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The Sorting had just ended and everyone was not-so-patiently waiting for Professor Dumbledore to summon the food so they could eat. Instead, he stands with grin and announces they’d be starting something new this year.

“People change,” he says in his all-knowing voice, “especially during adolescence. For that reason, we will be beginning a new tradition today: 5^th year re-Sorting.” Oh, of course, it had to be Harry’s year. Couldn’t be fourth years—oh, no, that’d be too easy. And with the pink toad from his hearing—trial?—here, this year already is lined up to be absolutely no-good.

“Students will be called in alphabetical order,” Professor McGonagall says, “When you hear your name, you will step up to the stool and I will place the Hat on your head. As for your uniforms, they will change as they did in first year. Madame Malkin was quite kind to help us with this.

“Now, Abbot, Hannah!”

“No, no, no,” Harry starts to chant under his breath.

“Calm down, mate, it’ll be fine. I mean, ‘Mione might get moved to Ravenclaw, but we’ll have no problems.”

“Ron’s right, Harry,” Hermione smiles at him, “you’re the bravest person I know.” Harry glances around, nodding like he’s convinced, and waits for Ron to turn away.

He leans in to whisper in Hermione’s ear, “I had to practically fight the Hat not to be in Slytherin first year. I don’t think it’ll fall for it again.”

“It’s the traits you value, Harry, not the traits you embody,” Hermione reminds him, “that’s why I’m likely to end up back in Gryffindor, no matter what Ron says. I value courage and chivalry more than intelligence.”

Harry lets himself be comforted by the words, but struggles to decide what traits he values most in his mind. He’s barely listening to the re-Sorting—most people are ending up back where they started, with only a few switches. Mostly Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws into each other’s Houses.

Honesty is a deal breaker for him. If someone is a liar, he won’t abide their friendship. But, if he’s being honest, hard-working doesn’t exactly describe him. Harry knows it’s important, but magic comes easily to him—aside from Potions—so working hard isn’t something he does unless he absolutely must to reach his goal. So he won’t get Hufflepuff.

Intelligence and wit are important, too, Harry knows. Hermione is incredible. But Harry wouldn’t classify himself as ‘smart’. Readings and essays are hard for him, which is why he relies heavily on the theory sections of class to support his grades. And why he’ll likely never get ‘O’s in his classes. No, Ravenclaw is out.

Hermione is called and returns smiling reassuringly at him. He pays it no mind, but smiles back, pleased for her. Harry returns to his musings.

Courage, daring, nerve—to be honest, he’s finding it overrated. And it’s that knowledge that scares him the most. He doesn’t value courage anymore; at least, not in himself. After first year, riding the high of saving the world from Voldemort, he just knew Gryffindor was the perfect House for him. After the Basilisk, he hesitated a moment, but remembered how good it had felt to know that he had saved Ginny. How happy everyone around him was and how much they loved him for it. After Remus, he found it a little harder to put nerve at the top. And after last year… well, any other house would suit him better, to be honest. He wants truth more than courage. Knowledge more than nerve. Self-preservation over daring.

And therein lies the problem. Self-preservation, at this point, is his most important value. He wants to survive this war. And ambition is right there next to it, with his desire to defeat Voldemort topping the list. Heck, he’d argue surviving Voldemort is an ambition all on its own, given how much the zombie-snake wants him dead. No, there’ll be no arguing the Hat out of it this time.

Merlin, he wishes there was.

“Potter, Harry!” Professor McGonagall calls his name finally. He glances to the Slytherin table as he rises. The usual Slytherins are still there, no changes what-so-ever.

“Bye, ‘Mione,” he whispers and barely has the chance to register the fear in her eyes at the resignation in his own before he turns. “I’m sorry, Ron.” The boy starts, confused, then his eyes go wide with horror. They both must have realized by now what’s going to happen. Hermione is hissing something desperately at Ron.

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry murmurs, so soft no one else can hear, before he sits. He adds, “You were a great Head.” He offers her a resigned smile which she returns. Of course, she had seen the changes in him.

“And you were a spectacular housemate, Harry. May your new House treat you well.”

The exchange causes some confusion at the Head table, though the students don’t seem to notice. Much. They’re too busy being curious about whether the Golden Boy will remain the Golden Boy or not.  Harry glances towards Slytherin and notes the curiosity on the fifth years’ faces. Malfoy’s especially. Brows furrowed and lips pinched, he frowns at Harry, meeting his eyes questioningly.

Harry turns away, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Professor McGonagall sets the Hat on his head. Harry briefly considers dropping his Occlumency shields, then thinks better of it. The Hat would tell.

I see, Mr. Potter, that you do not intend to fight me this time.

For my safety and sanity, Harry replies, I would rather be in Gryffindor. But, then, you read the students’ minds, not me. Is there anyone in my new House who will actively attack me?

Your own age? Not that I’ve re-Sorted yet. I can’t say about the other years, except first. And the firsties are more concerned about making it at school than harming you.

So you don’t think I’ll be killed the first night in the dorms, then?

No, the Hat chuckles, the only boy I’ve yet to Sort from that House is Mr. Zabini. From what I remember, he follows his family’s neutrality. And no, Mr. Potter, I don’t expect to add any other students to Slytherin today. Most students at Hogwarts are so heavily nurtured by their House that their values don’t change.

Long ceremony for a farce, then.

I said, ‘most,’ Mr. Potter. The students who I changed needed to change. If someone was close, on the border, I left them. Best not to rip a student away from what they know if it’s unnecessary.

But it’s necessary for me.

You knew that already, or you wouldn’t have said your good-byes.

Thank you, for explaining. And considering my safety. Harry says nothing of his sanity, realizing the Hat had fully ignored his statement about that. But really, who can argue with a magical artifact and expect to win?

Student safety is my top priority, then their values. Hence, few muggleborns made it into Slytherin during the last war. Your mother included. Now, I believe it’s time to re-Sort you. I promise, you will find friends and even fun in—

“SLYTHERIN!”

Professor McGonagall takes the Hat back and Harry stands.

“Farewell, Mr. Potter.” She holds out her hand, ignoring the silence of the Great Hall. Dumbledore is staring in shock, but Harry pays him no mind and simply shakes his favorite professor’s hand.

He smiles softly at her, “Farewell, Professor.”

“I will always be here for you if you need me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Harry nods, his smile a little more honest as he steps away and makes his way to the opposite side of the Hall. His steps are calm and even and he’s taking slow, deep breaths, trying not to show that his heart is ready to explode out of his chest.

The Slytherins are staring, awe scrawled across their faces. Harry resolutely keeps his blank. He makes his way down towards the fifth year. Professor McGonagall calls the next student.

“Well,” Harry slips his hands into his pockets when he reaches their spot. “This is different.” He stares out over the Great Hall. It’s all the same but it looks so different from this side.

“Is that all you have to say?” Parkinson gapes.

Harry shrugs, “budge up? I need a seat and I’d rather not sit by the firsties. They’re staring like I’m the best thing since sliced bread.”

The fifth years shuffle for a second and Harry ends up directly next to Malfoy.

“You knew,” the blond accuses once Harry sits.

“Hm?” Harry plays innocent, hoping the conversation will just move on.

“You knew you weren’t Gryffindor anymore,” Malfoy explains. “That you’d end up in another House. That’s why you glanced over.”

“Arguably, I never was a Gryffindor.” He looks at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye, then drops his gaze to his plate. “Hat wanted me here from the start. I just knew I couldn’t talk my way out of it again.” He probably could’ve stayed if he dropped his shields, but that wouldn’t just be giving away his secrets, it would give away his friends’, too.

“You talked the Hat out of your placement last time?” Davis’ jaw drops. Apparently, that’s unheard of.

“Kind of? I was much more borderline, then.”

“Would’ve thought being in Gryffindor would’ve leaned you towards them, not away,” Zabini says, reclaiming his seat after his re-Sorting. True to the Hat’s words, there are no more new Slytherins besides Harry. The food appears and they start loading their plates.

“It wasn’t Gryffindor,” Harry mutters, “it was everything else.”

“Those things that get you the massive amounts of points at the end of every year?” Malfoy raises a slim brow.

“That.” Harry nods and wants to leave it there, but can’t help but add. “And the end of last year.” Every fifth year should be in-the-know, after all. They have either a parent as a Death Eater or a friend whose parent is.

“Meaning?”

“I want to survive this war. Or, more immediately, this year. Nerve isn’t going to get me that.”

“But cunning will,” Malfoy smirks. “Fair enough.”

“At least this year will be interesting,” Zabini agrees. “And shouldn’t you be more freaked out about whether we’re going to kill you or not?”

Harry snorts, “the only reason the Hat didn’t re-Sort me as fast as Malfoy was because I wanted to be sure I’d be safe here. It promised I would be. And given it’s been in your heads, I trust it.”

“Is that all you’re eating?” Malfoy frowns when Harry sets his fork down.

“I’m not much on large meals,” Harry mutters. Especially not at the start of the school year, when a large meal is liable to make him vomit.

“Mother kneazle,” Zabini snarks. Malfoy flushes, but doesn’t argue. Must happen regularly.

“Come on, then,” Malfoy stands and the rest do, too. “Sixth year prefects are taking the firsties this year since fifth year prefects haven’t been picked yet.”

“Couldn’t risk prefects getting re-Sorted,” Harry hums. His hands slide into his pockets and he shoots a look across the Great Hall to where Ron and Hermione are getting up with the rest of the fifth year Gryffindors.

“Come on, Potter,” Parkinson calls, “can’t have you getting lost in the maze.” Harry catches up quickly, but glances back to his friends. They both nod reassuringly to him.

“Professor Snape will call you for a meeting,” Zabini tells him, “sometime today or tomorrow. But there’ll be an all-House meeting tonight before that. The rest of us will have meetings sometime this week, with fifth and seventh years going first, followed by the other years chronologically.”

Harry nods understandingly, though he’s not sure of the reason behind the meetings. Professor McGonagall never had meetings with students unless requested or to set up their schedule for the next year.

They reach the entrance to the common room and Malfoy mutters the password (Merlin). Professor Snape is already waiting inside and he gestures for them to take a seat, as there are still plenty open.

When the first years arrive, he launches into a speech.

“Slytherin House is a great and noble House, intended for those who value ambition, cunning, and self-preservation. We are also a collection of the traits of other Houses. I expect each and every one of you to do exemplary work in your classes, display loyalty to your housemates, and not allow fear to hold you back. Knowledge, interpersonal-connections, and courage can only help you to achieve your ambitions, so long as you are clever.

“However, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, Slytherin is also the least-appreciated House in the school. As such, you are likely to face repercussions from the other Houses. Keep this in mind as you go about your day. Do not leave the common room alone. Any disagreements or squabbles between you and your housemates will be kept within the dorm. Out there,” he gestures to the door, “we are a united front. I expect that to be upheld.

“You will certainly have heard that I favor Slytherin. That I will enforce no punishment for your misdeeds. Make no mistake, this is not true. I will, however, refrain from taking points or assigning detentions out there. Instead, when you misbehave, you will receive a summons, at which point, you will come to my office and we shall discuss your behavior and an appropriate consequence.

“Lastly, I will be meeting with all of you sometime this week, beginning with the new House-members. They will begin in a half hour, once the prefects have shown you all to your rooms. I expect you to be prompt and to answer my questions honestly. I will display the same courtesy in response.

“With all that said, welcome to Slytherin. May you enjoy your time here.” He rises from his armchair and the prefects stand, too. After Professor Snape sweeps from the room, the prefects begin to speak. They point out the halls to the appropriate dorms and explain the rules for studying in the common room. Namely, that studying takes precedent and if you really want to hang out with your friends, you can do it in your dorm or out in the castle.

Finally, they’re sent up to their rooms.

The fifth year boys are split into two groups. Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle are in one, while Harry is with Malfoy and Zabini in the other. The girls are split similarly across the hall. Unlike Gryffindor, the dorms aren’t warded by gender. Harry tips his head curiously at that, but chooses to pay it no mind for now.

“An even split this year,” Draco sighs and throws himself back on one of the beds. The layout is nothing like the Gryffindor dorms. Harry hovers just at the closed door, taking it in.

The room itself is massive, likely because the dungeons have more room than a tower. The beds are in a row along one wall, the same tall four-posters as Gryffindor, with curtains and everything, but these beds appear to be doubles, rather than singles. Across from the beds is a seating area. There’s a couch, three armchairs, and a coffee table, all around a fireplace. On the far wall is four doors. Three are labeled with their names and the fourth is presumably a bathroom. On the wall nearest the door is three desks with shelving for their books and a hook for their bags.

“Bigger than you’re used to, Potter?” Malfoy smirks at him. Harry glances over and realizes they’ve left him with the bed furthest from the door. He frowns.

“Are the beds assigned?” They were in the Tower, to prevent squabbles.

“No,” Zabini says.

“Then I’d prefer the bed nearest the door, thanks.” This causes Malfoy to frown. “The Hat might’ve said I’m safe, but I trust you two about as far as I can throw you. I’d prefer the bed nearest the door.”

“But you said the only reason you let the Hat put you here is because it promised you’d be safe. It saw into our heads.”

“It did,” Harry agrees, “at the moment of re-Sorting. That could change at any point during the year.”

“I’d like to ask what I did to earn distrust,” Zabini throws in, crossing his arms almost petulantly.

“Would you trust a complete stranger?”

His mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally says, “that’s acceptable.”

