s been hurtin’ the unicorns. He tried ter fight it. I got there jus’ in time.”

Snape’s expression went from confusion, to horror, to a cold, murderous calm.

He leaned over the boy, his voice low. “Mr. Avery… can you tell me what you saw?”

Kenton’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Snape’s jaw tightened. “He’s gone mute.”

“Aye,” Hagrid whispered, grief heavy in his voice. “Fear can do tha’, sometimes. Whatever he saw—it was evil, Professor. Pure evil.”

Snape closed his eyes for a moment—just one moment—before straightening.

“Then it seems,” he said quietly, “that the danger is far greater than the Headmaster believed.”

___

Dinner that night was unusually subdued. Rumors had been swirling through the corridors all afternoon—whispers of screams heard near the hospital wing, of Snape storming out of Dumbledore’s office, of Hagrid returning from the Forest pale as flour.

But nothing prepared the students for the moment when Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat and tapped his goblet twice.

The hall fell silent instantly.

Dumbledore’s expression was grave—truly grave—in a way that hushed even the whispers of the ghosts.

“My dear students,” he began, hands folded before him, “I must regrettably inform you that there has been an incident within the Forbidden Forest.”

Across the Slytherin table, the first-years went rigid. Harry, Draco, Zabini, Theo, and the others exchanged looks—every one of them thinking of only one person.

Dumbledore continued, voice somber.

“One of our third-year students, Kenton Avery, was injured during a supervised detention with Professor Hagrid.”

A ripple went through the room. Hagrid lowered his head, looking sick with guilt.

“The creature responsible for harming the unicorns has attacked again,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Mr. Avery is receiving care and is expected to recover physically. However…” He paused, eyes darkening. “His family has chosen to withdraw him from Hogwarts for the remainder of the year.”

Gasps broke out. Blaise’s fork clattered against his plate.

Draco shook his head slowly. “Merlin… he’s really gone.”

“He didn’t deserve that,” Theo whispered.

Pansy looked shaken. “He was a prat sometimes, but—no one deserves to be attacked by a monster.”

At the Gryffindor table, Ron and Neville both turned anxiously toward the Slytherins, catching Harry’s eye. Harry’s stomach twisted. He’d fought with Kenton, sure… but he would never have wished that on him.

Once the murmuring died down, Dumbledore raised his hand again.

“In light of the attack, the staff and I have decided on a new safety measure.”
His voice filled every corner of the hall.
“Beginning immediately after the Christmas holiday, a strict curfew will be enforced. All students must be in their House dormitories by six o’clock each evening. No exceptions.”

An uproar exploded from every table at once.

“Six? That’s ridiculous!” a Ravenclaw shouted.

“How are we supposed to practice Quidditch?” a Gryffindor complained.

“Six? It’s barely dark then!” someone from Hufflepuff protested.

Slytherins exchanged a different kind of look—worried, uneasy, and far less defiant.

Snape stood abruptly, robes snapping behind him, and the hall quieted again under his glare.

“The curfew,” he said sharply, “is mandatory. We will not debate it. The Forest is no longer safe—even at the edges. You will obey the new rule, or you will answer to your Head of House.”

Even the Gryffindors didn’t dare argue after that.

Dumbledore waited for silence, then added, more softly:

“We value your safety above all else. Enjoy your holiday, cherish your friends, and rest. Return well. Return cautious.”

Then he sat.

___

When the noise finally returned to the Great Hall, it was muted—anxiety slipping through the room like a draft.

Harry pushed his food around on his plate, appetite gone.

Across from him, Draco looked tense, jaw tight. “Just before break,” he muttered. “We get told something’s drinking unicorns, and now curfew. What next?”

Theo shivered. “Whatever that thing was… Kenton saw it. That’s why he—” He stopped, throat bobbing.

Zabini’s voice was low and serious. “He didn’t scream. Not once. Hagrid had to carry him the whole way. He didn’t make a sound.”

Harry imagined Kenton’s face in the infirmary—wide-eyed and silent—and swallowed hard.

Midas, perched on Harry’s shoulder, pressed close, concerned.
Harry stroked him absently.

Ron and Neville tried to meet his gaze from across the hall. Ron mouthed, You okay?

Harry nodded, but it wasn’t entirely true.

For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he felt something new creeping into his ribs—a heavy, cold worry.

Something was wrong in this castle.

Very wrong.

And now that Kenton was gone, Harry had the sick feeling that whatever was stalking the Forest… was not done yet.

___

Students poured out of the Great Hall in a flood of whispers and nervous glances after Dumbledore’s announcement. The moment they reached the Entrance Hall, the Slytherin first-years clustered together instinctively—Draco, Blaise, Theo, Pansy, and Harry.

Two familiar figures hurried over as well.

“Harry!” Ron called, jogging up with Neville trailing behind. “You all right? That was mental, what Dumbledore said!”

Neville nodded, wide-eyed. “They said the attack was really bad.”

Harry swallowed. “I—I hope Kenton’s okay…”

“I can't believe he left,” Ron said quietly.

The group fell solemn for a moment, the castle feeling heavier than usual.

Then Pansy clapped her hands sharply.

“Enough doom and gloom. Before everyone leaves for break, we need to do something nice.”

Draco blinked. “Nice?”

Pansy huffed. “Yes, nice. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Harry grinned. “Of course.”

Draco tried to hide his glee. Blaise didn’t try to hide his amusement.

“So what’s the plan?” Theo asked.

“A gift exchange!” Pansy said brightly. “Nothing expensive. Just thoughtful. We’ll draw names.”

Ron lit up. “A proper Christmas exchange? Brilliant!”

Neville smiled shyly. “I’d like that.”

Pansy quickly wrote names on scraps of parchment and folded them tightly. She held out her hands like a queen performing a sacred ritual.

“One at a time.”

Harry drew first. He peeked and his heart gave a small, warm jump.

Draco.

The rest drew their names, each grinning or smirking or trying to hide excitement.

"In two weeks we'll exchange,” Pansy said firmly.

Everyone agreed before heading off to their respective dorms.

___

Later, in the Slytherin boys’ dorm, the lamps dimmed low and the fire cast soft green shadows across the stone walls. The boys lay in their beds, but none of them managed to fall asleep quickly.

Too much had happened.
Too many whispers in the corridors.
Too many images in their heads—unicorn blood, Kenton’s terrified silence, the idea of something out there.

Harry curled into his blankets, Midas perched protectively beside his pillow.

‘I do not like this castle’s new shadows,’ Midas muttered.

Harry stroked his head. “Me neither…”

Eventually, his eyelids drooped.

~~~___~~~

Harry was running, from what? He isn't sure.

His legs feel like lead, like every step slowed him down more and more.

The corridors grown darker with all the twists in turns. Objects jut out of the walls, things that could be tree branches or limbs, to hard to make out in the bleak lighting.

A hooded figure stepped out of the dark, faceless, moving like smoke. It turned toward him, head tilting, and its voice scraped like metal—

“Harry…”

His scar flared white-hot.
The figure lunged.
Harry’s breath tore out of him in a scream—

___

Harry jerked upright in bed, gasping, drenched in cold sweat. Midas cried out in alarm, hopping to his shoulder.

‘Your breath is broken—breathe slow, little human—’

But Harry couldn’t.

He needed someone.
Someone who knew how to stop the hurt.
Someone safe.

Without thinking, Harry slipped out of bed, pulled on his slippers, and hurried out of the dorm.

The dungeons felt colder, darker, but his feet knew the way.

He knocked.

The door swung open almost instantly.

Snape stood there in his night-robes, hair slightly mussed, looking more human and more concerned than Harry had ever seen.

“Potter?” His voice dropped. “What happened?”

Harry’s lower lip trembled. “Nightmare.”

Snape didn’t question further—he simply ushered Harry inside with a hand on his back.

___

The sitting room glowed warm with firelight. The scent of herbs and simmering tea drifted through the air.

Snape guided Harry to the couch, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and pressed a mild calming tea into his hands.

Harry drank shakily.

“I—It wasn’t real,” he whispered. “But it felt real. I just—didn’t want to be alone.”

Snape’s face softened, shadows of old pain flickering across it.

“You did the right thing,” he said quietly. “I would prefer you come to me rather than suffer in silence.”

Midas puffed up proudly. ‘A wise choice. I brought him here.’

Harry translated weakly, “Midas says… thank you.”

Snape’s mouth twitched—almost a smile.

“You may stay until you sleep,” Snape murmured. "You are not the first student to need comfort after a night time fright."

Harry nodded, curling up small on the couch, blanket tucked under his chin. Midas settled beside him, little eyes drooping.

The fire murmured softly.
Snape’s presence felt steady, grounding.
Safe.

Within minutes, Harry’s breathing evened out, and he drifted off into peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Snape watched him for a long moment, expression unreadable.

Then he quietly dimmed the lights and settled in his chair to keep watch.

___

Harry woke late the next morning, the cool green light of the Black Lake filtering through the enchanted windows and shimmering across the stone ceiling above him. For a disoriented heartbeat, he expected Snape’s quarters—dark wood, the quiet hum of protective wards—but instead he was in his own bed, deep in the Slytherin dorms.

Someone had drawn the curtains around his bed halfway shut, likely Blaise or Draco checking on him after they came back from breakfast. A small gesture, but it eased something tight in Harry’s chest.

He pushed the curtains open fully. The dormitory was hushed, only a few boys awake; Theo reading with a blanket over his lap, Blaise sprawled elegantly across his own bed, pretending to still be asleep. The faint sound of the lake’s currents pressed against the windows, soothing and steady.

It was Saturday. No rush. No classes. No Snape dragging him to the Hospital Wing to be fussed over again.

Harry slipped out of bed, tugged on a warm jumper, and grabbed a stack of owl-order catalogs from his trunk.

He carried them into the Slytherin common room.

___

The room was dim but warm, lit by flickering green flames. A handful of early risers lounged on the dark leather sofas, some whispering over strategy games, others writing letters home. Desks had been pulled close to the windows so students could study by the shifting blue-green lake light.

No one stopped Harry. No one demanded anything of him.

Slytherin’s version of comfort: privacy, space, and unspoken understanding.

Harry curled up in his favorite armchair—Draco called it his “nook”—and pulled the first catalog into his lap.

He flipped past enchanted quills, exploding snap decks, and endless pages of candy assortments that felt more like something the twins or Ron would want. Neville would appreciate the new herbology set he saw advertised. Maybe Ron would like something Quidditchy and loud.

But when he opened the jewelry catalog, his breath stilled.

There, centered on a perfectly lit page, was a necklace shaped like a silver winged serpent—sleek, coiled mid-flight, wings outstretched elegantly. The eyes were polished jade, and the description noted a subtle, instinctive enchantment:
The eyes turn toward the person the wearer is closest to.

Harry touched the page lightly.

It was beautiful. Sophisticated. Powerful in its symbolism.
Draco in every sense.

Harry swallowed.

Draco would wear this. He would cherish it.

Harry filled out the order slip quickly, heart thudding with a strange mix of nerves and certainty. He sealed the parchment and walked it to the small owl alcove tucked beside the spiral stairs. Hedwig extended her leg immediately—She always seemed to know when something mattered.

“Good morning girl, take this to Twilfitt & Tatting’s, please,” Harry whispered.

The owl launched into the lake-blue corridor leading out of the common room, disappearing into the castle.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The gift exchange was going to be fun—
but Draco’s reaction?

That would be something else entirely.

___

Two Weeks Later

The Entrance Hall felt almost festive in its winter chill—holly wreaths charmed to glimmer softly, the windows frosted with delicate patterns, and the scent of cinnamon drifting from the Great Hall. Students hurried past with trunks, laughing and shouting goodbyes.

But in a quieter corner—beneath the sweeping staircase—Harry’s little group had gathered in a loose circle, arms full of wrapped packages.

Pansy clapped her hands sharply.
“Alright, everyone. We’re doing this properly. No chaos. No Blaise-initiated disaster.”

Blaise smirked. “I don’t initiate disaster. I merely… usher it into the world.”

Theo sighed. “Just open your gifts when your name is called…”

Harry hid a smile. This felt warm. Familiar. Like family.

___

Ron swallowed hard and shoved a long, awkwardly wrapped parcel into Neville’s hands.

“Here. Uh… hope you like it.”

Neville blinked, cheeks already warm. He unwrapped the paper—and gasped.

Inside was a beautifully bound book:
”Rare Herbological Oddities of the British Isles — Annotated Edition.”

Neville’s eyes went wide. “Ron, this—this is the edition you said only collectors have—!”

Ron’s ears turned red.
“Yeah, well… thought you’d actually use it instead of it sitting in some old lady’s attic.”

Neville clutched the book to his chest, pink as a Christmas rose.
“I love it.”

Ron visibly melted.

Pansy whispered to Blaise, “They are pathetic, and I adore it.”

___

Blaise stepped forward next with a dramatic flourish and handed Pansy a slim velvet box.

“If you don’t cry, I demand a refund,” he said.

Pansy snorted and opened it.
Inside was a set of emerald-stone hairpins—sleek, elegant, perfectly matched to her aesthetic.

Pansy froze, eyes going glassy.
“Blaise…”

He lifted a brow smugly. “I know your taste. Obviously.”

She threw her arms around him without warning.
“Thank you.”

Blaise blinked, stunned. Then carefully hugged her back.

___

Then Pansy thrust a rectangular bundle into Theo’s hands.
“Don’t ruin it.”

Theo unwrapped it and inhaled sharply.

A pristine leather journal—the kind he’d eyed in Diagon Alley—embossed with a silver crescent moon.

“It’s for your star charts,” Pansy said, suddenly soft.

Theo touched the cover reverently.
“It’s perfect.”

Pansy smirked. “I know.”

___

Harry’s heart thudded as Draco stepped forward, presenting a small box wrapped in serpentine-green ribbon.

“For you,” Draco said, his voice steady but eyes bright.
“And don’t argue. I chose it weeks ago.”

Harry opened it—

And the breath left his lungs.

A set of silver flight gloves, hand-stitched, lined with soft doeskin, embossed on the cuff with a tiny serpent and the letter H.

Draco said quietly, “Your old ones were too big. And yours should be better than everyone else’s.”

Harry stared at him, throat tightening.

“Draco… they’re incredible.”

Draco smirked, cheeks faintly pink.
“Yes. Because I bought them.”

Harry didn’t trust himself to speak and simply hugged him.

Draco stiffened—then melted into it.

___

Up next Neville held out a carefully wrapped package.

Blaise arched a brow. “For me? Darling, I’m flattered.”

Neville huffed. “Just open it.”

Inside was a beautifully carved wooden wand stand—sleek, polished, with inlaid silver serpents curling around the base. It was elegant without being gaudy. Perfectly Blaise.

Blaise blinked, stunned into rare silence.

“I—Neville, this is—this is actual craftsmanship.”

Neville’s smile was small but proud.
“I made it.”

Blaise looked like he had been struck speechless.
Then he breathed:
“…Thank you.”

___

Then it was Harry’s turn.

His palms were sweating as he lifted the slim black box and pressed it into Draco’s hands.

Draco opened it—

—and froze.

The silver winged serpent necklace caught the light and glimmered, the jade eyes shifting subtly toward Harry.

Draco made a sound Harry had never heard from him—soft, breathless, disbelieving.

“Harry…”

Harry swallowed.
“I, um… I thought it suited you.”

Draco’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me.”

Without hesitation, Draco unclasped his shirt collar and put it on immediately. The serpent settled against his skin like it belonged there.

The jade eyes swiveled toward Harry.

Everyone saw it.

Blaise’s grin went feral.
“Oh, this is delicious.”

Harry turned bright red.

___

Lastly Theo shyly handed Ron a small, lumpy parcel.

Ron looked curious and unwrapped it—

—and laughed with pure delight.

Inside was a knitted scarf in Gryffindor red and gold… except the yarn sparkled faintly, charmed to shimmer like embers.

Theo stammered, “It—it resists freezing temperatures. And fire. And, er… being set on fire.”

Ron snorted. “Brilliant. This’ll survive Fred and George, then.”

Theo sagged with relief.
“I hoped you’d like it.”

Ron wrapped it around his neck instantly.
“It’s perfect, mate.”

___

The moment the last gifts were opened, the comfortable bubble burst into end-of-term chaos.

Pansy shrieked that she still hadn’t finished packing.
Blaise insisted he’d done his packing mentally, which did not count.
Draco pulled his shrunken trunk out of his pocket while lecturing Pansy on time management.
Neville kept trying to help everyone stay calm, even though his own trunk was already perfectly packed.

Ron leaned close to Harry and murmured, “Slytherins pack like they’re preparing for war.”

Harry snickered. “Honestly? Always.”

Students rushed up and down the marble stairs; owls hooted; trunks clattered; winter cloaks billowed. The holiday exodus had begun.

And by the time the noises settled, only three of them were left standing in the Entrance Hall:

Harry
Theo
Ron

The castle suddenly felt much quieter.

Harry glanced at the space where Draco had stood moments ago—silver serpent glinting proudly at his throat—and felt something warm curl in his chest.