“Fine,” Malfoy says eventually, “you can have the bed. But I want the closet closest to my bed.” He hops up and the sheets smooth themselves out with a wave of his wand. Then, with another wave and muttered incantation, the names on the closets switch. “Our trunks will be brought into the room in a few minutes. Professor Snape doesn’t want the firsties unpacking tonight, so he always sends them as close to curfew as he can reasonably get away with. And you should read the paper on your desk. Yes, those are assigned.”

Harry nods absently and walks to the desk with his name over it.

Mr. Potter,

Our meeting will be held first. Please arrive at 8:30. Do not anticipate it taking long.

S.S.

“What time is it?”

“8:25. You’ve got the 8:30 slot, don’t you?” Zabini smirks.

“Yep,” Harry sighs. “Would one of you show me to his office?”

“We’ll take you.” Malfoy agrees, having finished his inspection of the closets.

Professor Snape’s office and classroom aren’t terribly far from the common room. Harry can definitely see why Slytherins are never late Potions.

“Potter, just knock,” Malfoy huffs when Harry had frozen staring at the door for a long moment. He adds mockingly, “where’s that Gryffindor courage now?”

“Beat out by self-preservation,” Harry grumbles, but steps forward and knocks. “Besides, everyone knows he hates me.” Harry shoots Malfoy a hard look. “Would you want to be around someone like that?”

“He’s got a point,” Zabini says before Malfoy can argue. Professor Snape’s voice comes from inside before anything else can be said, summoning Harry in. He crinkles his nose for a moment, then smooths out his face and steps through. Harry had never been in his office before. While there is a desk, the office is organized vastly differently than Professor McGonagall’s. The room is enlarged, with the desk further in the back and a set of armchairs around the fireplace with small side tables next to each.

“Mr. Potter,” Professor Snape says smoothly, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Take a seat.” He flicks a hand towards the armchair nearest the door. Harry sits slowly, not entirely sure what to make of the situation. He hopes his apprehension isn’t showing on his face, but is sure it is.

“I recognize this is a situation neither of us ever wanted to find ourselves in,” Professor Snape begins. “As it is the one we are in, we will simply have to make the best of it. I will treat you as I do the other students in my House and will tell you the same thing I tell them in their first meeting with me. Mr. Malfoy is my godson and, while I may be more quick to praise him, I am also more quick to punish him. In this way, he has both the long and short end of the stick. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry murmurs.

“Good. Moving on. This is your OWL year. It will be difficult and will push you quite tremendously. I expect excellency. There is a mandatory hour of study time each day, Monday through Friday, to ensure the mandatory homework is completed. If you finish early, you will continue to review until the end of the hour. If you have incomplete work after that, your time extends until it is complete. Beyond that, your free time is your own, so long as you do not break the rules and get caught. I acknowledge that you are teens at a boarding school—some rule breaking is unavoidable. Minimize it and do not cost us House points. Are these points clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Professor Snape looks doubtful, but moves on. “Very well. We will move on to your classes and grades, then. Potions has been… troublesome for you. As I’ve said before and will say again, your handwriting is abysmal. Instead of using your extra time after homework for the first month of school, you will be practicing handwriting. I assume it isn’t just for my class that you cannot write legibly.

“Your other teachers report exceptional skill practically and you seem to know Defense somewhat instinctively. A good thing if your continued existence is to be ensured. I am disappointed that your practical work in my class does not match this trend and expect that this will change now that there will no longer be sabotaging from other students.” Harry moves his eyes from Professor Snape to the fire and ignores the commentary. He knows he’s not good at the theory and writing assignments. It’s just so hard. How anyone can manage it, he doesn’t understand.

“This aspect of the conversation is not targeted directly at you. I have it with everyone who takes Divination. Why did you pick that class?”

Harry’s eyes snap back. He hesitates. There’s the easy answer—it would probably make Professor Snape mad, but it’s easier to say than the true one. “I picked it because Ron wanted to take it.” Professor Snape studies him, eyes narrowed and forehead creasing.

“The truth, Mr. Potter.”

Harry freezes, eyes wide in shock. He’s never been called out on a lie before.

“I—” He cuts himself off, but Professor Snape just waits. The silence makes him snap and respond, shoulders slumped and voice deadened. “It was that, Arithmancy, or Ancient Runes. The other two are entirely written work. I would’ve failed them.”

Professor Snape doesn’t look pleased, but nods. “I suppose that is an acceptable answer. Let’s continue on. In terms of job interests, what have you been thinking of?”

“Auror, at first. But I’m not so sure after all…” Harry trails off. Professor Snape will understand what he’s getting at. “I thought maybe a Healer, but I’m sure that’s a lot more studying and school and I’d rather be up and active all day. The twins are starting a shop, so I thought I’d get involved with that. I put some capital towards it already. But not working in the front—probably managing the stock and development portions.” Harry already knows this answer, knows he’ll end up with the twins, developing new charms for them while they make messy, messy potions. They’d decided over the summer, in letters discretely sent.

“I would advise you try for an ‘O’ on your Potion’s OWL, in that case. The twins, while aggravating, are rather talented in potions and much of their work stems from that direction. Though, with your Charms grades, you may think about working with them in Charm development and leave the Potions to them. In any event, taking Potions through your NEWTs will be beneficial for all three paths you’ve chosen.

“For the last topic of conversation, we will begin with this. You have never gone home for a holiday, Mr. Potter. Not winter nor spring. Why?” There’s a natural curiosity on Professor Snape’s face. Harry looks away to the fire once more.

“I just prefer Hogwarts.” Shoddy cover, but how was he supposed to see this coming? And it’s not like it isn’t the truth.

“As many muggleborn and raised do,” Professor Snape nods, seeming to accept the answer. “I simply found it odd as, despite their love for magic, most muggleborns want to return to their families for the holidays. Open their mountain of gifts with their families.” Harry can’t stop the derisive snort at the idea of getting gifts from the Dursleys.

“I suppose, Sir, that some might. But I really do prefer Hogwarts.”

Professor Snape lets the matter drop without another word.

“You will find your handwriting primer in the top drawer of your desk. You will keep an inkpot on the desk, two quills, and a spare knife for sharpening. You will be in bed by eleven each evening. If there is a problem—with anything—you will set up a meeting with me.” Professor Snape settles back in his chair. “I believe that is everything. You may send the next student in as you leave.”

Harry nods and rises, making his way to the door. Outside is a clump of first years. Harry smiles at them.

“Hello. And which one of you is next?” A small girl raises her hand. “Your name is?”

“Marcy Deerfield,” her voice quavers.

“Good to meet you, Marcy—may I call you that?” She nods enthusiastically. “Brilliant.” Harry smiles and holds out a hand. “Good to meet you, I’m Harry Potter. Call me Harry.” They shake and Harry gestures to the door. “He’s waiting for you. Go on in. It’s painless, I promise.” He winks at Marcy and she giggles, then scampers past.

Harry starts to walk back to the common room, when he’s accosted by identical menaces.

“Harry!”

“Old buddy—”

“Old pal—”

“Dear friend—”

“We’ve missed you!” They finish in unison. Harry grins up at them.

“Gred, Forge,” Harry greets, “I’ve not even been gone a few hours. How will you ever make it the whole night?” He flicks his eyes to Malfoy and Zabini standing a little ways off, watching. Fred and George carry on like they didn’t notice, but their chins dip slightly in understanding.

“We shan’t!”

“We’ll positively—”

“Die!”

All three laugh at this.

“But really—”

“What’s it like?”

“Not that horrible, really. I’m not looking forward to the hour of mandatory study time each day, but at least it ensures my homework will get done. And the dorms are massive. Only three to a room.”

“Who do—”

“You share with?”

“Malfoy and Zabini. They’ve been decent.”

“You tell us—”

“If they do anything—”

“And we’ll handle it.”

“Thanks, guys, really. But I think I’ll be alright.” His mind wanders to the code Slytherin has. He wonders if it would still apply if he managed to get himself back to Gryffindor.

“If you—”

“Say so!”

“Good—

“Night—”

“Harrykins!” They finish in unison once more and race back off to the tower.

“How can you understand them?” Zabini asks from just ahead.

“More than that, how can you stand them?”

Harry shrugs, “they’re my friends.”

“You weren’t concerned they’d drop you after getting re-Sorted?” Malfoy probes, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“No,” Harry says, voice firm. The twins would never abandon him. Ron? He’d thought, only for an instant, if only because he’s so heavily prejudiced against Slytherin, then threw the thought out. Ron is his best friend and nothing will change that. But Harry knows if the twins had been re-Sorted, the Hat would’ve had a heck of a time picking between Gryffindor and Slytherin—again.

“Confident, Potter?” Malfoy crooks an eyebrow.

“The twins aren’t like that. They could’ve been in Slytherin—the Hat gave them the choice. They picked family tradition.”

Malfoy, it seems, has nothing to say to that.

“Well, Professor Snape didn’t murder you,” Zabini smirks, “so I guess we’re stuck with you. Let’s go, then. Time to unpack.”

In the room, Harry hangs his four uniforms (one still fits from last year) neatly at the front of his closet, with his cloak and outerwear lined up behind them. It’s not massive, but big enough that he could fit a term’s worth of clothes, even if they didn’t wear uniforms. In the dresser at the back, Harry folds away the old hand-me-downs from Dudley in the middle drawer with his underwear and socks in the top (thankfully new), and the bottom drawer empty. He lines his shoes under the uniforms. He has a pair of nice black shoes for fall and spring, black boots for winter, a pair of Dudley’s old shoes for days its muddy out, and a new pair of running shoes he’d bought when he decided to start running. After tucking his trunk next to the hamper across from the uniforms, he moves on to his desk.

It only takes a few minutes to lay out the requirements Professor Snape had listed. With his books stacked neatly across the top, his bag on the hook, and ink, quills, and knife on the desk proper, he decides it’s time to turn in for the night.

After a peek in the bathroom, he realizes there’s only one shower for the three of them. He turns back.

“Morning or evening showers?” He calls. Both other boys call morning, so Harry grins. He’s got evenings all to himself.

He takes a quick shower and sets an alarm on his wand, falling back into the bed with a sigh. What a day.

“Are you done already?” Malfoy pokes his head out of his closet. “How?” His eyes catch on the neatly arranged desk. “How?” He points obnoxiously, “How are you done with both?!”

“Ah—I don’t have that much to bring? Uniforms for school days, a few outfits for the weekends, and outerwear. What else do you need?”

Malfoy stalks to Harry’s closet and Harry sits up, ready to hex the other boy out of there if he needs to.

“Potter! There’s only uniforms and a cloak in here!”

“I folded the rest. Now get out of my closet, Malfoy.”

“The dresser is for pajamas! And undergarments! Not for clothes.”

“It’s jeans and t-shirts, Malfoy. It’ll survive being folded.”

Zabini peeks out of his closet and crooks an eyebrow at Harry. “Don’t fight him on this, you won’t win.”

“Won’t win what? There’s nothing to win. They’re my clothes! I’ve always folded them.”

“Whatever you say,” Zabini snickers and ducks back into his closet.

Malfoy storms out, “Okay, Potter, no—wait. What are you wearing?”

Harry shoots him an irritated look. “Pajamas.”

“No. No. Those are rags. Not pajamas. Rags. No.” He vanishes back into the closet and Harry can hear a drawer open. “Potter, all your pajamas are rags.” A second drawer opens. Then the third. “Potter, I thought you said you folded your clothes.”

“Middle drawer.”

“But—” There’s a long pause. “Potter, your trunk is trash, too.”

“Malfoy, are you just going to insult everything I own?”

“I’m being honest, Potter. It’s not my fault the honesty is insulting. But really,” he comes back out, arms crossed. “This is what I would expect Weasley to own. But you’re a Potter.” Uh-oh, time to play dumb.

“Do you have a point in there, Malfoy?” That sounds sufficiently unknowing. Probably.

“The Potters are rich,” Zabini calls, “Probably richer than the Malfoys. I hadn’t heard anything about the money being gone. The Ministry couldn’t have taken it since it’s in Gringotts.”

“My vault has enough to get me through school and maybe a few years after, but it’s not that full.”

“What about the other vaults?” Malfoy asks. “There should be vaults with heirlooms and furniture and portraits. I’ve heard legends of Potter jewelry. Potter, my father literally wishes he’s rich enough to buy some of that. And, since it’s got the Potter crest on it, it can’t be sold. It literally has to be there.”

“I haven’t seen any other vaults. I’ve only got the one key.”

“Then have the others re-issued if they’re lost!”

“Malfoy, I’ve never seen any other keys. I’m sure Dumbledore would’ve given them to me.” Ha! Nope. Harry had to have Gringotts issue all new keys and spread them across several secret locations to keep them safe.

“Dumbledore has your keys?” Malfoy whispers, going pale. “That—that’s not good.” He shakes himself. “Plan, then,” he claps his hands, “first Hogsmeade weekend, we floo to Gringotts, have the keys re-issued, request transaction history, and pay the vaults a visit. When we get back, we’re fixing that wardrobe.”

Harry groans and flops back on his bed. There goes his first Hogsmeade weekend. But how to keep up the lie when the Goblins know Harry already has his keys?

“Do you not know any Potter history?” Zabini asks. Harry’s spoken to the portraits in his vaults, he knows enough. No—play dumb!

“My aunt is muggle,” Harry reminds them. Eh, good enough.