Break began in three days.

But something told Harry this holiday was going to be anything but restful.

___

Three days later

Snow had thickened outside the castle windows overnight, drifting down in lazy curtains that softened the world into white. The Great Hall glowed with golden morning light and garlands of evergreen; the long tables were quieter than usual, but not empty—not yet.

Harry, Ron, Neville, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy had claimed the end of the Slytherin table, all pressed together in a tight cluster as if refusing to acknowledge that in just an hour… half of them would be on the train home.

Midas sat in front of Harry nibbling the edges of a croissant—until he suddenly froze, wide-eyed.

'Trevor’s leaving? TODAY??'
Harry winced. “Yes, you knew that—”

Midas screamed.

Everyone within three seats jumped.

Trevor, perched on Neville’s shoulder, croaked nervously.

Midas immediately hurled himself at Trevor, wrapping tiny amphibian arms around him like some tragic romantic hero.

'My love! You can’t leave me! I’ll die! I’ll DIE, Harry—tell them! Tell them I’ll perish!'

Harry rubbed his forehead. “He says he’ll, uh… perish. Dramatically.”

Neville winced sympathetically. “I… don’t think frogs perish from brief separations, mate.”

Midas wailed louder.

'I CAN AND I WILL—TREVOOOOORRRR!'

Trevor let out a soft, reassuring croak and nuzzled Midas, which only fueled the drama. Midas clung tighter.

Draco sighed into his pumpkin juice. “Honestly, Potter, your familiar is exhausting.”

“He’s devoted,” Harry offered weakly.

“He’s unhinged,” Pansy corrected, though she patted Midas’ head anyway.

___

As students started drifting toward the Entrance Hall with trunks in tow, the tension hit. Hard.

Pansy was the first to crack.

She turned abruptly and hugged Harry—full force, like she’d never admit she needed it.

“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” she muttered.
Harry hugged her back. “Same.”

Blaise hugged Harry after pretending he wasn’t going to.

“If anyone bullies you,” Blaise said, “hex their eyebrows off. And tell me so I can hex the rest.”

Theo nodded nervously. “I got him.”

“Always,” Harry promised.

Neville hugged him next—gentle, warm, familiar.
“I’ll write,” Neville said earnestly. “Every few days.”
Harry smiled. “I’d like that.”

Ron grinned and ruffled Harry’s hair.
“You’re stuck with me for the holiday, yeah? Don’t hide in your room. We’ll explore the castle and stuff.”

Harry nodded; the warmth in his chest surprised him.

Draco stepped up last.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Draco pulled Harry into a surprisingly tight hug. Long enough to mean something. Long enough to make Harry swallow hard.

“If you need anything,” Draco murmured, quiet for only Harry to hear, “write to me instantly.”

Harry nodded into his shoulder. “I will.”

Draco pulled back, eyes lingering.

The silver serpent necklace glinted against his collarbone—its jade eyes still subtly turned toward Harry.

___

When Neville finally crouched to pick up Trevor and place him gently in his travel container, Midas threw himself onto the floor.

'NOOOO! TREVOOOR! I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU! NEVILLE, YOU CRUEL MAN—GIVE HIM BACK!'

“Midas—”
'GIVE! HIM! BAAAAACK!'

Students walking by stared.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.
“He’s going to get us all removed from the castle.”

Harry finally scooped Midas up like a sobbing toddler.

“Midas, sweetheart—he’s coming back in three weeks.”

'THREE WEEKS???' Midas shrieked.
'I SHALL WITHER TO NOTHING!'

Trevor gave a low, soothing croak.

Midas translated to Harry who translated for everyone’s sanity:
“Trevor says he loves him and he’ll miss him, and he wants him to be brave while he’s away.”

Midas has stopped screaming.

His tiny hands pressed dramatically over his tiny heart.
'I will await for you. Faithfully.”

Trevor croaked again and Neville smiled softly.

What ever it was had Midas fainting.

___

The hugs finished. The goodbyes stretched out. And finally, they all walked together to the front doors.

Harry stood with warm breath fogging the chilly air as he watched his friends climb into carriages bound for Hogsmeade.

Draco leaned out the window just before they disappeared from sight.

“Write me, Harry!”

Harry felt his cheeks warm.
“I will!”

And then the carriage turned, wheels crunching over snowy ground, and they were gone.

The courtyard fell quiet.

Harry exhaled softly and glanced down at the limp frog in his hands.

“Midas?”

Midas slowly cracked open one eye.

'…He’s really gone?'

“Yes.”

Midas let out a tiny groan.
'Carry me to bed, Harry. I must grieve.'

Harry laughed—and did exactly that.

Chapter Text

Dec 1 1991

Hogwarts in winter was beautiful in a lonely sort of way.
With most of the students gone, the stone corridors echoed differently—quieter, softer.

Harry, Ron, and Theo bundled up and trudged into the courtyard. Ron immediately declared war, pelting Theo in the shoulder.

Theo shrieked like he'd been shot.

Harry laughed—really laughed—and scooped up a mound to throw back.

Midas sat on Harry’s shoulder like a tiny, suffering prince. A small toboggan wrapped upon his tiny noggin.

'Fun is meaningless without my beloved Trevor…'
Harry rolled his eyes affectionately. “He'll come back, why don't you got back inside?”
'It matches the frost in my heart.'

Ron, already red-cheeked from the cold, snorted. “Is he still whining after Trevor?”

Ron threw a snowball at Harry next—Harry dodged—and for a moment, warmth bloomed in Harry’s chest despite everything.

But when he bent to scoop more snow, a wave of dizziness hit him.
The phantom echo of cold concrete floors and an unheated cupboard rushed through him—Christmases where he was given nothing but chores and silent treatment.

He forced himself upright.

“I’m fine,” he said when Theo noticed.

Because he had to be.

___

Dec 10 1991

The Slytherin common room was uncharacteristically lively that evening. With so few students around, Hagrid had arranged for every remaining student to decorate their own house tree.

The Slytherin tree was tall, elegant, and very green—naturally.

Silver tinsel shimmered like soft moonlight, and enchanted ornaments glowed emerald.

Harry wound strands of silver pearls around the lower branches, a second year perched on a step stool hanging baubles high up, and Theo carefully unpacked a box of starlight fairy lights.

Midas lay belly-down on a velvet cushion under the tree.

'Decorate… if you must,' he croaked mournfully. 'But joy eludes me.'

Theo raise an eyebrow and Harry hurried to translate, then he nearly fell off the stool laughing. “Merlin, what a drama queen.”

“Hey,” Harry said softly, glancing at the frog, “he’s hurting.”

Midas flopped onto his back.
'If Trevor were here, I’d be radiant and full of purpose…'

Theo hummed. “You know, I’m starting to think you understands that frog because your a saint.”

Harry snorted—but he was smiling.

For now.

___

Dec 14

With so few students left, the house tables were gone. The remaining students sat together at a single long table near the warm hearth.

Ron talked with his mouth full. “D’you think Draco’s getting spoiled rotten right now?”

Theo snorted. “Absolutely. And complaining the whole time.”

Harry smiled into his pumpkin soup. But his smile slipped when Midas quietly croaked and nestled closer.

'You miss your friends,' Midas whispered.

Ron heard none of Midas’ soft murmurs, but he noticed Harry’s expression.
“You alright, mate?”

Harry nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Ron accepted the answer. Midas did not.

'You have not slept well in three days.'

Harry gently tapped Midas’ head. “Shh.”

___

Nov 23 1991

The nightmares weren't stopping.

They started the second night the castle emptied out.

At first, quick flashes:

— The cupboard under the stairs
— Dudley’s fists
— Cold November nights
— Christmas dinners he wasn’t allowed to touch
— Petunia’s voice hissing No. You don’t get presents.

Then came longer dreams.

The kind that left him breathless.

The kind where his stomach remembered hunger like a physical ache.
The kind where he woke sweating, curled in on himself, vision blurry without his glasses.

He never screamed.
He never woke Theo.

He wouldn’t ruin Christmas for anyone.

Midas always woke, crawling up to press his little head against Harry’s cheek.

“You could wake him. They love you.”

Harry shook his head each time.
“No. Don’t bother him. Please.”

Midas obeyed.

Reluctantly.

And in the morning, Harry told jokes.
Built snow forts.
Drank cocoa.

Pretended.

_____

Dec 17 1991

The common room had settled into that strange, echoing quiet it only reached during the holidays.
Most students were gone.
No footsteps in the corridors.
No laughter drifting down from dormitories.
Just the soft hum of the lake pressing against the ancient glass and the crackling, low-burning fire in the grate.

Theo had gone to bed early, worn out from an evening of snowball warfare with the older Slytherins.

Harry stayed in the common room long before curfew, curled on the emerald-green couch closest to the fire. The room was quiet at this hour, shadows rippling softly across the dark stone walls, and the lake outside cast shifting green light over everything.

He had three sheets of parchment spread across his lap—sketches of gift ideas for Snape.
None good enough.
None right.

Midas sat beside him, wrapped in a knitted blanket someone had left out. His tiny golden eyes watched Harry with careful intensity.

'You are fading,' Midas whispered. His voice, 'You do not smile the real smiles anymore.'

Harry’s quill slowed.
Stopped.

He stared at the fire for a long moment before answering.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically. Then he sighed. “It’s just… holidays are weird.”

“Sad?” Midas asked, tilting his head.

“…Yeah,” Harry admitted, barely more than breath.

Midas scooted closer across the couch and leaned into Harry’s side, humming a soft, soothing note.

“My Trevor says love can make sad things softer,” he offered gently.

Harry blinked at him. “…You two talked about that?”

“Often,” Midas said proudly. “He writes poetry about it. Very bad poetry.”

A quiet huff of laughter slipped from Harry—small, real, tired.

He reached down and stroked Midas’s head with the back of his finger, gentle.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “I’ll… be alright.”

But the fire was burning low now.
The lake outside groaned softly with the cold.
And a tight, heavy knot sat deep in Harry’s chest—one that refused to budge.

He set aside his sketchbook and pulled his knees to his chest, staring at the flames, at the ornaments half-finished beside the tree they’d been decorating earlier.

Holidays felt like cold floors.
Thin blankets.
Empty cupboards.
Dark cupboards.

And he didn’t want to drag that into anyone else’s celebrations.

The silence grew heavier.

___

That night, as he sit in bed, Harry thinks, and his thoughts begin to wander.

Slowly, quietly—embarrassed even though no one else was awake—Harry reached into his nightstand and pulled out a small, worn cloth pouch.

His hands shook.

Midas watched curiously as he loosened the drawstrings and tipped three tiny toy soldiers into his palm—little green men, once worn and broken, fixed at the hands of the only adult Harry truly trusts. His protectors. His secret talismans of survival.