“Yeah, but your magical guardian should’ve taught you this stuff. Even muggleborns learn this, though I think it’s from a book.” Malfoy huffs and sits on Zabini’s bed, facing Harry. “The Potters, Blacks, and Greengrasses are the closest Magical Britian has to royalty, in that order. We Malfoys have filled the void alongside the Parkinsons since both families have faded out. It helps that I’m descended from the Blacks, too. Technically, it doesn’t really grant you anything by birthright, beyond your fortune. And, like I said, the heirlooms and furniture and such can’t be sold because it all has the Potter crest on it. The Manor can’t be seized, since it was built before the Ministry formed. The Ministry has no claim to it. So, even if you drained all your gold, you’d have a place to live and furniture to live on. You’ve definitely got an elf or two. So you’d really just need enough money for food and clothes.”

“If you say so,” Harry murmurs. Four elves, actually, when you add Dobby and Winky. The Manor and a city penthouse apartment and the property in Godric’s Hollow that Harry still needs to get back from the Ministry. That’s on the to-do list, stop thinking about it!

“If Dumbledore has been using your vaults, your gold, that counts as line theft. Your family may not be royalty anymore, but those laws still apply. And the punishments are enough of a deterrent that it hasn’t had to apply for a long, long time.” Malfoy’s eyes flash, the silvery-blue shining in the light. “And you act like you’re not even concerned!”

“I just don’t know that what you’re saying is true.” Lie, lie, lie. Well, there goes the chance of making up with Malfoy. Looks like they’re destined to be enemies because when he figures this out, it’s going to be bad.

“Why would I lie to you about you being richer than I am? Having more political influence than I do? Honestly, Potter, there’s only four hereditary seats on the Wizengamot. The Peverells—descendants of the Pendragons—died out long ago. You have one of the last three seats! This isn’t something to joke about, even if we didn’t get along before.”

“Besides,” Zabini adds, “he’s telling the truth. Those three seats have the ability to overrule the entire Wizengamot, including the Minister and Chief Warlock, if need be.”

“I assume you don’t know about magical inheritance, either?” At Harry’s (untrue) negative response, Malfoy sighs. “Short version now, then we’ll explain more in-depth later. A magical inheritance is something that’s passed through magical bloodlines. An area that a family is just naturally gifted in. For my family, that happens to be potions, although my father would never be seen brewing. It’s why it’s easier for me to learn potions. For the Blacks, its metamorphmagic. Everyone of Black descent can do some minor metamorphmagic. You have to be close to the main branch to actually be a metamorphmagus, though. Within three generations, I believe. Slytherins have parseltongue, which raises the question of how you came to get it, but never mind it. It’s how Veela or other creature inheritances are passed on, but those are rare. Anyway, the Potters are known for innovation. The Sleekeazy Potion, for example. And the Patronus Charm. Speaking of, your mother excelled in Charms, or so I’ve heard. As far as I know, the Potters don’t have any creature inheritances to watch out for, so your seventeenth should be a breeze.”

Harry stares, faking wide-eyed amazement, for a long moment. “So Charms could be easier for me because of my mother?”

“Yes,” Malfoy nods, “and your magic will respond more to intent than others would experience. That’s the innovation thing coming into play.”

“I guess it explains how I learned the Patronus so easy,” Harry mumbles.

“You can cast a Patronus?” Malfoy crooks a brow at him, disbelief across his face. Seeing the same look on Zabini, Harry sighs and snatches up his wand.

“Expecto Patronum!” He flicks his wand out, calling the words with warmth bubbling in his chest. Prongs springs forth prancing around the room and returning to Harry to nuzzle him for a moment.

“Oh, wow,” Malfoy breathes. Zabini just stares. “Could you teach me that?”

“It just takes a happy memory. Your most happy memory. Once you figure that out, you trap the feeling and cast.”

Malfoy spins his wand in his fingers, contemplating. “Mind if I try?”

Harry nods, “took me a few months to get, back in third year. Remus said it’s a seventh year charm, so don’t be concerned if it takes a while.”

“Sure, Potter,” Malfoy smirks. He closes his eyes, seeking a memory, and casts. The slightest whisp of fog escapes his wand, but Harry’s not entirely sure he didn’t imagine it. Malfoy huffs.

“I’d offer advice, but I don’t think I know you well enough to help you find a memory,” Harry says. “If you were Ron, it might be saving a goal or winning a game or getting named Quidditch captain. It doesn’t have to be a memory, either. It could be something you wish were real, but it can’t be bittersweet. That’ll totally kill the spell.”

“Alright, my turn, then.” Zabini gives it a whirl and the whisp is a bit larger than Malfoy’s, but still isn’t much.

“Keep working on it, but not too much at once,” Harry advises, “it can wear you out quick. Now, it’s been a long day, I’m tired. Can I go to bed now?”

“Oh, right,” Malfoy jumps up and vanishes into his closet. “Wear these,” he throws new pajamas at Harry. “We’ll charm them to fit. Those are disgusting.”

“Once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor, mate,” Seamus announces, holding a fist out to Harry. Harry bumps it automatically, a small smile on his face. As one of only fifteen people to actually end up re-Sorted, especially with his new placement into Slytherin, having this support means a lot.

Dean’s fist appears, then Neville’s, and finally Ron’s. Harry bumps them each in turn.

“Guess we’ll have to have meetings elsewhere,” Ron chuckles. “We’ll find a nice, empty classroom to hold them.”

“Works for me,” Harry agrees, “but I gotta warn you, mate, we’ve got mandatory study hour every day. So we’ve gotta work around that.”

“Ugh,” Ron’s face scrunches up in disgust, as do the other Gryffindors. “Is it just, like, until you get your work done?”

“Nope, it’s a full hour,” Harry says, mirroring their faces. “And Snape’s making me do handwriting practice, too.”

“Your handwriting isn’t that bad!” Dean argues. “I can read it!”

Seamus punches him in the arm, “that’s only because yours is worse!” The whole group laughs at Dean’s offended sputtering.

“Harry, if you still need help with Herbology, we can meet somewhere,” Neville offers.

“Yeah,” Ron grins, “we could do a group thing! You’re best at Defense! And Dean can help with History—don’t know how you stay awake in there, mate. And I’ll get good notes on Transfiguration and Charms from Hermione.”

“What about me?” Seamus asks, glaring.

“If we ever want to learn to blow something up, we’ll ask,” Harry reassures him, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Until then, I like my eyebrows on my face.”

“Oy!” The group dissolves again.

“Really, Harry,” Neville turns back. “The Tower’s not the same without you.”

“You guys get anyone new?”

“No,” Ron shakes his head, “Just an empty bed.” He sniffles softly. A cover-up, because they all know what that bed still being there must mean. The Hat can move you, but it can’t move your heart, and the castle knows the truth.

“Yeah, no one else could handle your snoring,” Neville snorts, “probably conned the Hat out of it.”

“I’m not that bad!” Ron cries, offended. Just as they’re about to start laughing again, a familiar voice reaches them.

“Potter! We’re going to be late!” Harry sighs.

“Sorry, mate,” Ron cringes, “that must be rough.”

“Could be worse, but he is a bit of a mother hen.”

“Mother kneazle,” Seamus corrects, “hen is muggle.”

“Right, sorry. He’s a mother kneazle.”

“Potter!”

“Better go,” Harry groans. “I have Charms with Ravenclaw.”

They wave goodbye after a shared grimace and Harry pouts the whole way up to the classroom.

“Stop that,” Malfoy pokes him and Zabini does the same on the other side.

“Stop what?”

“Pouting,” Zabini says.

“Just miss them,” Harry grumbles under his breath. “Weird not being around them all the time.”

“Use full sentences, Potter. You have a brain somewhere in there, don’t you?” Malfoy mocks. Just then, there’s a chime signaling the start of class and Harry doesn’t get the chance to rib him back.

Professor Flitwick talks for a minute and demonstrates the wand movement, but doesn’t read off the charm’s incantation. He’d stopped doing that last year, stating that by now, everyone should have enough of a grasp of Latin to figure them out themselves.

Harry curses the Professor for that decision and turns to the board, practicing the motion in small twists of his wrist. Unlike most Professors, Professor Flitwick puts up all the incantations for his day at once, so there’s a swarm of writing on the board. Harry curses him once more. Malfoy practices the twist a few times himself, then casts.

Thank goodness. Harry couldn’t see anything in the twisted letters on the board. He lets Malfoy cast a few more times, simply rolling his wrist and making sure the movement is perfect, then points his wand to his own leaf and casts.

“Duro!” Instantly, the leaf hardens, transforming into what appears to be green stone, like a painted statue of a leaf.

“Well done, Mr. Potter!” Professor Flitwick calls. “Five points to Gryff-Slytherin.” He smiles slightly at Harry.

The rest of the day goes smoothly, until they get to ‘mandatory study hour’ and Harry is again cursing a Professor. Oh, how much better it was when they were upstairs, in the tower, and someone would read the text aloud (usually Hermione). Honestly, how can anyone tolerate reading for very long? How can Hermione read the majority of her day?

Harry shoves his glasses up and rubs his eyes, vowing to get Professor Snape back for this torture. Flicking them back into place, he muscles through the rest of it, not entirely sure it’s all correct, but at least it’s done.

He swishes his wand for a quick Tempus charm and sees there’s still fifteen minutes left, so with a silent groan, he pulls out the handwriting book Professor Snape had actually sent him. Flipping it open to the first page, he notes that it starts in with the letter ‘a’. Harry immediately flips to the back to see that there are short sentences written out there. And it’s nearly a hundred pages long. Well, getting through this thing is going to take forever.

“Potter, are you trying to kill your quill or write with it?” Harry frowns at Malfoy, not dignifying that with a response. Malfoy rolls his eyes. “You’re holding it wrong.”

“Oh,” Harry whispers and turns it in his fingers, studying the feather silently.

“And it’s cut wrong. Did no one teach you any of this?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, still whispering. He slumps in his seat. Malfoy is definitely going to notice, now.

“Right. Then let’s teach you. First, how to cut the quill. If it’s not cut right, it won’t write correctly, and then it’s all messed up, no matter how neat your handwriting usually is.” And that’s how Harry spent an extra twenty minutes at ‘study time’ than planned, all learning how to properly cut a quill.

“Okay, and then, you place it between your fingers like so.” Malfoy demonstrates, holding it gracefully between his index and thumb. Harry attempts to copy him. His fingers have other ideas, though, and twist ungainly around the nib. Malfoy’s brow creases. “No, see you need to turn that finger here, like this.” Malfoy reaches out and taps Harry’s finger. “Let me help.” He pinches Harry’s finger and turns it. Pain lances up his hand and Harry snatches it away as quickly as possible.

“Ow! It doesn’t twist like that!”

“It should!” Malfoy stares, appalled. “It’s supposed to turn that way. Otherwise, how would I hold my quill?”

“Well, mine doesn’t!”

“Let me see.”

“No!”

“Potter, let me see.” They go back and forth for a bit, then Malfoy decides he’s had enough of that and snatches up Harry’s wrist.

“Merlin, Potter, no wonder your handwriting’s so bad. What happened?”

“Let go!”

They go back and forth again, voices getting louder and louder as they both refuse to back down.

“What is going on?” Professor Snape demands, filling the doorway.

“Potter needs a healer.”

“I do not! That’s from when I was, like, seven.”

“Is he bleeding?”

“What? No,” Malfoy glares at the professor.

“Then he’ll be fine, yes? Now stop yelling.”

“But, Uncle Sev, they’re twisted.”

“What?” Professor Snape whips around, hearing the plea in his godson’s voice and feeling his heart clench at the words. He stalks over and peers down at the hand. Long, graceful, potion-stained fingers lift the wrist from Malfoy’s grip and he tugs Harry to standing. He snatches up Harry’s other hand and inspects it as well, finding the fingers just as crooked as the other.

“What hand did you write with in primary?”

“My right?”

“Right, of course. And your wand hand is right?”

“Of course.”

“And you catch the snitch with your…”

“Left.”

“When you play catch with your friends you use your…”

“Left.”

“If you drop something, you grab it with your…”

“Left.”

“So basically, you’re left handed.”

“How did you know?” Malfoy pipes up.

“I’ve seen it before. Muggleborns who are also left-handed and come from even mildly religious areas have it rather commonly.” He turns his gaze to Harry. “The left was broken as punishment for using it. Your right was punishment for something else. What?”

Harry hesitates for apparently too long.

“Mr. Potter,” Professor Snape snaps, “what was it punishment for?”

“I burnt breakfast,” Harry finally mumbles.

“Breakfast,” Professor Snape replies woodenly. “Did you not say this happened at seven?”

“Yes.” Harry glances away. He should’ve been able to cook better by then. He knew how not to burn the bacon, but he hadn’t been paying attention. That’s why the punishment was so severe. No! I didn’t deserve it! I didn’t! I was seven!

“I see. I suppose you are not so coddled as I had thought.”

“Why would left-handedness matter?” Malfoy asks.

“To some muggles, it is a sign of the devil,” Professor Snape answers, studying Harry’s face for tells. His cheek twitches as if in confirmation.

“So why break it?”

“To ensure it can no longer do the devil’s work,” Professor Snape murmurs, “or to hide the evidence. It depends on the family, on their beliefs. Either way, it twists the fingers so they can’t be used.”

“That’s awful!”

“I believe, Mr. Potter, this will yield some curious results,” Professor Snape muses. “You’ve been casting with the wrong hand this whole time.” Malfoy sucks in a quick breath. Well, this isn’t good. Harry’d been hoping to keep that secret until he faced Voldemort for the last time. “We must go see Madam Pomfrey.”

Harry groans.

“Do not complain.”

“She keeps me overnight every time! I swear, I scraped my knee and she kept me overnight!”

“And did she use a topical potion, a spell, or an ingested potion?”

“Ah—ingested? Why does that matter?”

“Because, Mr. Potter, it means there was more to that scrape than just a scrape. You likely fell on something potentially dangerous or damaged something within your knee. I do not know for certain.”

Harry silently contemplates that for a while, then notices movement on his other side.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m curious,” Malfoy shrugs. “And I want to make sure it’s done right. And I don’t want to stay in the room alone.”

“We have other housemates, Malfoy.”

“You’re more interesting.” Harry opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it. Truth be told, he finds Malfoy interesting, too. Before, it was as a rival. Now, he’s not so sure. But, eyes on the prize. Malfoy will hate Harry when he realizes he’s been played.

“Mr. Potter, on the second day?” Madam Pomfrey sets her hands on her hips and clicks her tongue at him. “Come in, to your bed, then. You know the drill. And don’t even think about leaving. You best put those pajamas on. Someone else can bring your work.”

Harry feels heat flood his face. “Told you she’d keep me overnight.”

Malfoy sniggers, “you have a reserved bed?”

“Of course he does! He’s here practically every week, after all.”

“Not that I don’t love you, Madam Pomfrey, but believe me, it is not by choice.”

“It better not be, Mr. Potter, or we will be having words and you will be here much longer than a night!” She closes the curtains around him with a flick of her wand and Harry changes quickly, seating himself on the bed.

“Good. Now, hands on this tray, dear.” A meal tray is settled above his lap at the perfect height for Madam Pomfrey to work. She clucks over them, casting spells and humming to herself over the results. “These are very old breaks. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“They’d already healed,” Harry defends. I needed this to be a secret until after my seventeenth birthday. Curse you all!

“Magic, Mr. Potter. Magical Healer. Though, it is quite unlucky that that quack Lockhart didn’t vanish that hand with your arm,” Madam Pomfrey tells him. “You’d have already re-grown it. Now, let me guess, you’re left-handed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, then, let’s get to work. We have two choices here. I can re-break them and heal them up with a spell and a potion or we can vanish them and re-grow them. If we break them, they’ll hurt quite badly and then ache for a few days. If we vanish them, you can sleep right through it.”

“Let me guess,” Harry sighs, “you want to vanish them.”

“Quite right, Mr. Potter.”

“Much as I hate to admit it, you are the professional here and I suppose I have to do what you say.” He does like Poppy, he really does. But this does not work in his favor.

“Very good, Mr. Potter, you’re learning.” And she pats him on the head and hurries off to get the Skele-grow.

Malfoy is laughing silently and even Snape looks amused.

“Oh, don’t give me that. We’re both just joking,” Harry defends himself.

“You really are here a lot, aren’t you?” Malfoy chokes out. “I mean, she said so, but wow, you two are practically friends.”

“Hush, Malfoy, or I’ll silence you.”

Professor Snape rolls his eyes, “Don’t fight in the Hospital wing, gentlemen.”

Harry snorts, “I’m not stupid. Madam Pomphrey would have my head.”

“Sure you’re not, Potter.”

After Harry is drugged up and tucked into bed, the two other Slytherins leave and Madam Pomphrey takes a seat by Harry’s bed.

“How are you doing in the new House, dear?”

“I’ve been better,” Harry admits. “It’s strange. Neither Malfoy or Zabini snore and I’m so used to Ron and Seamus that it’s hard to sleep in the quiet. And the bed is bigger and—I don’t know. It’s just different. It’s not home.”

“But could it be?”

“I suppose… as much as Hogwarts could be a second home for some kids.”

“I hope that comes to pass, Mr. Potter. Now, let’s talk about those hands.” She leans forward, face and voice gentle. “The real reason you didn’t tell me as soon as you learned I could heal breaks.”

Harry stares for a long minute, not blinking until it looks like tears are welling in his eyes as he finally whispers, “not supposed to tell.”

“Oh, dear.” She tugs him up into a comforting hug. “And you have other injuries too, Mr. Potter? Old ones.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He makes sure his voice cracks slightly on the second word.

“Oh, Harry. Oh, Harry,” she strokes his hair gently. “We’ll heal you up as best we can, alright? No more old aches and pains. And maybe, if you’re good enough, I’ll talk Severus into brewing a potion for your eyes and we can get rid of those old glasses. How does that sound?”

Harry hiccups, “I’d like that.” Harry forces the hurt from everything that had happened to the forefront. Maybe this isn’t how he planned it, but he can make it work for him, rather than against. Tears trickle down his face. They’re not a lie, not anymore. It really does hurt, everything that happened. With a resounding crack within him, the walls holding the pain back tumble down and he sobs.

“I know it would, dearie, I know.” She cradles him a little while longer as he cries. The stress of telling flows out of him with his tears and she settles him back onto his pillow only after his breathing had completely evened out. Harry falls asleep quickly and Madam Pomphrey sets a silencing charm and alarm ward around the curtains. Professor Snape is waiting in her office.

“He didn’t tell me anything beyond that he has more injuries of the same persuasion,” she informs the man.

“To think I thought him spoiled,” Severus sighs. Mentally, he berates himself.

“I could have told you different.” She pauses. “I did tell you differently. He’s as sweet as sugar, though he is somewhat quick to temper. Truth be told, his personality is quite like Lily. Though, I think, he gets that cheek from James.”

“I only hope it’s not too late to make it up to him.”

“He’s forgiving,” Poppy assures him. “Now, you know as well as I do that there’s the likelihood of some regression now that he doesn’t have to hold that burden anymore.”

“I know,” Severus confirms. Abused children tend to find their way to his House, after all. “I’ll keep an eye out for the signs.”

“He cried for quite a bit with me,” Poppy tells him. “I’ll be bringing him back once a week for a while, until he’s as healed as I can get him.”

“Understandable.”

“I may have promised to try to talk you into brewing that vision potion for him, if he behaves while I fix this.”

“I’ll make it seem as if you had to work for it.” They nod in unison, a silent agreement to take care of the child. “What symptoms do you anticipate?”

“Like we’ve already seen from him, he’ll likely be argumentative and defensive. I would watch for his temper. Punishments will have to be firm but fair and, most importantly, consistent. I would make sure he has a written list of transgressions and their punishments.” She sits back and thinks for a long moment. “He’s shown a tendency for nightmares, so PTSD is a concern. I know he has Hedwig, but a second pet may be necessary in order to reduce stress. And he’s always been frightfully thin. Watch for an eating disorder. He may try to self-punish in that manner. With his tendency to put himself down, I would keep an eye out for depression and other self-deprecative habits.”

“I will speak to his roommates on this, make sure they know to keep an eye on him.” Severus drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Perhaps a personal point system will help. For eating the right amounts, coming for his appointments without complaint, doing his homework to a high standard, practicing his handwriting, and other such behaviors, he can earn points. Failure to eat, self-deprecation, not seeking help when needed, neglecting homework and handwriting, doing poorly in classes, and others will lose points. Lines to boost self-confidence and self-worth may also be necessary.”

No hard decisions are made that night, but in the morning, Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Zabini pay Severus a visit and walk out with a mission. One that, as Mr. Zabini had put it, is definitely in Mr. Malfoy’s wheelhouse.

Harry learns quickly to write with his left hand—it’s far easier than with his right. And with his fingers in the right position, it doesn’t hurt and his handwriting cleans up nicely. But the poster of rules… that just irks him. It makes him want to break them. He wants to tear it down and rip it up and stomp on it because what does it matter? No one else has to follow any of these rules. He’s got his own bed time, his plates are prepped by elves, and they micromanage his homework like nobody’s business. Plus, Malfoy is always hovering now. If he was a mother kneazle before, he’s a mama bear now. Harry doesn’t like it.

Finally, three weeks into the new regiment, Harry’s had enough. He hasn’t been able to go to the meetings with his Gryffindor housemates, if they’ve even had one without him. He hates Umbridge—though, with Professor Snape’s warning, he did manage to hold his temper in her class. He just wants to do what he wants. He gets it, honest, he does. But… he has to force his fingers out of his hair, the headache overwhelming him.

“I need a break,” he mutters, shoves away from his desk, and stalks out.

“But, Professor Snape—” Malfoy calls after him. Harry ignores him and keeps walking, slipping from the common room and out into the castle proper. He runs up the stairs. Home, home, home, home, pounds in his head with every step. He reaches the Fat Lady after what feels like decades.

“Hello, sweetie,” she smiles at him. “Home for a visit, are we?”

“Yes,” he smiles at her breathlessly. “May I step in for a bit?”

“Only if you don’t tell,” she winks at him.

“Thank you.” She swings open and inside, the red and gold and noise and warmth washes over him, erasing the headache and centering him again.

“Harry!” A dozen voices cry and then there’s people clamoring for hugs and attention.

“Hey, guys,” Harry says with a sheepish grin. “Sorry I didn’t visit sooner.”

“We get it, mate,” Ron promises, smacking him on the shoulder. “You’ve been under guard, practically.” Harry huffs a laugh.

“Don’t I know it!”

“C’mon, mate, let’s go up and hang.”

The whole of the fifth year boys gather round and settle upstairs in their usual positions. With pillows as cushions, they sit in the center of the room, backs to their own bed.

“Alright, first up, welcome back,” Dean starts. “First meeting of the year. Merlin, Harry, it’s lonely up here without you.”

“It’s lonely down there. Doesn’t feel like home.” His lips curl. “This does. I might… might have to see if I can’t get myself put back. I can’t handle it there.”

“It’s Slytherin,” Ron snorts, “of course you should try to switch back.”

“No—it’s not that. They’re great,” Harry struggles to voice his thoughts. “It’s just… They don’t… Well, Snape found out about…” Harry turns his hands over.

“The Dursleys,” Neville fills in.

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “My fingers were twisted so I couldn’t hold a quill right and Malfoy was trying to fix the way I was holding it and found out. Snape heard us arguing and came in and took me to Pomphrey and, well…”

“So they found out,” Seamus says. “Alright. They’re trying to help, aren’t they?”

“I mean, I think they’re trying? But it-it’s making it worse. I don’t like it.”

“What’ve they done?”

“You know that book we read aloud? About how to help abused kids?” Harry waits until they’ve all nodded to go on. “They’re following that to the letter. But, thing is, we’ve already handled most of that. I know not to starve myself on purpose. You guys would watch me for that, even from across the hall. Just like I check Neville for overeating and Dean for picking. We just do.”

“Right. So they don’t know you’ve already handled all that, so they’ve made rules about it?”

“Yeah. And they’re controlling how much and what I eat. The elves make my plate every meal. It’s going to make me sick. They’re upping it too fast, and they started too big, but if I don’t clear it, I get in trouble and have to write lines about how ‘I deserve food’ for an hour.”

“Ugh,” Dean crinkles his nose. “Nope, I remember making you chant that at us for fifteen minutes four times in the same week once. It was horrid.”

“Punished us, too, mate,” Seamus agrees. “And Dean about not injuring himself. And Ron about not holding his breath until he turns purple. We all did that and it just punished the listeners right back.”

“I preferred it, though,” Harry says and gets agreements all around. “But they don’t know we already handled it. I mean, I come back from the Dursleys injured, but I keep my mind through it, even if there’s a few stumbles after.”

“Yeah, mate, and with my mum sending as much food as she can, you don’t come back emaciated anymore.”

“I do appreciate that,” Harry smiles. “So, anyway, back to… Well, they’ve given me an earlier bedtime and my own personal point system. It’s a chart. On the wall. Above my desk. And its wretched. I hate it.”

“Let’s backfly for a minute, though,” Neville says, raising his hands. “They started you on too much food and have been upping it too quick. Are they not asking you?”

“I get punished if I complain. More lines.”

“Merlin, it’s like they want to drive you nuts.”

“And it hurts to stare at a parchment for that long,” Harry groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It hurts.”

“Oh, mate,” Dean’s face crumples sympathetically. “Run out of painkiller?” Harry nods miserably.

“Can’t make myself anymore because I’m being bloody babysat.”

“Here,” Dean tosses him a potion. “We’ll send you back with enough for a week, okay?”

“Thank you,” Harry breathes in relief.

“Now that we know the Fat Lady will let you in, you can come up once a week and we’ll do a meeting,” Ron declares. “We’ll set a date and time and as long as you leave before curfew, it’ll be fine.”

“How about today? Not the same time, though… Half an hour later. I can’t keep running out on study hour.”

“Is that why no one chased you down?” Ron smirks.

“Yep,” Harry grins, “too scared of Snape to leave study hour. The only way for me to get some air is to get into more trouble.” Harry rolls his eyes. “How wonderful.”

“What do you think the punishment will be?” Neville asks. Harry goes bright pink and he knows it, based on the looks on the other boys’ faces.

“C’mon, can’t be that bad.”

“Spanking,” Harry chokes out. “Ten, if I remember correct. Bare hand and clothed, but still.”

“Is that even allowed?” Dean asks, appalled. “And I thought you said you told them.”

“I did,” Harry sighs. “But you remember the book…”

They all recite the passage in unison, “Extreme physical punishment should often be countered by appropriate punishments, minor spankings included.” They shudder.

“I’m glad we stuck with corner time,” Neville grumbles. “I don’t think any of us could’ve taken that seriously.”