He had not taken them out since coming to Hogwarts.

Harry cupped them close, breathing in through his nose as something inside him cracked just slightly.

Midas patted at one with his nubby little hand.

“They protect you?” he whispered.

Harry nodded once.
“…Always.”

He held them tighter, before lining them up across his nightstand and for the first time in weeks, he let himself feel how tired he truly was.

___

Harry woke late the next morning, sunlight glinting faint green through the lake-filtered windows. His chest felt heavy, but at least he’d slept more than usual.

A fluttering sound brought him fully awake.

An owl—Draco’s sleek eagle owl—perched primly at the foot of his bed, a pale envelope tied to its leg.

Harry blinked, sat up, and untied it.
The owl gave a dignified hoot and swept off.

Midas, who had been dozing curled in Harry’s blanket, jolted upright.

“Letter!” he gasped. “Is it from the beautiful one?”

Harry snorted. “Draco, yeah.”

He opened it.

Draco’s handwriting was immaculate, of course.

> Potter,

I expect you’re moping, because that’s what you do when I’m not there to keep the house in order.

Stop it.

I found a new line of potions-grade quills in Diagon Alley. You’ll like them. And Mother says she’s sending you something as well—she wouldn’t tell me what.

Stay out of trouble.

—D.M.

 

Harry couldn’t stop the soft smile tugging at his lips.

“He misses us,” Harry said.

“He misses me,” Midas corrected primly. Then he paused, head tilting. “I am the more important one.

Harry coughed. “Don’t start.”

Midas only hummed thoughtfully.

___

After Draco’s letter was safely tucked away in his trunk—and after Harry had calmed Midas down from writing a dramatic poem about longing—they decided to head out to eat.

Harry trudged through the dungeons on his way to breakfast, shoulders hunched, steps slow. The stones felt colder today, like they were pressing in. He hadn’t slept well again—nightmares clawing at him—and the shadows clung to him like damp cloth.

Midas rode on his shoulder in silence, unusually gentle, leaning against Harry’s neck like a tiny warm anchor.

They were just passing the darker corridor leading to Snape’s private quarters when Harry stopped short.

A Gryffindor third year was crouched outside Snape’s door, wand out, drawing a circle of unstable flickering sparks across the stones. The air shimmered with the kind of magic meant to explode or slime or shock whoever stepped through.

Harry’s heart clenched painfully.

“…No,” he whispered, voice small. “Please don’t.”

The boy looked over, smirk curling across his face.

“Well, well. Little snake himself,” he sneered. “Snape send you to guard his bedroom? How pathetic.”

Harry flinched like he’d been slapped.
“I—I’m not— I just… don’t do that. Please. He lives there.”

“That’s the idea.” The boy stood up, scoffing. “Git deserves it.”

Harry twisted his fingers together, voice trembling.
“He didn’t do anything to you.”

“Oh shut up.” The Gryffindor stepped closer. “Snape’s a miserable bully and everyone knows it. And you—” he jabbed a finger at Harry’s chest “—you’re just sucking up for favoritism. Snape’s little pet. Just like everyone says.”

That hit too close. Harry’s breath stuttered.

“I’m not,” he whispered. “I just… I don’t want him to get hurt.”

The boy laughed—hard.

“What are you gonna do? Run crying to your greasy—”

He never finished.

Midas launched from Harry’s shoulder with a tiny war cry:

‘HYAH!’

He latched onto the boy’s wrist and bit down.

The Gryffindor screamed—swinging his hand around.

Midas went flying, as the boy took off running.

Harry stared in horror.

“M–Midas?? What—what did you DO?!”

Midas hopped proudly back into Harry’s trembling hands.

‘He deserved it, trying to harm your guardian bat. My venom may cause him some irritation though.

Harry’s jaw dropped.

“You—you have VENOM?!”

‘Yes.’ Midas puffed up proudly. ‘You are welcome.’

Harry dragged both hands down his face.

“Oh no… oh no, no, no…”

'It's nonleathal if that helps.'

Harry swallowed hard.
"You know surprisingly it doesn't." He groaned.

'It should only last for a short while.'

“…O-okay. That’s… fine. That’s fine. Totally fine.”

Harry hunched in defeat and turned away, shuffling toward the stairs.

Midas perched on his shoulder again like a smug knight returning to his steed.

‘I will bite him again if he threatens you,’ Midas declared.

Harry squeaked. “No—Midas! You can’t just—just bite people!”

‘Only bad ones.’

“No! That’s not—ugh—please don’t.”

Midas patted Harry’s cheek with a tiny comforting hand.

‘You are safe. I made sure.’

Harry’s eyes stung unexpectedly.

“…Thanks,” he whispered. “I… I know you were only trying to help.”

But as he walked away, he couldn’t stop feeling sorry.

He wanted to protect Snape.

But he didn't want to hurt anyone.

___

Harry's days were spent having fun and exploring alongside Ron and Theo, Midas always close by.

His evenings he spent squirreled way in the library, studying more about Midas.

But the nights were harder.

Much harder.

The snow and laughter couldn’t chase away the dreams that came as soon as the dorm went dark.

Dreams of the cupboard.
Of Christmases spent cold, watching lights outside he wasn’t allowed to look at.
Of hunger so sharp it carved him hollow.
Of Uncle Vernon’s voice, like a strike.

He woke gasping every night.

Sometimes with his hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t cry out.
Sometimes curled so small his ribs ached.
Sometimes with Midas pressing against his neck whispering, “You are safe, you are safe, you are safe.”

Harry never told Theo or Ron.
He never told Snape, though the man watched him more closely every breakfast.

Harry didn’t want to ruin their holidays.
Didn’t want to be a burden.
Didn’t want to be… trouble.

So he smiled.
He laughed.
He joined snowball fights.
He searched gift catalogs.

And the nightmares built up behind his eyes like dark pressure.

___

Dec 22rd 1991

The idea came to Harry suddenly — like a spark catching in the dark.

Snape brewed complicated potions almost every week. And Midas venom… Snape would like it more than anything Harry could buy. It was rare, and special. And he could give it. All he had to do was ask Midas.

The thought warmed him all through breakfast. Even Ron noticed.

“You look weirdly chipper for someone who got hit in the face with a snowball twice,” Ron said, squinting at him suspiciously.

Theo, sitting across from them, snickered. “Three times, actually.”

“Only because you cheated,” Harry said, trying to sound indignant, though he couldn’t stop smiling. He’d had a morning of snowball fights, enchanted sledding with Theo, Ron trying to teach Midas to burrow through drifts like a mole, and laughter — real laughter — that had felt like sunlight in his bones.

But the smile slipped when night fell again.

The nightmares had returned — flashes of complete darkness, a cold voice, rough hands and fists, clutching at empty air, Harry woke shivering, breath caught in his throat, and Midas wriggled up under his chin to comfort him. The python's presence helped, but only a little.

___

Harry didn’t mean to find it — not really. His nightmares had dragged him from sleep, heart in his throat, and he’d wandered until his feet carried him to the silent classroom where the mirror stood under a dusty sheet.

He hesitated only a moment before lifting the cloth.

The mirror glimmered in the moonlight.

“Okay,” Harry whispered to himself. “Just a quick look. Then I’ll go ask Sally. I can do this.”

Midas shifted worriedly against his neck.

But Harry stepped in front of the glass.

And there he was.

But not alone.

Draco stood to his right, Neville to his left — the three of them shoulder-to-shoulder like a little wall of warmth. Harry was holding Midas, who wore a tiny golden crown perched between his eyes. Neville held Trevor, who wore an even tinier one.

Around them were Ron, Theo, Blaise, and Pansy, all smiling like they belonged together — like Harry belonged with them.

But what made the breath leave Harry’s lungs was the figure standing behind him.

Snape.

Hands resting firmly on Harry’s shoulders.
Expression soft, proud — proud — like Harry was… his.

His child.

His family.

Harry’s knees buckled.

“I— I just wanted—” His voice cracked. “I just wanted to give him something good.”

Midas squeezed him tightly. Harry—

Harry pressed his forehead to the cool glass. “Why does it hurt? Why— why does it hurt so much to want things I’ll never have?”

His throat closed. Tears came fast, hot, unstoppable. He covered his mouth to muffle the sob.

He didn’t hear the door open.

Not until a soft, careful voice said:

“Harry?”

Harry jerked around — startled, blinking through tears.

Theo stood in the doorway, wrapped in a too-large Slytherin green jumper, hair mussed like he’d run all the way here. He froze when he saw Harry on the floor.

“I— I woke up and you weren’t in your bed,” Theo said softly, stepping closer. “You were shaking in your sleep earlier. I got worried.”

Harry tried to wipe his face, failing.

“M’sorry,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Theo knelt beside him. “Harry… what happened?”

Harry swallowed hard.

“It’s the nightmares. They’re getting worse.” He hugged his elbows, trying to steady himself. “Every night I see it — all I feel is cold and hunger, its so dark. I… I can’t breathe when I wake up.”

Theo’s expression softened in a way Harry didn’t see often — open, gentle, almost protective.

“You should’ve told me,” Theo murmured. “You don’t have to do this by yourself.”

Harry shook his head. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Theo gave a tiny, humorless laugh. “Harry, I get nightmares too. Half the dorm does. It’s not a bother. It’s being a friend.”

That word made Harry’s throat tighten again.

Theo stood and held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s go back before you freeze in here.”

Harry hesitated only a second before taking it.

Theo pulled him gently to his feet, and Midas wrapped more securely around Harry’s shoulders, flicking his tongue at Theo in quiet greeting.

They walked in silence for a bit, Harry’s steps heavy, Theo matching his pace without comment.

“You don’t have to talk,” Theo said softly, “but… if you ever want to tell me what the nightmares feel like, I’ll listen. Okay?”

Harry nodded. “Okay.”

As they reached the entrance to the Hufflepuff dorms, Theo nudged his shoulder lightly.

“And Harry?” Theo added, a touch of firmness in his voice. “Next time you wake up terrified in the middle of the night— wake me. Or Ron. Or anyone who cares about you. You’re not alone, yeah?”

Harry blinked hard and nodded again.

Theo gave him a small smile — crooked and shy, but real.

“Good. Now let’s get you into bed before Pomona finds us wandering around and gives us detention for ‘reckless nighttime melancholy.’”

Harry snorted a soft laugh despite himself.

Theo smiled wider.

And together, they slipped quietly back into their dorm, Midas curling protectively close as Harry finally, finally let himself breathe again.

___

Dec 23rd 1991

The castle felt quieter than usual, blanketed in the soft hush of falling snow. Most students had already gone home, leaving only scattered footsteps and distant laughter echoing through the halls.

Harry spent the entire day with Ron, Theo, and Midas. Ron had dragged them into a clumsy snowball fight in the courtyard, Theo had insisted on building a snow-snake with icicle fangs, and Midas had hopped circles around them all, leaving tiny webbed prints in the snow.

For a few precious hours, Harry didn’t think about being a nuisance, or being watched, or being wrong in so many people’s eyes. He just… laughed. A small, tired laugh, but real nonetheless.

By the time they were back in the Slytherin dorms, cheeks flushed from cold and warmth in equal measure, the fatigue settled in. Harry changed into his pajamas slowly, movements heavy but content.

Theo was already burrowed under his blankets, mumbling something about frostbite.

Midas sat on Harry’s pillow, blinking his golden eyes.

Harry crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. After a quiet minute, he whispered:

“…Midas?”

The little toad perked up immediately.

‘Yes?’

Harry hesitated, rubbing the cuff of his sleeve between his fingers. “I… um… I was wondering if… I could maybe… have a small vial of your venom? For Snape. As his Christmas present.”

His voice cracked, embarrassed and earnest.
“He means so much to me. I want to give him something that’s actually useful. And your venom—it’s rare, and powerful, and he’d know exactly what to do with it. He’d appreciate it.”

Midas puffed up with pride, chest glowing faintly.

‘Of course. I'm the best gift, but since I'm yours, my venom is a close second.’

Harry startled, then let out a tiny huff of laughter.

"I won't need much—just… enough for him to study. That’d make him happy.”

Midas hopped into Harry’s hand, warm despite his amphibian skin.

‘I will provide it in the morning. Fresh and potent. A noble gift for a noble man.’

Harry felt his throat tighten. “Thank you, Midas. Really.”

The little toad pressed his head against Harry’s thumb in a toad-ish attempt at affection.

‘Sleep well, Harry.’

Harry exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of the moment settle into him.
And for the first time in weeks, sleep came gently.

___

Dec 25th, 12:01 a.m.

The castle was silent.

Not the usual nighttime silence, where distant students whispered under blankets and fireplaces crackled far down the hall.

This was the silence of sleeping stone.
Of snow muffling the world outside.
Of a castle holding its breath.

Harry tightened his scarf around his neck with trembling fingers. Midas perched on his shoulder, unusually quiet, small hands fisted in Harry’s collar.

In one hand, Harry clutched the crystal vial of Midas’s venom — carefully wrapped in cloth and tucked into a small wooden box he’d polished with trembling hands.
In the other, hidden deep in his robe pocket, his fingers curled around the cool shapes of his three toy soldiers.

His protectors.
His courage.
His reminder that he wasn’t alone, not really.

Midas nudged his cheek.

'Small one,' he whispered, 'your hands are shaking.'

Harry swallowed. “I know.”

'You are going to see your guardian,' Midas said gently. 'He likes you. He cares for you.'

Harry’s boots scuffed quietly across the dungeon floor. The torches dimmed behind him one by one.

“He’ll be asleep,” Harry murmured, heart pounding. “Or annoyed. Or both.”

Midas flicked his tongue. 'He will not be angry that you need him.'

Harry didn’t reply.
Didn’t trust himself to.

He reached the heavy black door that led to Snape’s private quarters — a place he’d only been twice. Once injured. Once frightened. Both times Snape had been… there. Stern, yes. Blunt. Difficult.

But safe.

Harry stood there for a long moment, pulse hammering in his throat.

Then he raised his hand and knocked.

One soft knuckle-tap.

Silence.

Harry almost fled.

Then the door opened.

Snape stood in the doorway, hair loose around his shoulders, robes exchanged for a plain dark nightshirt and robe. He looked… tired. Sharper without the classroom lamps. Softer at the edges.

He took in the sight before him:

— Harry, pale and trembling
— Midas clutching his shoulder
— a wrapped box held delicately in his hands
— and tear-blurred eyes Harry hadn’t realized were wet

Snape’s expression changed very slightly.

“Potter,” he said, voice low from sleep. “It is past curfew.”

Harry nearly folded in on himself.

“I— I know, sir, I’m sorry, I just—”

His breath hitched. The words tangled.

Midas patted his cheek. 'Ask him, small one.'

Harry’s voice came out tiny.

“Can I… spend Christmas with you?”

Snape blinked.

Not in annoyance.
Not even in surprise.

In… something else. Something unreadable but not unkind.

Harry’s breath came faster; he clutched his toy soldiers through his pocket, grounding himself.

“I know you probably don’t want— I mean, I know you… you have better things to do, or you want to be alone, or maybe you hate Christmas, or—”

“Harry.”

Snape said his name like a quiet command, and Harry fell silent instantly.

The professor looked at him a long moment — not at the gift, not at Midas, but directly at Harry’s face, at the way he was trembling, at the exhaustion in his eyes. At the hope there too, small and raw.

Then Snape stepped aside and opened the door wider.

“…Come in.”

Harry’s breath left him in a shaky rush.

He stepped inside slowly, almost reverently.

Snape guided the door shut behind him.

The quarters were warm — a quiet, gentle warmth that smelled faintly of cedar and potion herbs. A low fire crackled in the grate. A book lay open on a side table, a half-finished mug of tea beside it.

Midas relaxed instantly, humming at the heat.

Harry stood there, small and uncertain, clutching the wooden box in one hand and his soldiers in the other.

Snape noticed.

“Sit,” he said quietly, gesturing to the sofa before settling across from him in an armchair.

Harry obeyed, shoulders hunched, feet dangling just above the rug.

Snape studied him carefully. Not harshly. Not critically.

“…Why did you come here at this hour?” he asked.

Harry swallowed. His throat felt too tight.

“I… I didn’t want to be alone.”

Snape’s eyes softened — so slightly it might have been the firelight.

Harry continued, voice trembling:

“I know it’s stupid. I know you’re busy. I know I shouldn’t bother you. But everyone’s gone, and Ron’s sleeping with his brothers, and Theo fell asleep early, and the nightmares won’t stop, and I— I just… I didn’t want to be alone tonight. On Christmas.”

Snape let out a slow breath.

“It is not stupid,” he said.

Harry looked up sharply.

Snape leaned forward slightly.

“And you are never a bother.”

Harry’s eyes stung.

Midas croaked softly, 'I told you.'

Harry sniffed hard, rubbing at his face.

“I… I brought you something,” he whispered shakily, setting the small wooden box on the table. “For Christmas.”

Snape looked surprised — truly surprised — but he didn’t touch the box yet. His gaze returned to Harry.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Harry nodded, fingers twisting in his robe.

Snape hesitated a moment, then asked:

“Would you prefer to sleep here tonight?”

Harry froze.

Then nodded so quickly his hair bounced.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Please.”

Snape stood and went to fetch an extra blanket from a chest. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer still:

“You will be safe here.”

Harry’s chest cracked open with relief so sharp it almost hurt.

He curled into the corner of the sofa, Midas nestling under his chin. Snape draped the blanket over him with careful, deliberate hands.

For the first time all holiday…
Harry’s breathing eased.

“Go to sleep, Harry,” Snape murmured quietly. “I will be here.”

Harry’s eyes drifted closed.

Just before he slipped into sleep, he whispered,

“Happy Christmas, … papa...”

Snape paused — then rested a gentle hand on Harry’s hair, just for a moment.

“…Happy Christmas, Harry.”

And Harry slept without nightmares.

Chapter Text

December 25th, 9:45 am

Harry woke slowly.

Not jolting awake.
Not gasping.
Not tearing out of a nightmare with his heart pounding in his throat.

Just… waking.

Warmth pressed around him — real warmth, not the imagined kind his brain used to invent to make cold nights survivable. A blanket tucked around his shoulders. A soft pillow under his cheek. The faint scent of tea and parchment drifting through the air.

The fire still burned low in the hearth.

Midas was curled on Harry’s chest, tiny belly rising and falling with sleep.

Harry blinked, disoriented.

Snape’s sofa.

Snape’s quarters.

The memory of last night washed over him in a soft rush — the trembling, the whispered question, Snape’s quiet “Come in,” the blanket being draped over him, the safety.

He rubbed at his eyes… and froze.

The room was different.

Sometime during the night, without waking him, someone — Snape — had decorated.

Green and silver garlands twined along the mantle.
A small tree stood in the corner, candle-lit and shimmering with carefully placed ornaments.
Multiple enchanted snow-globes sat above the fireplace, drifting lazy flakes behind its glass. Sitting atop the coffee table was his little soldiers and right next to them Snapes gift.

It wasn’t extravagant.
It wasn’t loud or gaudy.
It was… thoughtful. Deliberate. The kind of Christmas meant for one person, not a crowd.

And beneath the tree…

Presents.
Several of them. Wrapped in a variety of papers..

Harry stared.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Good morning.”

Harry jerked his head toward the voice —

Snape was standing in the doorway to the kitchen alcove, sleeves rolled up, a steaming mug in one hand and a small tray in the other.

He wasn’t scowling.
He wasn’t stiff.
His expression… Harry couldn’t quite name it. It wasn’t a smile — Snape didn’t really smile — but his eyes had softened, gentled, in a way Harry had never seen before.

“I trust you slept well?” Snape asked quietly.

Harry nodded, voice thick. “Y-Yes, sir.”

Snape stepped closer.

“I thought,” he said, setting the tray down on the low table, “that breakfast would be appropriate before presents.”

“P—presents?” Harry echoed weakly.

Snape’s mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

“You are aware of the holiday we are observing, are you not?”

Harry flushed scarlet.

"I took the liberty of also bringing the one delivered to the common room here aswell."

Midas stretched, blinked awake, and hopped onto Harry’s shoulder.

‘He made this for you, small one,’ Midas whispered. 'All of this.'

Harry swallowed hard, staring at the tree, at the garlands, at the glowing room that felt nothing like the cold cupboard he used to wake in on Christmas morning.

He looked back at Snape.

“You… you didn’t have to do all this.”

Snape’s gaze shifted, unreadable, then softened again.

“I am aware.”

Harry’s chest tightened.

Snape nodded toward the tray.

“Eat. Slowly,” he added pointedly, though the tone was gentler than usual. “I am not spending Christmas morning with you retching into a cauldron because you inhaled your eggs.”

Harry let out a tiny, startled laugh — and Snape’s eyes warmed at the sound.

The breakfast was simple but warm: eggs, toast, soft fruit, and a small bowl for Midas containing sun-warmed insects (which Snape somehow, impossibly, had thought to prepare).

Midas nearly burst with delight.
Harry couldn't hide his smile, "he's amazing," he whispered to Midas

Snape paused mid-sip of tea, giving Harry a surprised look.

“…I suppose.”