“No. And I don’t think any of us could’ve struck each other. Not reasonably. It would’ve been either too hard or not hard enough,” Dean adds. Everyone agrees quickly.

“To the topic at hand, are you actually going to let them?” Neville leans forward, fear on his face.

“I’ve no intention of ever being struck again,” Harry declares. “I can tolerate the Dursleys because I have to—only two more months of them. One this summer, one next. But no. No one else. No more.”

“Then what’s the plan?”

“I’ll figure that out when I get there. But I figure being honest about how I was feeling should, at the very least, reduce it. As long as I don’t skip study hour again, I should be fine.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Seamus counters

“Then we plan Z,” Harry declares, eyes burning. “Because that’s not happening.”

“Did they even consult you on the punishments? Because there’s no way you would’ve agreed to have that on there,” Dean points out.

“No. Largely, no. They wrote up the list and told me I could request changes for three. Only four punishments were spankings. I got the other three changed.”

“And they didn’t notice the trend?” Ron is appalled.

“No.”

“Well, then. As we already knew, adults are idiots. So. Full meeting, not just Harry’s suffering in Slytherin. Summers?” Dean steers them back to the actual process of a meeting.

These started half way through first term, just before Halloween. Even last year, when Ron and Harry pretended to not get along, these meetings continued unhindered, in the sanctuary of their dorm. But that first night, all of the boys had woken up from nightmares on the same night and cuddled up in blankets and on their pillows, had shared what happened with their roommates. Come to find out, all of them had some issues from the way they’re raised.

Neville suffered from what was likely emotional abuse, with a smattering of physical altercations from his Great Uncle Algie. He tended to eat his feelings and beat up on himself.

Seamus has an overbearing mother who tends to mollycoddle him, but then swings around and screams obscenities when he misbehaves. The extremes lead him to an explosive temper to match his explosive magic. He also had a habit of scratching at the skin on his arms and struggled to pay attention in classes.

Dean has a father who likes to drink and yell, never physical beyond throwing the bottles behind himself, typically away from the target of his anger. But it was enough to drive Dean into an anxiety that lead him to picking his skin and kicking things.

Ron, while one may think Molly and Arthur the perfect parents, presented, as best the boys could tell, as a neglected child. Oh, he ate enough (most of the time), and was clean (most of the time), and remembered (most of the time), but it was the ‘some of the times’ that mattered. The other boys would snag food off his plate and now, that’s something Ron can’t tolerate. He’ll eat too much so fast he chokes without reminders to slow down. He has to be reminded to shower and brush his teeth and wash his hands before meals. And when he comes back from the summer, it’s nice to have someone who remembers his name a hundred percent of the time. Being the sixth boy in a family as chaotic as his tended to leave him forgotten, rather than purposely neglected. Add in his jealousy and fits of rage and habit of holding his breath when angry (for attention), and Ron fit right in with the rest of them.

They go around the circle, discussing their summers and how to bring themselves back to center for the year and what they should do now that Harry isn’t in the room. When it’s all done, they come back to Harry.

“We’ll figure it out, mate,” Seamus promises. “If it means we have to fight to get you back in here, we will. The castle still thinks you belong, after all.” He nods to the bed with a grin. “Your bed’s still here, and your dresser.”

“How much trouble do you think I’d be in if I slept here?” Harry asks with a mischevious grin.

“Well, it is a Friday,” Ron smiles slowly. “And there must be certain dispensation for students who got re-Sorted.”

“Plus, this weekend is Hogsmeade weekend. Even if we get in trouble, we’ll get the whole castle to ourselves to be in trouble in. No one else will know!” Seamus claps his hands with a laugh and his magic calls sparks between them from his joy.

“Shay, you’re going to light the room on fire,” Neville laughs. And soon, the boys are laughing and falling over each other, playing games and staying up like children at their first sleep over.

Harry curls up in his own bed at the end of the night and they sleep through breakfast, all the way to ten o’clock.

“Mate, mate, get up,” Ron shakes his shoulder, “the elves brought us breakfast. And they didn’t fix your plate!”

“I don’t have to eat ‘till I puke?” Harry opens one eye, the emerald shining at his friend, who shakes his head with a broad grin. “I’m up!”

They circle up once more, laughing about missing Hogsmeade, something they never would’ve done last year. They chatter about what they had planned and throw bits of food at each other in retaliation for teasing comments, then try to catch it in their mouths.

“Oh, wait,” Harry laughs, “Malfoy said we were going to Gringotts today, shoot.” They all continue laughing, giddy for some reason they can’t identify.

“Did you agree or did he just decide it?” Ron asks around a massive mouthful.

“Ron!” Neville cries, “don’t choke!” And he whips a torn off piece of toast at him.

“He decided it,” Harry says after swallowing. “Just announced that first night that we’d be going. Made a whole list of things to do and chanted it at me.”

“Well, then,” Dean sniggers, “sounds like fairs fair to me. If you weren’t asked, you didn’t commit.”

“He’s going to hate me again,” Harry sighs. Then, he starts to laugh, pointing out, “maybe if he hates me again, he won’t bloody babysit me any longer!” Cheers go up in the room, followed by resounding laughter.

Eventually, they calm down and settle in while Neville reads from the Herbology book to them.

“Harry,” Neville asks at a resting place, “did you at least finish your work?”

“No,” Harry says, “but I was on the last assignment and most of the way through it. Just another two inches, I think. I’ll do it once I go back down. If it hasn’t been taken right off my desk.” There’s some grumbling at that, acknowledgement of the authenticity of the fear. It’s all too possible Professor Snape had taken it and wouldn’t give it back, if only to punish Harry further.

After they eat the lunch the elves bring them, Harry leans back with a sigh.

“I’ve gotta go see Madam Pomfrey,” he tells them. “Join me?”

The whole group is up and out the door in a flash.

“Hey, you said they’re putting too much on your plate,” Ron suddenly realizes. “Does that mean you’ve not been having pudding?”

Harry turns mournful eyes on him, “not even the days they had treacle tart.”

“Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey calls when she sees him coming, “do you know how many people you’ve terrified with your little stunt?”

“I’m not apologizing for getting some space,” Harry folds his arms in response. “I’m sorry for worrying you, but I can’t be hovered over all the time and be expected never to snap. Especially when said hovering keeps me separated from all my friends just because my stupid bloody babysitters don’t like my friends. So I’ve added something to my schedule. Fridays, I’m going to Gryffindor and spending the night with my old dorm. Because I need that. And no, there is no saying no to this. If you all can stick a mile-long rule list in front of me and say, ‘no exceptions,’ I get to add something of my own, for my own sanity.”

“You were in Gryffindor?” She frowns at him, but says nothing about his declaration. “We did not think to check there. We assumed the Fat Lady wouldn’t let you in. We’ll remember for next time.”

The words sound so much like a threat that Harry sees red. Something inside him snaps and the world pulses. There’s the sound of glass shattering.

“What was he supposed to see you for today?” Neville asks, stepping in front of Harry to block his line of sight.

“I was going to check how his ribs and weight were doing since last week and then take a look at his leg and make a plan to heal it.”

“Can you check his ribs and weight here?”

“Yes, but he usually spends tonight here, with me.”

“And this week,” Seamus snaps, hands heating up, “he’ll spend it with us.” They don’t let her mention anything about the leg, so she casts the spells and clicks her tongue at the second one.

“Your ribs are good, but I’m afraid we’ll need to up your intake again,” she informs him clinically, “you haven’t gained nearly what I want you to.” Harry goes green at the idea of eating even more than he already does, but Madam Pomfrey misses it. Ron and Dean don’t. They each grab an arm and start leading him back.

“Right, well, we’ll just be taking him, then,” Ron practically hisses and the group does an about face to head back to the tower.

Halfway back, Umbridge appears.

“Mr. Potter—”

“We’ve just come from Madam Pomfrey,” Neville cuts her off. “It’s not his fault no one thought to check the most obvious place.”

“Why, I never.” She huffs.

“We’re taking him back for some rest,” Seamus adds, “he’ll be all squared away soon enough.”

Back at the tower, people have started returning from Hogsmeade already.

“House announcement!” Dean hollers over the noise. “If Snape—or any professor, really—comes in looking to take Harry out of here tonight, you do not let them.”

“Aye, aye,” the common room choruses.

“Let’s go see the twins,” Ron suggests. “And then we’ll visit with Hermione when she gets back.”

“Sounds good.”

The twins give them a demonstration of every new product they’ve made (that has passed product testing, thank Merlin).

Hermione gives him a good tongue-lashing for disappearing, but in the end, hugs him with a broad grin and whispers, “welcome home,” in his ear.

“I wish it were forever,” he whispers back. She squeezes tighter and he knows her answer in that moment. If he wishes it, then it will be.

Just as Malfoy is Prince of Slytherin, Harry is King of Gryffindor, the leader of the Pride. And lionesses are fiercer than any viper.

And just like that, he realizes that his resignation to being in Slytherin is gone. He doesn’t want that. Just because he wants to be alive more than be brave he has to give up his family and his home? No, no that won’t do. Not anymore.

“I learned interesting things there,” he tells Ron when they’re playing chess in the common room. “And Malfoy actually lent me pajamas. They taught me to use a quill properly and about my vaults and some of the wizarding world’s history. But it’s more of a place I’d be okay visiting once in a while than a place I want to live.”

“And so it shall be,” Ron replies. And the twins rise and bow, catching the attention of everyone in the room. “We will bring the King home.”

“And so it shall be,” calls back everyone in the room.

This trend began back in third year, when it was unsafe for him to be anywhere. It had been unspoken, unacknowledged before that. That Harry was King of Gryffindor. The House, despite going with what the rest of the school did outside the common room, supported him whole heartedly from within. Almost the opposite of Slytherin. But third year, he had shown everyone the Patronus charm and Prongs hand greeted every single Gryffindor member with a slight bow, one by one. And at the end, Harry was somehow still standing. Then, Harry drove off a hundred Dementors with a single Patronus. And the next time he stepped foot in the House, they rose and returned Prongs’ bow. Harry had been uncomfortable for a long moment, then he had transformed to his animagus form and bowed in return and that was that. The Lion became King.

He offhandedly mentioned something he wished the next day and the reply came. It had been decided in a House meeting.

Malfoy may be the unofficial Prince of Slytherin, but Harry was the people-chosen King of Gryffindor. Voted in unanimously and without his knowledge, Gryffindor backs him without question, even when they have to pretend to disagree in public.

He teaches them and they raise him up. When Voldemort comes—because he will—Gryffindor will be there, Godric’s sword in Neville’s hand and Harry’s wand leading the charge. They will stand behind him.

This is why, later, when Professor Snape comes to the door, the Fat Lady warns them first, before opening to let him in. Harry is whisked up the stairs and into his (yes, yes, his) dorm. The stairs are flooded and the common room filled, all staring at the teacher, wands held loosely in their grasp.

“Not tonight, Snape,” Neville calls from halfway down the stairs. “We’ll send him back to you in the morning.”

“This is not a negotiation, Mr. Longbottom,” Professor Snape shoots back. “Mr. Potter will return to his dorm tonight or there will be consequences.”

“He is in his dorm,” Ron replies. “He’s home. Home he will stay.”

“That’s not how this works, Mr. Weasley,” Professor Snape says, exasperated.

“And so it shall be,” a firstie mutters into the silence following Professor Snape’s words.

“Harry will stay,” Hermione announces. “Gryffindor grants him sanctuary, as any House can do when a student requests it.”

“Then grant it to me, as well,” Malfoy demands, stepping around Snape and into view. Several wands come up and target him. Eyes turn, up the steps to the chain of command. Neville looks up, then Ron, Hermione, Dean, Seamus, and Ginny, to the twins at the door of Harry’s dorm. They look in for a beat, relaying the request, then smirk. They turn back and the whole group knows the answer.

As one, the chain of command replies, “Petition denied.”

Hermione continues, “you will remove yourself from our common room at once, as required by the rules of this school.”

“Miss Granger, how long will this ‘sanctuary’ last?”

“Until it ends,” Ron declares. Professor Snape and Malfoy storm out. Harry descends the stairs, which are flanked on either side by his chain of command and the students stare up at him.

“Hermione, find out how to bring me home,” Harry orders.

“And so it shall be,” she responds, smiling slightly. This is how it’s supposed to be. Harry here, at home.

“To the rest of you, know this. Gryffindor will no longer play games. We have hidden who we are for long enough.” A cheer breaks his speech. “We are the Pride. We will end this war sooner rather than later. We will do it without losses, without injury. I think,” Harry grins, turning to Ron, “it is time we lure Voldemort to the school.”

“And so it shall be,” Ron agrees, a wicked grin splitting his face.

“Hear, hear!” The crowd of students cries.

“Let me address the first years,” Harry orders and the smallest are pushed forward. “Welcome,” he smiles at them, “to the Pride. I am Harry Potter. Some of you will know of me, some of you may have only just learned of me. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you on your first day.

“If you haven’t been told, the King of Gryffindor is someone unanimously voted on. It lasts until they are graduated or out-voted. They create a chain of command, with a general, a strategist, a reconnaissance specialist, and lieutenant generals. I added the position of weapon specialists as we are quite literally at war right now.

“Neville,” Harry gestures to his left, “is my General. Ron,” he lifts his right hand, “is my Strategist. Hermione is my Reconnaissance Specialist. Dean, Seamus, and Ginny are my Lieutenant Generals. The Twins, Fred and George, are my Weapons Specialists. None of this is spoken of outside the House. Is that clear?”

“Aye, aye,” the firsties chorus back. Harry grins, wicked and sharp.

“Well done.” He squares his shoulders. “You should know, the last several years, we have played games with those outside the House. It began before I even became King officially. My first year, I was praised and lauded. My second year, the House, by and large, pretended to hate me beyond these four walls. But within, nothing had changed. Third year, we united against a common cause and I was voted King. Last year, we pretended I was an outcast once more, until after the first task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. This year, we will band together and no one will think twice of it. But we will not break anymore, not until this war is won.”

“Hear, hear!” The firsties cheer, grinning proudly up at their leader. They had heard this before, but coming from him, well, it means something more now.

“You lot will, at most, be information gathering with the second years. You will begin training to learn to protect yourselves, but no one under third year will do more than spy and train. You will also begin animagus training. This is, largely, illegal. You will tell no one. Each and every one of you is important to our mission. If anyone were found out, we would all be found out and the mission—the war would be lost. So, what happens in the House, stays in the House. You will learn to change your form at will. And you will train to defend yourselves.”

“And so it shall be,” they chorus.

“I address the body at large,” Harry calls and all eyes are on him. “I presume training has continued in my absence?”

“Aye, aye.”

“Good. Have the firsties begun transformation practice?”

“Aye, aye.”

“Very good. I apologize for being missing.” There’s a cacophony of noise at this and Harry raises a hand. “I could have fought the Hat, but I was beaten down, tired, weak, that night. And winning against the Hat would’ve meant revealing another’s secrets, which was not acceptable. So yes, I apologize. We will right the wrong and we will win the war.”

“Aye, aye!”

“Good. Now, because of Umbridge, training will have to step up a notch. The Hidden Room will be the ideal place for this as practices will now overlap due to half hour extensions. Don’t burn yourselves out, but strengthen yourselves. You are more than capable of this.”

“Aye, aye!”

“Glad to hear it,” Harry smiles at them. “And now, let’s take tonight to rest. Work can begin in the morning.”

“Show the firsties,” someone yells.

Harry can’t help but laugh, wild and free, as he transforms. Large and proud, his form gazes across the common room. A lion, nearly an exact depiction of their House symbol, stands before them. Harry walks out into the crowd of people and those who can transform take this as their cue and follow his lead. Hermione becomes a small bird capable of incredible bursts of speed and spending months at a time in the air—the common swift. Ron transforms into a crow, a bird of clever thinking and creativity, and a fondness for shiny things. Neville becomes a wolf, big and strong and loyal and vicious; an Alpha. Dean becomes a Dingo—adorable looking but wild and savage. Seamus takes the form of a kangaroo, an animal capable of handling high heat and also prepared to stamp an opponent’s head in on call. And Ginny becomes a Tasmanian devil, savage and deadly and blatantly fearless. And the twins become a Kea, a playful, colorful type of parrot that sounds like it giggles or laughs.

There’s more animals in the room than actual people, all sorts of avians and felines and canines. Harry plays around with them, holding birds on his back, batting lightly at the cats and dogs, giving rides to the firsties small enough to fit comfortably. After a little while, things start to settle back down. People return to their games and work and Harry settles in front of the fire, lounging and allowing people to come up and pet him as they please.

“Professor McGonagall has left her room!” A portrait shouts, catching the attention of everyone still in the room.

“Calm down!” Harry yells, changing back when people start to panic. They quiet and listen to him. “It’ll be alright. Ron, set up the chess board to look as if we were playing a game. Everyone else, you will go back to what you were doing. Hermione, can Professor McGonagall override sanctuary?”

“No,” Hermione shakes her head with a smile.

“Then we’re safe. It’ll be fine.” He waits until the others have gone back to their activities. “Now, I know Ron tricked Professor Snape into leaving, but how long can I actually claim sanctuary?”

“A month,” Hermione replies.

“Then we have a month to get me Sorted back into Gryffindor. There’s really no need to panic, is there? It’s never taken you that long to figure out a puzzle,” Harry says with a confident grin.

“No, it hasn’t,” Hermione agrees, “and with my team working on the issue as well, I could reasonably say we’ll be ready within a week.”

Harry takes his seat across from Ron and studies the board, a pretty accurate depiction of a chess game between them. Footsteps ring outside the portrait and he hovers a hand over the pieces, sticking his tongue out a little from the corner of his lips and waiting.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Professor McGonagall bellows once she gets inside. Harry cringes with the other fifth year boys and he notes that a few younger years do, too. No firsties, though. That’s good. “What is this I hear about you chasing Professor Snape out?”

“He wanted to take Harry, Professor,” Neville says innocently. “And he was yelling and threatening us. And Harry didn’t want to go with him. We just wanted Harry safe.”

“I see. And you denied Mr. Malfoy sanctuary?”

“He was part of the problem,” Neville replies, “and sanctuary is hard to claim.”

“But Mr. Potter was able to claim it.”

“Harry is Gryffindor.”

Professor McGonagall closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I see. Mr. Weasley, please excuse me for a moment, I need your seat.”

She sets a privacy spell around them and meets Harry’s eyes.

“Mr. Potter, you sounded as if you were alright with going to Slytherin when the re-Sorting occurred. What changed this?”

“I was resigned, Professor,” Harry looks away. “I didn’t want to go, but the only way I could reasonably get myself to stay was to reveal someone else’s secrets and I couldn’t do that. Because my reasoning for wanting to stay was connected to that.”

“As brave as ever, Mr. Potter,” she smiles kindly at him, “to go into the viper’s nest to protect a friend. You realize I need to ask about the secret, correct?”

“I will tell once I’ve turned seventeen,” Harry sighs, “or once Voldemort is defeated. But not before then. I promise, I have a good reason for keeping it. No one is in danger because of it.” That might be a little bit of a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Very well,” she nods, “but the moment that secret becomes a danger, you will tell me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry agrees. “And, as for my half of the secret, you may find that out if we manage to get me back home permanently.”

Her lips quirk, “then we shall have to see what we can do to get you home as quickly as possible. My curiosity is liable to kill me.”

“The answer will satisfy you,” Harry assures her, chuckling a little.

“I certainly hope so,” she shoots back. “Now, what drove you to seek sanctuary?”

“Professor Snape had Malfoy and Zabini hounding me every minute of every day. I couldn’t even leave the common room to go to the bathroom without one of them coming with,” Harry rants to her. “And I know now that they’re nice boys and I don’t want to fight with Malfoy anymore, but I can’t take that!”

He freezes, wanting to go on but realizing he’ll need to tell in order to do it.

“Ah,” she smiles softly at him, “is my curiosity about to be satisfied?”

“I suppose so,” Harry sighs. “Malfoy got all up in arms that I was holding my quill wrong. I was left-handed and Aunt Petunia didn’t approve, so my left fingers were broken. But then, I did something that supposedly deserved the breaking of the fingers on my right hand, so they were broken, too. It made it almost impossible to hold a quill properly. Malfoy noticed this and Professor Snape found out while we were arguing about whether or not I needed to see Madam Pomfrey.” Harry drums his healed fingers on the board. “She healed them and now I can use my left hand like I’m supposed to. It’s really improved my magic, Professor. Vastly. And my handwriting is better, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I have,” Professor McGonagall assures him, “and your transfigurations are coming along quite impressively.”

“Well, finding out about my fingers lead to the realization that breaking them probably wasn’t an isolated instance,” Harry says, cringing at the guilt on her face. “And it wasn’t, but I’ve already read books on recovery from child abuse and implemented what I could. Aside from the physical, I’d already healed as much as I could while still having to return each summer. But Professor Snape wouldn’t listen to me and Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t either.”

“They steamrolled right over you and implemented a ‘healing plan,’ didn’t they?” Professor McGonagall shakes her head. “I may not have mandatory meetings each year, but at least I listen when you speak.”

“I know,” Harry sighs, dropping his eyes. “I think that’s what frustrated me the most. I’d figured everything out and they were making it worse again. I couldn’t take it anymore so I came up here. We—the guys in my dorm and I—we talked and talked all night last night. About everything Snape had implemented. Professor, he and Madam Pomfrey can’t figure out why I’m not gaining weight, so every time I see her, they ‘up my intake’, but I’m already throwing up after meals. If I don’t finish the plate, I get in trouble. When I tried to tell them it was making me sick, I got in trouble for ‘punishing myself’.”

“Oh, Mr. Potter,” she tilts her head, “they are so used to being right, aren’t they?” Tears well up—real, this time, not like with Madam Pomfrey. He feels one slip down his cheek.

“Why won’t they listen to me?”

“Because they see you as a child,” she tells him, “a child who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Mr. Potter, you know you best. If you tell me you’ve handled the emotional piece, I believe you. Can you assure me you aren’t throwing up on purpose?”

“I promise!” Harry cries and another tear escapes. “I promise.”

“Very well, then, I believe you. You will eat only as much feels comfortable to you. You may have some pudding each evening, as well, but I would ask that you ensure you’ve eaten three healthy meals first. Is that acceptable?”

“More than,” Harry lets out a sigh of relief. “There’s only a few desserts I really like, anyway.”

“Especially treacle tart,” she teases and he blushes a little. “I would also ask that you come to me when you feel you cannot handle something yourself. I do want to help, Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, Professor.” His eyes shine pleasantly at her, no longer overflowing with tears.

“Good. Now, the rest of your story, please. I’m sure there is more.”

“He made a rule list. I’ve no problem with that—I like clear boundaries and having all the consequences clearly outlined is nice. But he gave me a bedtime at the same time as the firsties and wouldn’t let me do anything on my own and they’re holding a cure for my eyes over my head. And the punishments he chose… He didn’t consult me at all, just assumed he knew what I’d been through and what punishments would be best. Then he stuck the list in front of me and told me that I could change three punishments I found unacceptable.” Harry sniffs a little and his voice cracks on the next sentence, “but all of them… all of them are wrong.”

“Mr. Potter,” she says sternly, then changes her mind. “Harry, come here.” He rounds the board and she presses him tight against her in a comforting, grandmotherly hug. “Tell me why they’re wrong.”

“It’s all lines,” Harry sniffles, “and he had spankings on there four times and I could only change three. And lines make my head hurt and spankings are terrifying. I don’t ever want to be hit again.”

Professor McGonagall sighs and cradles him closer. “You won’t be,” she promises, “he will not get to use that list against you.” She rocks side to side a little, soothing him. “As for that cure, I know which one you’re speaking of, and I know a brewer who makes it. You shall have it within the week.” She pushes him back and lightly wipes a few stray tears from his face. “How’s that?”

“Thank you,” he whispers, eyes gleaming with hope, “thank you.”

“Now, your mental health clearly isn’t secure there,” she declares and stands up. “I assume you have Miss Granger researching how to have you brought back to Gryffindor?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry grins.

“Good. I am oath-bound not to reveal the answer to students, unfortunately. They must come to me and request it. But I can tell you it would be a good idea for Miss Granger to request a pass to the Restricted Section from myself.” Professor McGonagall smirks. “I believe the Hogwarts Charter is in there. It could be an interesting read.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry says with a laugh. “I’ll be sure to let her know.”

She dispels the privacy charm and bids them all goodnight.

“That looked like a good chat, mate,” Ron appears at Harry’s shoulder.

“It was,” Harry turns to him and grins. They watch the portrait close. Harry counts to fifteen, then calls out, “Chain, to me!”

With them flanking him, he darts up the steps to the fifth-year dorm. It’s time for a run-down of what he had learned.

“Hermione,” he says when they’ve made themselves comfortable, “You’ll need to get a pass to the Restricted Section from Professor McGonagall. She thinks you’ll find the Hogwarts Charter interesting.” They all laugh at the way her eyes light up, but they know the real reason for it and sober up quickly. “Ron, when would it be most reasonable for her to request it?”

“Not Monday,” Ron tilts his head. “That would make it too obvious. We don’t want to wait too long, in case it’ll have a long process to put into action. I’d say go on Tuesday. Do the reading that evening. Copy out whatever you can. If we have to, we’ll take the cloak to go copy out the rest.”

“I’ll have no trouble copying it,” Hermione grins, “I’ve got my team well trained.”

“Good.” Harry turns to the twins, “I’ll need you two prepared in case Slytherin decides to retaliate.”

They salute him, “and so it shall be.”

“Now, status reports?”

“The firsties are training up quick,” Ginny starts, as always. “They’ll probably be ready to be pushed into battle training next year, though with what you’re saying, there won’t be a need next year. I’ve got them through most of the ward training. If you give me three weeks, they’ll be fully prepped. Three firsties have already finished the transformation. I expect three more to in the next month The second years are doing well and most have gotten the transformation. Only two more to go and they’re on the brink. They’ll have it by the time our plans are ready.”

“Third years are handling the transition into the new training well.” Dean goes next. “ I have to say, I’m proud of them. Fourth years are really the cream of the crop, though. They’ve all learned the Patronus. I would say they’re ready to work in the thirds, once we get that lot split into defensive, animagus, and offensive.”

“Sixth and seventh years are maintaining nicely. They’ve brought some interesting spells to us,” Seamus reports. “I’d also like to add that one of them found a nice fire spell that works somewhat like a bomb. I’m excited to test it out in a simulation.”

“Glad to hear it, all three of you.”

The twins are next. Harry braces himself.

“We’ve developed something—”

“Interesting. We call it—”

“Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.”