Harry choked on his toast, laughing.

After breakfast, Snape gestured toward the tree.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

___

Harry sat cross-legged at the base of the tree, the soft glow of the candles reflecting in his eyes. Midas perched in his lap like a tiny guardian.

Snape settled in his armchair, not looming, not lecturing — simply present. Watchful. A steady presence in the quiet warmth of the room.

Harry lifted the first package.

Silver wrapping, neat corners, unmistakably expensive parchment seal.

“Draco,” he murmured.

He peeled the paper back carefully — too carefully — revealing a polished black box. Inside, nestled in protective velvet, lay a necklace.

A thin chain of silver. And hanging from it: a small, intricately carved crest.

But not a crest Harry recognized.

A serpent curled in elegant spirals, its body forming protective loops around an engraved shield. Emerald flecks shimmered faintly along its scales.

Harry blinked, tilting his head.

“I… don’t… recognize this.”

As he lifted it slightly, Snape’s breath hitched — a minuscule pause only someone watching closely would have noticed.

Harry looked up at him. “Do you know it, sir?”

Snape’s expression softened almost instantly. But not completely.

“It is… a family crest, many wizarding family have them,” he said carefully. "It... not common to gift them. He must care deeply for you.”

Harry flushed scarlet, holding the necklace like it was fragile gold.

Midas leaned close.
‘He likes you,’ he whispered helpfully.

Harry spluttered. “Midas!”

Snape coughed sharply into his tea.

Harry set Draco’s gift aside reverently.

Next was a lumpy, unevenly wrapped parcel. Harry recognized the messy handwriting immediately.

“Oh— Ron.”

He tugged the paper open and pulled out a hand-knitted jumper — deep green with a single embroidered “H” stitched in shimmering silver.

It contained a letter explaining that Ron's mother had insisted on knitting him one.

Harry held it to his chest, stunned.

“No one’s ever… made something for me before.”

Snape looked at the jumper for a moment longer than necessary, but said nothing.

Harry smiled shyly and set it beside Draco’s gift.

The next box was small and tidy, tied with twine.

“Neville.”

Inside were three high-quality potion vials — crystal-clear, sturdy, and etched with tiny botanical designs. Expensive. Thoughtful.

Harry turned one over in his hands, marveling. They have a tag on the bottom advertising, 'unbreakable.'

Harry laughed, “He remembered I kept breaking mine…”

Snape’s eyebrow lifted the slightest amount. Approval.

Then a small box fell from the wrapping.

Harry opened it — and immediately burst into a laugh.

“Oh Merlin — Trevor sent Midas something.”

Midas perked up instantly.

Harry handed him the tiny square bundle. Midas unwrapped it with dramatic flair, revealing:

— a pressed flower
— a sprig of mint
— and a very wobbly poem written in cramped handwriting

Midas clutched his treasures reverently.

‘He truly is a poet,’ Midas declared, puffing up.

Snape muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Dear heavens…”

His second to last gift was from Pansy, a delicate green quill that auto-corrected spelling even if the writer did not.

Harry’s smile grew with every package — soft, stunned, overwhelmed.

Then he reached the last one.

Snape’s.

Black paper. Silver ribbon. Simple. Severe.

But the moment Harry touched it, something warm fluttered low in his chest.

Snape watched him quietly — not tense, but alert, as though Harry’s reaction mattered more than he would ever admit aloud.

Harry swallowed.

His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted Snape's gift into his lap.

___

Harry stared down at Snape’s gift.

The box wasn’t heavy — not like something with a potion kit or a set of books inside — but it felt heavy, somehow. Important.

With a small breath, he lifted the lid.

Inside were papers.

A stack of them.

Neatly organized, clipped together, marked with Ministry seals and Hogwarts crests. Some were new and crisp. Others had clearly been handled many times, corners softened from repeated sorting.

Harry frowned in confusion and lifted the top sheet.

His eyes skimmed the heading.

Then froze.

“Emergency… Guardianship Petition,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

For a moment he thought he’d misread it. Thought maybe this was something else, something unrelated.

But every page beneath it held his name.

Harry James Potter.

Paragraphs of legal text.

Attached reports.

Character assessments.

Witness statements.

And handwritten notes in Snape’s unmistakable sharp script.

Harry blinked hard.

“What… what is this?”

Snape did not answer immediately.

He looked… different. Not his calm, collected professor-self. Not his sarcastic, clipped classroom self.

He looked—

Nervous.

Actually nervous.

His hands were folded too tightly, knuckles pale. His eyes flickered to Harry, then away, then back again — as if unsure whether Harry would bolt or break.

At last he exhaled.

“I began,” he said quietly, “at the start of term.”

Harry’s heart thudded once, painfully.

“To do what?” he whispered.

Snape’s jaw tightened — not in anger, but in a rare moment of vulnerability.

“To petition for custody.”

The words settled slowly, like falling snow.

Harry stared at him blankly.

Snape continued, voice low, careful:

“I needed to get you away from those people.” There was a controlled edge to his tone, a fury held carefully behind glass. “I suspected neglect. I suspected worse. You all but confirmed it. But suspicion alone is not sufficient for the Ministry. One must provide evidence.”

Harry swallowed, throat painfully tight.

Snape nodded faintly toward the stack of documents.

“So I gathered it.”

Harry flipped through the pages with shaking hands.

His primary school’s record notes: underweight for age, wearing clothing several sizes too large, frequent unexplained injuries.

Letters from Hogwarts staff — McGonagall, Pomfrey — confirming the malnourishment and health concerns discovered upon his arrival.

Snape’s own detailed, fiercely thorough reports.

Harry’s breath hitched.

“You… you did all this?”

Snape’s gaze softened.

“Yes.”

“But… why?”

Snape looked almost startled at the question.

“Because you needed someone,” he said simply. “Because you were not safe where you were. Because no child should arrive at school half-starved and terrified of making noise.” His voice dropped lower. “And because you came to me. Repeatedly. Without hesitation. Even when you were frightened.”

Harry curled inward slightly, fingers trembling around the papers.

Snape pressed on, quieter still:

“You chose me long before I realized what that meant.”

Harry’s breath broke.

Snape leaned forward in his chair, hands unclasping at last.

“The Ministry has accepted every piece of evidence. Albus was… irritated,” he added dryly, “but he does not have grounds to interfere. All that remains is the final consent.”

Harry blinked rapidly.

“The… final…?”

Snape nodded once.

“It must be your choice,” he said gently. “Yours alone. No one can sign it for you.”

Harry stared down at the line printed on the last page:

The child affirms that they wish to be placed under the guardianship of Severus Tobias Snape.

His vision blurred.

Midas pressed his tiny forehead to Harry’s jaw, whispering softly:

‘He asked the world so he could keep you safe.’

Harry swallowed a sob.

Snape watched him, expression open in a way Harry had never seen — anxious, yes, and uncertain, but also something warm beneath it. Something fragile.

He cleared his throat.

“Harry,” he said, voice steady but soft, “I will not be offended if you refuse. I will not… withdraw care. I will not send you away. The choice is entirely—”

“Snape?”

Snape stopped.

Harry wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

Then met Snape’s gaze head-on.

“Do you want me?” he whispered.

The question hit Snape like a physical blow.

He inhaled sharply — quietly, but enough for Harry to notice. His eyes gentled further.

“Yes,” Snape said, without hesitation. “More than you know.”

Harry’s breath shook.

He looked down at the papers again.

Then back at the man who had given him a warm room, a Christmas tree, breakfast, safety.

A home.

Harry held the stack to his chest like it was made of gold.

And whispered—

“…I think I want this too.”

The fire crackled softly.

Snape did not move closer.

But something in his face eased — a tension undone, a breath he’d been holding for months finally released.

They sat there—

Quiet.

Warm.

Safe.

Together.

___

Harry’s hands shook as he set the stack of documents on his lap again.

His fingers hovered over the last page — the signature line. His name already printed beneath it, waiting. Asking.

He looked up at Snape, who watched him with that same careful, steady stillness — the kind you use around frightened animals or precious glass.

“Are you certain?” Snape murmured. “You do not have to decide today. Or tomorrow. Or—”

Harry picked up the quill.

Snape fell silent.

Very, very slowly, Harry lowered the tip to the parchment.

His breathing hitched.

His eyes blurred with tears he didn’t try to stop.

And in small, careful letters… He signed his name.

Harry James Potter.

The quill wobbled near the end because his hands were shaking so badly, but he finished it.

He sat there for a moment, staring at what he’d done — the ink, the signature, the choice.

His chest broke open.

A small sob escaped — but it wasn’t sad.

Not even close.

Snape inhaled sharply, almost startled, as Harry pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, shoulders trembling.

“Harry,” Snape said softly, rising from his chair. “It is alright—”

Harry broke.

Not in fear. Not in panic.

In relief.

He launched forward before he realized he had moved — small arms circling Snape’s waist, face shoved into the fabric of his robe.

Snape stiffened— Then melted, just slightly, hands coming to rest on Harry’s back with slow, deliberate care.

Harry clung to him.

“Snape—” His voice cracked. “I— I—”

He couldn’t get the words out.

Snape’s hand slid up, settling gently at the back of his head.

“You are safe,” he murmured. “You have nothing to fear. Not anymore.”

Harry sobbed again, pressing closer.

“C-can I…” he stammered, the question trembling out of him like a fragile thing, “…can I call you—”

He swallowed hard.

“…papa?”

Snape froze.

Completely.

And then—

Very quietly, very carefully—

“You already have.”

Harry gasped.

His head snapped up, eyes wide and wet. “L-last night? I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know if— I wasn’t sure if—”

Snape’s hand stayed on his hair, steady and warm.

“You may,” Snape said gently, a softness in his tone Harry had never heard before. “If that is what you wish to call me… then I would be honored.”

Something in Harry shattered and healed all at once.

He clung to Snape again, crying openly now, but the tears were warm, light, unheavy.

Loved.

Wanted.

Snape held him through every trembling breath.

___

Harry’s breathing finally steadied, tapering into soft little hiccups. Snape waited until the last of the tremors eased before loosening his embrace—never pulling away fully, simply giving Harry space to breathe.

Harry wiped at his face again, cheeks warm and blotchy.
His eyes drifted to the coffee table.

“…I still have your gift to give you,” he whispered.