“It’ll make the whole area black as pitch.”

“Only problem is—”

“We’re still doing work on the charm to be able to see through it!”

“It’s functional—”

“But could be so much better.”

“Keep on it, then, and let me know if you want me to take a look,” Harry offers. “And if it’s not an option, then maybe a long-lasting potion may be.”

Ron pipes up, “I’ve designed squad training for the simulations designed to follow our battle plans for the official day. As you said, tomorrow, I will begin work on a lure to bring Voldemort here. There’s a variety of training schemes because real battle veers away from paper plans.”

“That sounds perfect. Keep it up and keep me looped in on the plans.”

Neville is next, “Work for the hand-to-hand in squad I selected is going well, but I wish we were progressing faster. I want to be on weapons by Halloween. Especially sword work, as Godric’s sword is what’s going to win us this war. Well, besides you, Harry.”

“I’ll join in on the training,” Harry promises. “They may just need a different style of teaching. We’ll make them unstoppable. Make sure to keep an eye on the first and second years. Maybe a few of them will mesh well with your squad and speed training. Nothing more motivating than a tiny thing beating you up,” Harry chuckles and Neville agrees.

“I was going to inform you when we meet tomorrow, but this works too. The last scout returned,” Hermione grins wickedly. “We’ve got the final piece. I’ll send out a few scouts to gather the tools we need to handle the Horcrux in you and then we’ll be ready. I anticipate the scouts taking a week to gather. It’ll likely take us as long to set everything up properly and manage to keep it secret.”

“That is more than acceptable,” Harry assures her. His head tilts and he turns to Ron, “wouldn’t it be ironic if Voldemort was defeated on Halloween twice?”

“Oh,” Ron’s eyes go wide, “now that is beautiful. I’ll see what I can do.”

“That gives us about five weeks, then,” Neville muses aloud, “There’s spells we can use to aid with muscle growth and speed up muscle memory. It’ll require a bunch more protein in their diets, though.”

“I’ll contact the elves,” Harry promises.

“So basically, I’ve got a week to form a plan,” Ron glares, “since everyone else’s stuff will be ready by then. Okay, I guess I can do that. Hermione, don’t kill me, but that’s going to take away from my school time.”

“You will never hear me say this again and if any of you tell, I will deny it to my dying breath,” Hermione takes a deep breath and looks Ron in the eye. “This is more important than schoolwork. If we don’t win this war, it won’t matter how much schoolwork we’ve done since we’ll all be dead. Since my job is mostly waiting, if any of you have work incomplete, come to me. All you’ll have to do is copy it into your handwriting.”

Silence reigns for a second, then everyone in the room whoops and cheers.

“So proud of you, ‘Mione,” Harry cries and sweeps her into a hug. The others express the same thoughts.

“You know we’re going to take you up on that, right?” Neville checks.

“I know,” Hermione nods, “I want to make sure no one dies in this war. If that means a little bit of cheating, then so be it. Let’s win. Besides, it’s not like we couldn’t all pass our NEWTs today. Heck, the third years probably could, thanks to our training.”

“Right, then,” Harry claps his hands and stands, “Bedtime.” He winks to Dean, who smirks back. The girls and twins file out to get ready for bed.

“Now that they’re gone,” Dean sighs, settling on a pillow and smiling at the hot chocolate that appears for them. “What was the talk with McGonagall about?”

“She is livid with Snape,” Harry announces and the group cheers softly. “She basically gave Hermione the answer to getting me back. Apparently, she’s under oath not to expressly tell anyone what to do to change Houses. They have to seek her out and ask for it explicitly.”

“That explains a lot,” Ron mutters. “You didn’t tell her about…”

“No,” Harry promises. “Only about myself. I skirted around our group. I have a feeling she’ll ask me what’s so horrible about lines, later, but…”

“Mate, you know you’re the only one who really suffers while reading and writing, right?” Seamus asks. “I might not like it, but I can do it. I may eventually get a stress headache, but you get them so quick and regularly that it’s abnormal.”

“Do we have to talk about this?” Harry whines.

“If not today, then we will after the battle,” Dean declares. “No skirting around it anymore. We’ve known something’s off since first year, but for now, we’ll wait.”

“By November fifteenth, then,” Harry offers. “The battle, time to rest, and then we’ll discuss it.”

“Works for me.” Agreements circle the room. They chat for a little while longer about what Professor McGonagall had said, then turn in for the night.

Harry attends classes with the Gryffindors for the next week. At meals, Ron snatches the full plate from his place and switches it with his own, empty one. Harry eats what he can and what he enjoys and allows himself a bit of pudding every night. At his next check-up, Madam Pomfrey is pleased, if disgruntled with his escape from Slytherin. She rants at him for a little while about that, but Harry tunes it out. Especially when she tells him to just go to Snape and get the punishment out of the way, that delaying it will only make him stress about it more. In Potions, Harry is safely ensconced in a honor guard of Gryffindors. Snape only gets close enough to check his potion, but as soon as he tries to say anything to Harry, Harry is tucked away behind whomever his desk partner for the day is and Snape finds himself on the receiving end of a death glare.

Malfoy ignores Harry. Blatantly and openly. Zabini shoots him hurt looks, which Harry returns apologetically, but after they kept him away from his friends, his family, for three weeks, he doesn’t feel all that guilty.

It’s the end of a long day, just after training with Neville, when Hermione sprints into the common room, a team of fourth and sixth years on her heels.

“And so it shall be!” She calls out, hefting a copy of notes high in the air, “the King shall come home!”

Harry shoots to his feet, grinning wildly and runs over to her.

“Tell me,” he breathes, clutching her shoulders.

“You go to Professor McGonagall, you declare need for re-Sorting due to safety concerns. If not physical safety, mental security can stand in as a reason. But you still declare it as a safety concern. She will then collect the Sorting Hat from the Headmaster and you will be re-Sorted in front of all the Heads of Houses and the Headmaster.” Hermione grins, “I think we all know what will happen, then.”

“And the King will come home!” the common room starts to chant. Harry lets out a ringing laugh that echoes over their voices.

“Monday!” he yells, “I come home Monday!”

Gryffindor parties that night and the next day, Harry and his chain of command go into Hogsmeade. They floo to Gringotts and Harry slips a key from his pocket and is lead to a vault piled high with gold. Not the vault Dumbledore had him taken to, but a larger one. In the back is a row of trunks. Harry selects one. It is charmed to only open to a Potter or someone a Potter willingly keys into the wards. Harry keys in his chain of command, then presses the rune on top to shrink it and sticks it in his pocket.

After collecting enough galleons to buy what he needs, they return to Hogsmeade and make their way to Gladrags.

Everyone starts picking things out—mostly for themselves, but they all chip in to help Harry, too. Soon, Harry is all set with everything he could possibly need. Arguably, it isn’t a wardrobe fit for a king, but Harry feels like a warrior or a “bad boy” in his clothes and he loves them.

“I may not be able to get rid of Dudley’s things just yet, but at least I can have good things while I’m at school.”

“And with the war almost over,” Ron adds in a hushed voice, “you won’t have to go back to the Dursley’s this summer.”

“With the war almost over, I can have Sirius freed.” Harry wishes he was a girl for an instant, if only so he could squeal or giggle with excitement. “I won’t go back.”

They punch each other in the arm, then sling their arms around each other’s shoulders and the group finds its way back up to the castle.

“Tonight, Hermione?” Harry asks.

“Tonight, Harry,” she agrees immediately. “I’ll set it up.”

Malfoy glares as they walk past.

Harry sighs, “I’ll have to fix that.”

“At least he isn’t hexing us anymore,” Neville points out

“Yeah, but I let him think we were becoming friends and then I just bolted and didn’t talk to him again.”

“Then go fix it,” Hermione rolls her eyes. “Honestly—boys.”

“Fine.” Harry whips around and stalks over to Malfoy, who’s eyes go wide at the approach, then narrow dangerously.

“Have fun, Potter?” he spits, “was mocking us worth it?”

“Who said I was mocking you?” Harry snarls back. “Have I ever once given the indication that I am anything but a sincere person? You kept me from my friends for three weeks!” Harry doesn’t let his voice come above a harsh whisper, but it’s clear to everyone they’re arguing. “What part of that makes you think I’d want to be in Slytherin anymore? I’ve been with them for four years and had been with you for only two days!”

“I was only doing what I was told!”

“Then take it up with Professor Snape, but I’m not putting up with being separated from my friends and treated like an infant! I don’t need to be babysat and, if Professor Snape would’ve listened to me just once, he’d know why his ‘special little program’ hasn’t been working. He can’t even say I didn’t try to explain.” Harry glares at the taller boy. “I tried, Malfoy, I did. I thought you’d lighten up after the first week. Thought maybe you’d realize I didn’t need my hand held all day after the second. But by the end of the third, I was ready to explode.” Harry stops, remembering what happened outside the Hospital Wing. “I did explode. After a full night away and with my friends. I blew out every window in the hall surrounding the Hospital Wing. You can’t say you didn’t see the warning signs, can you? Honestly?”

Malfoy looks down and his cheeks pink, “no, I can’t. I tried to tell Uncle Sev, I did, but he wouldn’t listen to me either. I didn’t want to get in trouble, so…”

“So you decided to jeopardize my mental health and stability instead,” Harry snaps. Malfoy’s head whips up, eyes like golf balls and shaking his head frantically. “But that’s exactly what you did, Malfoy. You sacrificed me and my health so you wouldn’t have to do lines or scrub cauldrons. What friend does that? Did you really think I didn’t know?”

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy whispers.

“I know.” Harry tips his head slightly, looking up through his bangs at the other boy. “I’m sorry for how I reacted to you at the start of first year. In a little while, we can try to be friends again, now that we’ve both managed to muck it up. But for now, I need space. And tell Professor Snape that I’m through with his little list. He should’ve listened to me when I spoke.”

“I’ll tell him,” Malfoy promises. “But—tell me when you’re ready. I do… I do want to know you, Potter. As more than an enemy.”

“I will.” Harry turns back to his group and they look amazed that there was no hexing or hitting.

“I’m impressed,” Ron informs him. “You actually didn’t kill each other for this one.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “Not this time.”

“Oh, and I put a silencing charm around you,” Ginny chimes in. “So while people could see you arguing, they didn’t know what you were saying. Not even Snape.”

Harry’s eyes flick to the corner of the room where the Professor is glowering at him.

“Thank you, Ginny. And thank you, Hermione, for pushing me to go.”

They go up to the Hidden Room, which Hermione alters to be almost exactly a muggle hospital room, just without the technology.

“Shirt off,” she tells him, “and lay on the bed. Here’s what we’re doing.

“We’re going to inject you with this,” she holds up a needle. “It’ll stop your heart. You’ll be clinically dead for about ten minutes, during which time, I will be pumping your blood and breathing for you alternately with Ginny. We won’t be doing it at the proper rates to try to bring you back. Instead, we’ll be doing it just enough that you won’t go brain dead in that amount of time. After ten minutes, we’ll pick up our rate of compressions to the appropriate speed and then… shock you, for lack of a better word.

“Do you know the origin of Crucio?”

“No…” Harry eyes her warily.

“It was originally designed to reactivate dead nerves.”

“It works,” Harry grumbles, pouting. He definitely does not want to feel that curse again.

“In our case, we’re using it to force your nerves to activate. This will cause your heart to re-start. It’s basically in place of an AED.”

“And you’re reasonably certain this will work.”

“It’ll definitely kill you and bring you back. We can only hope it’ll handle the Horcrux.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Harry strips his shirt off and lays back on the bed, which is wide enough for the girls to kneel on either side of him.

“This needle is going to go in pretty deep. Breathe in, and, when I inject, exhale slowly.” Harry does as instructed and has to close his eyes not to watch the needle go down through his chest to just above his heart. Cold spills around it as Ron and the twins make gagging sounds at the sight. Neville whimpers and Dean and Seamus are discussing what it would be like if he came back as a zombie. Harry doesn’t want to think about that.

Pain lances through him for an instant, then everything is still. He opens his eyes.

A train station. Almost exactly 9¾. Harry looks around slowly, drawn to the screaming of a massively deformed baby.

“Leave it,” a voice orders. Harry whips around. There, before him, is James Potter. And beside him is Lily.

“Come here, son,” Lily holds out an arm and he races to them. They embrace him tightly. “Oh, my sweet, sweet boy, how burdensome this life has been for you.” She cradles his face in her hands.

“Am I doing the right thing?”

“You’re winning the war,” James replies, “and that’s what counts. Whether or not it’s right—you can worry about that later.”

“You’re trying to save lives, Harry,” Lily reminds him, as if he could have forgotten. “I firmly believe you are saving lives. You will end this war far sooner this way. That alone will keep people alive.”

“You’re right,” Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I only have a few minutes.”

“We know,” James tells him. “You’ll be going back. Just don’t touch that demented thing.” His lip curls at the baby. “It’s what’s left of the Horcrux.”

“Oh, gross,” Harry groans. “Glad you didn’t let me get close to it.”

“We are, too,” Lily smiles.

“Hey, do me a favor and get Padfoot to stop moping about, would you?”

“I’m going to do my best,” Harry promises. James and Lily smile.

“That’s all we could ask for.”

The world blurs.

“I’ll miss you,” Harry tells them, desperately. “I love you.”

“We love you, too, son. We love you, too. We’ll be watching.”

“Now, go,” Lily whispers. Harry closes his eyes and the next time they open, he’s gasping for breath in the Hidden Room.