Snape blinked, surprised. “Harry, you’ve given me quite enough—”

Harry shook his head quickly.
“No. This one I… I really wanted you to have.”

He moved to the table, retrieving the small wooden box sitting beside his toy soldiers. He held it carefully in both hands, then walked back to Snape, offering it with shy solemnity.

Snape accepted it, his expression unreadable but soft.

Harry fidgeted with his sleeve as Snape lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on a cushion of cotton, gleamed a crystal vial.
Gold. Opalescent. Warm-looking even in the cool morning light.

Snape inhaled sharply.

“Midas’s venom,” he murmured. “Refined. Stabilized. And in a… highly unusual concentration.” He studied the swirling gold with reverent care. “This is priceless.”

Harry flushed, ducking his head. “Midas… helped. I asked him the other night. He said it was okay.”

Snape’s eyes flicked to Midas—who sat proudly on Harry’s shoulder, chin lifted like a king surveying his domain.

‘You deserve good things,’ Midas said with smug certainty.

Snape’s lips twitched at the corners—almost a smile.
Almost.

“Harry,” Snape said quietly, turning his gaze back to him, “this is extraordinary. I am… honored. Truly.”

Warmth rushed through Harry’s chest.

Snape closed the box with gentle hands and set it beside the stack of signed papers.

Then he reached for the documents again—Harry’s signature at the bottom still slightly glistening.

“Only one task remains,” Snape murmured.
He summoned an envelope with a graceful flick of his wand.
Tucked the papers inside.
Sealed it with green wax bearing his personal sigil.

Then he stood, moving to the small perch by the window where a sleek black school owl waited, feathers fluffed against the cold.

Snape stroked its head once—stiffly, as though unused to affection even toward birds—before tying the envelope to its leg.

“Deliver to the Ministry. Department of Wizarding Family Services,” he instructed.

The owl hooted, hopped once, then took off through the narrow window slit, wings beating against the crisp winter air.

Harry watched it go, heart caught somewhere between his throat and chest.

Snape exhaled slowly.

“It is done,” he said softly. “By this evening, you will be legally under my guardianship.”

Harry proceeded to put on his new necklace, missing the protective look his new papa shoots him. And cleaned up the wrapping mess.

Harry felt something bloom inside him—warm, fierce, impossibly gentle.

But before he could fully process it—

BANG. BANG. BANG.
A thunderous knock shook the door, rattling its hinges.

Harry startled.
Midas puffed up, croaking defensively.

Snape turned sharply toward the sound, expression shifting in an instant—softness folding away, replaced by his razor-edged, dangerous calm.

His voice dropped to a cold, silken warning.

“Stay behind me.”

Chapter Text

The knock boomed again — firm, but not frantic.

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

Harry instinctively pressed closer, Midas poking his head out from Harry’s collar with a suspicious chirp.

Snape crossed the room with long strides and pulled open the door.

“Headmaster.”

Dumbledore stood on the threshold, wearing deep plum robes dusted with little embroidered snowflakes. His expression was warm, kindly — almost grandfatherly.

“Ah, Severus,” he said with a soft smile. “A very merry Christmas to you.”

Snape did not move aside.

“Is there something you require?”

Dumbledore’s eyes drifted past him, landing on Harry with gentle surprise.

“Harry, my boy. There you are. I wondered where you’d got to — I noticed your bed hadn’t been slept in.”

Harry tensed, but Snape immediately angled his body so Harry was half-shielded behind him.

“He is spending the holiday here,” Snape said evenly. “Under my supervision.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore said, hands folded, smile never wavering. “Of course. Perfectly reasonable. I merely wished to check on his wellbeing.”

His eyes twinkled at Harry, warm… and appraising.

“I do hope you’re enjoying your Christmas morning?”
Harry nodded sheepishly.

“Good, good… We so rarely get quiet days at Hogwarts, don’t we?” Dumbledore mused. “Especially with so many… delicate places in the castle.”

Snape’s shoulders stiffened.

Dumbledore continued mildly, as though commenting on the weather.

“Do remember, Harry,” he said pleasantly, “the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is still strictly off limits. Very dangerous, that one. Best to leave it be entirely.”

Harry blinked.
“…Yes, sir.”

Dumbledore’s smile warmed even further.

“Of course, of course. I know how… naturally curious young minds can be.”
He tapped the side of his nose playfully.
“Sometimes the very things we’re told to avoid are precisely the things we long to understand. Human nature.”

Snape’s voice cut in — sharp, controlled.

“Headmaster.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said quickly, raising his hands, “merely a gentle reminder. Nothing more.”

But his eyes flicked back to Harry again, purposeful and bright.

“I’ll leave you both to your morning,” he said at last. “Harry — should you have questions about anything mysterious in the castle, you’re always welcome to seek answers from me… or elsewhere.”

Harry frowned, confused.

Snape stepped forward just enough to make the message unmistakable.

“Good day, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore inclined his head, still smiling — but there was something sharper beneath it now.

“A very good day to you both.”

He turned and walked away, footsteps soft on the stone.

Snape shut the door with a controlled, final click.

Harry swallowed, looking up at him.

“…Papa? Was he—?”

“Yes,” Snape said immediately, voice low and cold with anger he rarely showed. “He was attempting to entice you toward something dangerous.”

Harry felt Midas press against his neck.

‘The sparkly one is sneaky,’ Midas whispered. ‘I do not like him.’

Snape exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You will stay far away from that corridor,” he said firmly. “Dumbledore’s suggestions are not to be followed. Not now. Not ever, where your safety is concerned.”

Harry nodded, leaning against him.

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Snape softened, just slightly, resting a hand on Harry’s back.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I intend to keep you safe — no matter whose plans I must disrupt to do so.”

___

The Great Hall shimmered with floating candles and sparkling frost charms as the school gathered for the Christmas feast. Because so many students had gone home for the holidays, the staff had pushed all the House tables together into one long table running down the center.

Harry slipped into a seat between Theo and Ron. Theo gave him a small, thoughtful nod. His eyes flickered toward the necklace resting against Harry’s collar—the one he had gotten from Draco that morning. For a heartbeat, surprise flickered across Theo’s face, sharp and knowing. But he said nothing—just shifted as though he’d filed the information away for later.

Ron, already elbow-deep in roast potatoes, huffed. “Wish I could’ve gone with Mum and Dad to Romania. Charlie said they got a nesting pair from the reserve in Norway! Biggest Ridgebacks he’s ever seen.” His face lit up with a mix of envy and excitement. “Imagine spending Christmas around dragons…”

Harry smiled faintly. “Bet it’s loud.”

“Loud?” Ron said, scoffing. “It’d be brilliant!”

Before Harry could reply, a sound like a distant storm rolled overhead.

Wings.

Hundreds of them.

Students looked up as owls—every shape, size, and color—flooded through the enchanted ceiling, dropping urgent-looking papers tied with red twine. Each carried the unmistakable seal of The Daily Prophet: Special Edition.

A Slytherin girl two seats down gasped as one dropped onto her plate. Others fell like snow along the table until Harry felt one land directly in front of him.

Conversations died.

As pages were torn open, a chorus of shocked whispers rippled like a wave:

“Snape—?”
“Adopted who—?”
“Harry Potter?!”
“Snape’s a Slytherin! But Harry’s a Slytherin too...—Does this mean—?”

Harry’s own hand trembled as he unfolded the front page.

A moving photograph of him and Snape—taken from Snape's private quarters that morning—weighed heavily at the top. Snape’s hand hovered near Harry’s shoulder in the picture, protective but stiff, as though unsure what to do with the gesture.

The headline shouted across the page:

SEVERUS SNAPE GRANTED EMERGENCY CUSTODY OF THE BOY-WHO-LIVED

Harry felt his cheeks burn. His stomach fluttered with something between fear and overwhelming happiness.

Theo stared openly now, eyes wide. Ron’s jaw dropped. “Blimey, mate. Snape? Really?”

At the staff table, McGonagall’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Flitwick squeaked. Hagrid blinked like someone had hit him with a Stunning Spell.

And Dumbledore—

Dumbledore’s pleasant smile faltered.

Just a flicker.
Barely a crack in the mask.

But Harry saw it.

So did Snape, who sat rigidly in his seat, expression smoothed into something unreadable—but his hand twitched toward his wand, as though bracing for a blow.

The headmaster clasped his hands, forcing a grandfatherly smile. “My, my,” he said lightly, loud enough for the nearest staff to hear. “The Prophet has its little surprises.”

But his eyes—blue and cold as glacier water for the briefest second—slashed toward Snape and Harry with unmistakable irritation.

Theo leaned toward Harry, whispering, “Well. That explains why he looks… happier this morning.”

Ron blinked. “Mate… are you okay?”

Harry swallowed hard. “Yeah. I—I think so.”

Because suddenly he wasn’t just “Harry Potter,” some orphan stuck with uncaring people.

He was wanted.

He had a home.

And even with the hall buzzing, with eyes fixed on him and whispers swirling like smoke, Harry felt something warm and steady under it all—

A promise.

Snape’s promise.

___

As the last plates cleared and the hall slowly emptied, Harry exchanged a glance with Theo. Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder on their way out.

“Get me if anything else mad happens,” Ron said with a lopsided grin. “You know—with Snape as your… dad now, it probably will.”

Harry laughed under his breath. “Probably.”

“Night, mate. Night, Theo.”

“Goodnight, Ron,” Theo said, offering a polite nod.

The Slytherins split off down their staircase, footsteps echoing in the cooler underground air. Theo walked beside Harry, hands in his pockets, thoughtful, but not prying. Whatever questions he had, he kept them respectfully to himself.

When they entered their dorm room, something immediately caught Harry’s eye.

A package.

Wrapped in deep forest-green paper, neatly tied with silver twine, sitting in the center of his bed.

It wasn’t there that morning.

Theo blinked. “That wasn’t there before.”

Harry shook his head. “No.”

He stepped closer, fingertips brushing the twine—but he didn’t open it. Something told him to wait. To be cautious. To think. Christmas at Hogwarts had been full of surprises already, and Harry wasn’t sure if this one was meant to be pleasant.

Theo sat on his own bed, watching quietly but not interfering. “Want me to stay awake?”

Harry glanced at the unopened gift, then shook his head. “No. It’s fine. I’ll look later.”

Theo nodded. “Wake me if it’s something horrible.”

Harry snorted softly and pulled on his pajamas, but his eyes kept flicking back to that package.

He couldn’t help it.

___

Meanwhile

Every professor had been summoned, and the room thrummed with tension. Books rustled restlessly on their shelves; portraits whispered among themselves. Fawkes watched silently from his perch.

Snape stood rigid, cloak somehow bellowing behind him despite the still air of the room. His jaw was clenched, hands at his sides.

Dumbledore faced him with an expression that was not kind.

Not tonight.

“Severus,” Dumbledore said, voice deceptively calm, “you have acted recklessly.”

“I acted,” Snape hissed, “because for ten years no one else did.”

McGonagall’s face was pinched with worry. “Albus… perhaps we should proceed with caution—”

“Caution?” Snape snapped. “Potter came to this school bruised, starved, and terrified. Caution has served him quite poorly so far.”

Flitwick spoke up, unusually stern. “The Prophet made it very clear that the Ministry has already approved the arrangement.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said sharply, “because Severus deliberately circumvented my authority.”

Snape’s eyes burned. “Your authority is not above Harry’s safety.”

A storm crossed Dumbledore’s face, faint but chilling. “You have put the entire school at risk. Your… attachment… clouds your judgment.”

Snape stiffened. “My attachment is none of your concern.”

“Oh, but it is,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Because it compromises the greater plan.”

The room fell silent.

Sprout frowned. “Greater plan? Albus, what exactly—”

Dumbledore raised a hand, silencing her. His gaze stayed locked on Snape.

“You will undo this, Severus.”

“No.”

“You will relinquish guardianship.”

“I will not.”

“You will be dismissed from Hogwarts if you refuse.”

Snape’s lips curled into something cold and lethal. “I anticipated that.” He stepped forward, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “If you attempt to force my hand, I will resign—and take Harry with me.”

Several teachers gasped.

“You wouldn’t,” Dumbledore said, eyes narrowing.

Snape’s voice turned soft, poisonous. “I would leave this country tonight.”

Fawkes gave a low, worried trill.

“And you know,” Snape continued, “that the Ministry will not stop me. The adoption is legal. Binding. You have no authority to undo it.”

Dumbledore’s hands tightened on his robes, knuckles pale.

The room was still. No one breathed.

Snape took a step closer, eyes burning with fierce, furious loyalty.

“If you want Harry to remain at Hogwarts,” he said, “you will not interfere. You will not manipulate him. And you will never again leave him in danger for the sake of your schemes.”

Dumbledore’s voice was cold as ice.

“You are playing a dangerous game, Severus.”

Snape lifted his chin.

“I’m protecting my son.”

The words hit the room like a spell.

McGonagall put a hand over her mouth, eyes shining. Flitwick looked as though he might cheer. Hooch’s jaw dropped.

Dumbledore’s face—old, sharp, and furious—was unreadable.

The meeting ended in crackling silence.

___

Harry didn’t touch the gift again that night.

He dreamed lightly, uneasily, waking every so often to stare across the dorm at the package sitting innocently at the foot of his bed. It felt wrong. Heavy in a way he couldn’t explain. Not like a normal Christmas present at all.

So the moment Theo left for breakfast, Harry scooped the unopened gift into his arms and made his way through the chilly corridors toward Snape’s quarters.

He still wasn’t used to knocking on that door.

Still wasn’t used to how safe it felt when it opened.

He raised his fist—

The door opened before he touched it.

Snape stood there, already awake, already dressed.

But… different.

His usually loose hair was pulled back into a low, neat bun at the nape of his neck. The severe classroom robes were replaced with fitted potion-work clothes — dark, close to the skin, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, faint traces of powdered thyme and crushed moonstone on the fabric. His posture was softer too, shoulders not as rigid.

He blinked in mild surprise.

“Harry?”

Harry clutched the package tighter against his chest. “C-Can I come in?”

Snape’s eyes flicked to the gift, then to Harry’s face — assessing, careful.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Of course.”

Harry stepped inside, almost sheepishly, like he was bringing something dangerous into a safe place. Snape closed the door behind him and gestured toward the sofa.

“What troubles you?” he asked, voice low and warm in the quiet room.

Harry set the package on the table between them.

“This was on my bed last night,” he whispered. “And I… I don’t know who it’s from. I didn’t want to open it alone.”

Snape went still.

Dangerously still.

“May I?” he asked quietly.

Harry nodded.

Snape sat beside him — not close enough to crowd, but close enough that Harry felt steadier. He untied the silver twine with slow, deliberate movements, eyes sharp and wary. The paper came away with a soft rustle.

Inside was a plain wooden box.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Snape opened the lid.

They both stared.

“…Cloth?” Harry murmured.

A soft, silvery fabric lay inside, weightless-looking, shimmering faintly under the torchlight. Snape touched it carefully with two fingers, testing the weave, the runes sewn into the lining.

His brow furrowed.

“This…” he murmured, “…is no ordinary textile.”

Harry swallowed. “Is it dangerous?”

Snape shook his head. “No. At least… I do not believe so.”

Something else rested beneath the cloak.

A folded letter.

Snape hesitated. “May I?”

Harry nodded.

Snape handed it to him, letting Harry open it himself.

Harry unfolded the parchment.

The handwriting hit him immediately — elegant, looping, unmistakably old-fashioned.

My dear boy,
Your father left this in my possession before he died.
It is time it was returned to you.
Use it well.
— Albus Dumbledore

Harry stared.

His breath caught.

“My—my dad…?” he whispered.

Snape inhaled sharply beside him, surprise clearly genuine. “James Potter owned… this?” He touched the fabric again. “An Invisibility Cloak. A true one.”

Harry blinked rapidly. “A… real cloak? Not just a spell?”

“A rare artifact,” Snape said, voice low with astonishment he didn’t bother to hide. “And one he wished for you to have.”

Harry swallowed, fingers tracing the cloak’s edge.

“So… it’s mine.”

Snape’s gaze softened. “Yes. It belongs to you.”

Harry looked up at him, uncertain. “Should I… keep it?”

Snape considered carefully — then nodded once.

“Yes. But only under the condition that you swear to use it with exceptional caution.” His voice gentled further. “Especially now.”

Harry nodded quickly. “I promise.”

Snape tied the cloak back into the box, leaving it loosely folded so Harry could touch it if he wanted. His shoulders relaxed slightly now that the mystery proved harmless—well, mostly harmless.

Harry hesitated, then asked softly, “Did you know my dad had this?”

Snape exhaled through his nose. “No.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, more honest:

“If I had known… I would have made certain it found its way to you sooner.”

Harry’s chest tightened.

He huffed a shaky laugh. “I guess… I guess I should probably thank Dumbledore for giving it back.”

Snape’s jaw clenched, but his voice remained even. “You may thank him if you wish. But do not mistake intent for kindness.”

Harry blinked up at him, surprised by the gentle caution rather than anger.

Snape met his gaze steadily.

“You bring anything into these quarters that unsettles you,” he said softly. “Anything. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded.

“Yes, papa.”

Snape’s expression slipped — that soft, barely-there warmth he kept only for Harry.

He reached out and placed a steady hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Good.”

___

The last few days of break were spent having fun with his friends and quality time with his papa.

___

Dec 27

Snape stood at his worktable, grinding a pale green herb Harry didn’t recognize. His bun had come half-loose; a strand of hair kept falling over his cheek.

Harry sat nearby, carefully labeling empty potion vials Neville had gifted him.

“How do you get the labels so straight?” Snape asked without looking up.

Harry blinked. “Um… I just… try?”

Snape hummed thoughtfully.
“Meticulous. Good.”

Harry ducked his head, hiding a smile.

Midas, on the table between them, announced proudly,
‘I can label things too.’
He slapped a sticker squarely across Snape’s sleeve.

Snape froze.

“...Thank you.”

Harry nearly fell off his chair laughing.

___

Dec 28

Ron was screaming.

Not in pain — in betrayal.

“THEO, YOU LITTLE SNAKE— YOU SAID WE WERE STOPPING FOR A TRUCE—”

Theo hurled another snowball directly at Ron’s face with perfect deadpan aim.
“I lied.”

Harry laughed as he helped Midas make tiny snowballs, which the toad launched with supernatural accuracy.

One pelted Theo in the ear.

‘Victory!’ Midas cheered.

Ron staggered dramatically. “He fights like a demon! Harry, what are you feeding him?”

Harry’s grin widened. “Confidence.”

___

Dec 29

Harry sat nestled on the sofa in Snape’s quarters, the invisibility cloak draped across his lap like liquid moonlight. He traced the edge again and again.

Snape sat near the fire, reading, until he looked up and spoke gently.

“Does it trouble you?”

Harry shook his head. “I… like having something that was Dad’s. I just… wish I knew why he left it with Dumbledore instead of keeping it close... It could've saved them.”

Snape’s eyes softened.

“There are many questions you will one day deserve answers to,” he murmured. “I promise you, Harry — none of them will belong to Dumbledore alone.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Thank you, papa.”

Snape pretended to continue reading, but Harry saw the faintest smile.

___

Dec 30

Theo sits stiffly in Snape’s armchair, a book in his lap, looking like a cat who wandered into the wrong house and refuses to admit it.

Snape stands at the worktable, measuring ingredients.

Theo coughs delicately.
“…Professor Snape?”

“Yes, Mr. Nott?”

Theo’s eyes flick to Harry, then back to Snape.
“Harry says you make the best hot chocolate at Hogwarts.”

Snape freezes.

Harry looks horrified. “Theo—!”

Theo nods solemnly.
“I would like to verify this claim.”

There is a long, long silence.

Snape sets down his stirrer.
“…Very well.”

Ten minutes later, Theo is sipping a mug with the look of someone experiencing religious revelation.

Harry tries not to laugh.
Snape pretends he isn’t pleased.

___

Dec 31

Harry sat cross-legged by the fire, sorting potion vials.

Snape returned from the back room, setting a cup of peppermint tea beside Harry.

“You are unusually quiet tonight,” Snape observed gently.

Harry shrugged. “I… I don’t want break to end.”

Snape lowered himself onto the sofa, thoughtful.

“Change does not mean loss,” he said quietly. “You will see less of me, but I will make all the time I can for you.”

Harry looked up at him — really looked.

“I know,” he whispered. "I'm so happy I have you.”

Snape’s breath caught just slightly — so slightly Harry almost missed it.

But he didn’t.

Snape reached out, resting a warm hand on the back of Harry’s neck.

“And you always will.”

Harry leaned into the touch with a small, grateful sigh.