“Do the test,” he chokes out, “do it!”

Ron darts forward and casts the spell. The air surrounding Harry’s scar shines blue for a long second before Ron releases the spell and Harry collapses back, laughing with relief.

“Thank Merlin, it’s gone.”

“It is,” Hermione grins, “it worked!” They laugh and cheer and hug each other until the excitement and adrenaline is burned from their systems.

“Next step,” Harry sits up and pulls his shirt back on, “get me re-Sorted.”

“But first,” Fred grins and George brandishes his wand.

“Serpensortia!”

A snake appears and, angry, starts shooting forward at the first person it sees.

“Wait! Don’t hurt her!” Harry cries in parseltongue. Fred and George cackle manically and vanish the snake.

“Guess you’re still the evil, evil, Dark Lord Potter, aren’t you?” They snigger at him.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry rolls his eyes. “Let’s go. I need to sleep.”

The next day, when Harry walks into Professor McGonagall’s office, she smiles at him and orders, “say the words, Mr. Potter.”

“I, Harry James Potter, hereby request a re-Sorting due to concerns over my safety.”

Professor McGonagall practically races to the Headmasters office and summons the Heads of Houses immediately.

Snape sneers at Harry when he realizes what’s going on, “Slytherin isn’t good enough for you, Potter? Minerva, don’t you know why he’s doing this?”

“I do,” she says coldly, “and maybe he wouldn’t have to if you’d listened to the words coming out of his mouth instead of dismissing him out of hand.”

“Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore stands, sensing an incoming battle. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“I have nothing against Slytherin, Professor Dumbledore. But it isn’t home. And, as Professor McGonagall pointed out, Professor Snape wouldn’t listen to me. He had elves prepare my plate for me and required me to clear it entirely. It was so much food I would vomit after. He sent me to bed every night at the same time as the first years. He isolated me from my friends, ordering Malfoy and Zabini to keep me away from them.” Harry sighs, and admits, “I know he did it because he was worried about me. But he went too far and I can’t stay there anymore. He wouldn’t listen when I spoke, so I acted instead.”

“Very well, Mr. Potter. If you would, Professor McGonagall.”

Snape is still gaping like a fish when the Hat slips over Harry’s eyes.

Agai—oh, I see now. Well. That is something I didn’t anticipate.

I could have handled Slytherin if it weren’t for that. I’m sorry.

No, Mr. Potter. I’m sorry. I did not mean to cause this rift. I will send you home, I see now I never should have moved you. You had your own plans in the works. And don’t worry, I’ll keep them to myself for now. Four more weeks, is that correct?

It is, and thank you.

You’re very welcome, King of—

“GRYFFINDOR!” Professor McGonagall lifts the Hat off and pulls Harry into a hug.

“Welcome back, Mr. Potter,” she murmurs.

“Home,” Harry whispers, “I get to be home.”

“You do, Harry, you do,” she promises, “welcome home.”

“Can I—?” He gestures to the door, ignoring Snape’s narrow-eyed glare.

“The elves will gather your belongings from Slytherin,” Professor McGonagall says, “so, yes, you may go make yourself at home.” She whispers a phrase into his ear and that’s that.

Harry grins blindingly and runs out of the room, sprinting through the halls to Gryffindor tower, the red badge and tie of his uniform catching nearly everyone’s attention.

“Domi ego sum,” he tells the Fat Lady.

“You are, are you?” she asks, giggling. “Well, then, welcome home. I assumed that password was for you.”

Harry steps through, tie loosened from around his neck and clenched tight in one fist. He stops just through the entrance and all eyes turn to him, conversations stopping in their interest.

He lifts his fist slowly, victoriously over his head, displaying the Gryffindor colors for all to see and throws his head back with a loud whoop.

“I’m home!” He yells to the ceiling.

“And so it has been done!” Someone cries. And people are cheering for the victory, for winning when all odds were stacked against them.

They’ve killed the Horcrux within Harry, collected all the others, including Nagini, and now they’ve defeated a decree forcing their king to a new land. There is, in their minds, only one battle left to fight—the final battle.

His roommates help Harry unpack into the small dresser and wardrobe, hanging what they can and leaving the rest folded between the drawers and trunk. When everything is unpacked, he feels a knot in his chest loosen. Hearing the words and coming back to Gryffindor had been a rush, but now he feels like he can finally relax.

“Welcome home, Harry Potter,” Ron says from the doorway. “Now stop being pensive. It’s time to party!”

He grabs Harry’s arm and drags him down the stairs into the chaos of the common room, where the music is turned up far too loud and drinks that definitely don’t belong in a school are being passed around. They laugh and play games and dance and toast to everything and anything long into the morning.

None of Gryffindor house is at breakfast the next day, but they manage to make it to class on time, if only for the grace of hangover potions and the two showers per dorm.

“Mr. Potter, a moment of your time,” Professor Snape says at the end of their afternoon double class. The others hesitate to leave him alone.

“Wait just outside the door. If you hear something or I take longer than five minutes, break the ward and come in,” Harry murmurs quickly into Ron’s ear. He accepts the conditions and leads the group of boys out. “Yes, Professor?”

“We still have the discussion of your punishment to meter out,” Professor Snape turns and starts to walk to his desk, as if expecting Harry to follow.

“Yeah… no.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no. That list is a monstrosity. For one, I know how much sleep I need to get. I’m perfectly capable of getting my homework done—somehow, I managed before you came along. I don’t starve myself, but you were making me eat until I puked and then punishing me for getting sick when it was your fault, not mine.” Harry twists so his back is to the door and he can walk without turning away from Professor Snape. “You can hem and haw and say I agreed to that list, but you and I both know that’s not true. You wrote it up and told me I could request to have three punishments changed. You wouldn’t even listen to my reasons for wanting other things changed. I put up with that thing when you had authority over me because I thought I had to, because I thought if I stuck with it for a week or two, you would lighten up. You didn’t and I cracked. Once again, not my fault. I literally blew up the Hospital Wing because of that list, so excuse me, but I’ll have to pass on that punishment—which, by the way, I tried to tell you wasn’t on my list of acceptable punishments at all. And neither are lines.”

Harry turns away and starts to walk out when Professor Snape asks, “why? Why are they not acceptable? They’re incredibly common.”

“I gave you the chance to ask me that four weeks ago. You no longer have that right.” With that, Harry throws the door open and leaves. It’s not really good form to just walk out on a teacher, but Professor Snape has burned his bridges with Harry for the last time.

Ironically enough, it’s that very evening that Professor McGonagall presses a potion into Harry’s hand and tells him to take it before he goes to bed. When he wakes the next morning, it’s to the miraculous ability to see the ceiling above him without his glasses, which he promptly bins.

“Gather around,” Harry calls, standing on the steps and waiting for his House to crowd around him. “We will discuss the plans for tonight for the last time. Ron, the bait is laid?”

“Aye,” Ron nods sharply.

“Hermione, your scouts?”

“Reporting in regularly, the bait is being inspected.”

“Keep me updated.”

“Aye.”

“Everyone can transform?”

“Aye,” the common room choruses.

“First and second years, you are prepared to set the wards?”

“Aye!”

“Ginny, you will seal the outside?”

“Aye.”

“Fred, George, supplies have been distributed?”

“Aye.”

“Neville, your squad is prepared?”

“Aye.”

“You have the proper sword?”

“Aye.”

“Dean, your squad is prepared?”

“Aye.”

“Seamus, your squad is prepared?”

“Aye.”

“Ginny, your squad is prepared?”

“Aye.”

“Hermione, your squad is prepared?”

“Aye.”

“Ron, your squad is prepared?”

“Aye.”

“Fred, your squad is prepared?”

“Aye.”

“George, your squad is prepared?”

“Aye.”

“Is everyone clear on what they are supposed to be doing tonight?”

“Aye, aye!”

“Good. I will say this now rather than when we get down there: if you are injured more than you can personally heal in two seconds, you will retreat to the Great Hall to be treated by the first and second years. Someone will fill the void until you return.

“Aim to take the Death Eaters out of the fight, but alive. Only kill if you absolutely must. We need as many alive as possible for questioning. Is everyone clear on these points?”

“Aye, aye!”

“Tonight, we go to war. A war we hope to win with one battle. One battle where none of our own are injured severely or killed. I believe we can do this. I know we can do this. I trust in each and every one of you. This school year has already been a rollercoaster of events and emotions, but we are fully trained. Every, single Gryffindor is an animagus. Every, single Gryffindor is trained in basic hand-to-hand. Every, single Gryffindor is a dueling expert. Every, single Gryffindor is a warding expert. Every, single Gryffindor is a Healer. For honor and pride, with every ounce of courage in our bones—We will fight. We will survive. We will win.

“We are the Pride!”

“With the King!” His chain hollers.

“Hear us roar!” the common room screams back at him and they devolve into discombobulated yelling.

“Here, tonight, Voldemort will fall for the final time!” Harry shouts over them.

“So the King has decreed,” Neville crows.

“And so it shall be!” the rest cheer.

“Move out!”

As one Pride, they flow out of the common room into the halls. Decked out in costumes designed to disguise the dueling robes they wear underneath, they make their way through the school to the Great Hall.

“Costumes? Really?” some Slytherin sneers as they enter. The Gryffindors simply smirk at each other. In just a few hours, no one will be mocking them. They take their seats and look up to the Headmaster. He starts to drone on and on about how this day has gone down in history for many different reasons.

Eventually, he cuts off and turns to stare at the windows in shock.

“Hermione?” Harry murmurs intently.

“Not yet.”

“But he—”

“He has an extra ward,” she hisses. “Too far away. If we go now, we expose everything. I’ll tell you when.”

So they wait for fifteen stressful seconds before Hermione finally gives the signal.

Dumbledore has gone pale by this point and is attempting to reassure everyone that nothing is wrong. “If everyone would stay in their seats and remain calm, I will find out what is causing—” Hermione’s signal cuts him off here. It’s a closed fist, positioned for only Harry and the rest of chain of command to see.

“Pride, to me!” Harry yells and jumps up. Everyone throws their costumes off and stands for instruction. Chain gives short commands to direct their squads quickly and surely out the door before Dumbledore can stop them. First and second years spread out and begin drawing warding runes along the walls.

“Mr. Potter!” Dumbledore bellows, “please recall your House now!”

“I can’t do that, Headmaster. And I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask everyone to trust us and just wait here for a little while. These plans are terribly fine-tuned and we can’t have people who don’t know our formations interfere. You see, I’ve stacked the deck.” He steps out, leaving Ginny to direct the finishing of the wards. The doors slam behind her and, in the room, the first and second years draw their wands and begin chanting a spell to set the wards to a specific password—one half of which must be spoken from outside while the other must be spoken from inside. Ginny, on the outside, is chanting something much the same as them, altered only to indicate what the outside passcode is.

Harry runs to front doors and leads a march onto the lawn. Ron, Hermione, Seamus and Neville are all carrying a Horcrux. Hermione hands him the second one she has.

“It takes Parseltongue to open,” she mutters.

On their hips, each of them, except for Neville, has a basilisk fang. They each create a boulder to lay their Horcrux on and wait, watching the gates and trusting in the others to set up appropriately.

Dean directs the defensive team to their positions towards the back. Fred and George arrange their offensive squads and ready their weapons in one hand and wands in the other. Ginny, once she gets outside, fires off orders to the animagus squad—a squad of fighters who are dangerous creatures but not particularly good at wand-work.

The other squads follow their second-in-command to their appropriate positions to wait for their Chain member to arrive.

“Harry Potter!” Voldemort exclaims as if pleasantly surprised when he sees Harry and the set up. “Do you intend to fight me with children?”

“I intend,” Harry says, lifting the locket for him to see, “to fight you with trained warriors. Open.” The locket releases a screech when it opens and Harry slams it on the boulder and destroys it, listening to it scream. Hermione does the same with the diadem and Ron with the cup while Seamus finishes off the ring. Neville goes last, letting Voldemort get a long look at Nagini, curled up under a sleep potion, before he raises the Sword of Gryffindor and lobs her head off. Voldemort fires off curses the whole time they do so, but the defensive squad keeps lobbing appropriate shields and stones in their way.

“What will you do without your Horcruxes, Tom Marvolo Riddle? Will you run or will you face me?”

Voldemort screams in rage and commands his Death Eaters to attack.

“Charm your eyes!” Harry orders and Fred and George release mass amounts of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder onto the battle field. The Death Eaters are managing to take out more of each other. These first thirty seconds are crucial. Someone will think to use a wind charm soon enough, so they need to take down as many as possible here and now.

Gryffindor may be children, but they are highly trained and there’s nearly two hundred and fifty of them on the battlefield. Voldemort barely numbers a hundred. He must see that his men won’t make it when the dust is cleared, because, sure enough, half his forces are down. Only two of Harry’s have to go inside for treatment.

“Strike!” Harry bellows. Curses from his side speed up, faster and faster, targeting their opponents almost to perfection. “Face me, Riddle!” Harry yells, still shooting curses towards the Death Eaters around him. But Voldemort calls out for a retreat.

“Can’t do that, Riddle!” Harry laughs, “you’re warded in!”

Harry hears Ron snicker from next to him and Hermione’s giggle from his other side.

“Might as well fight me, Riddle, because you’re not going anywhere. No apparition, no port-key, not even by foot.”

“You!” Voldemort whips around, jabbing his wand at Harry. He snaps off with a Killing Curse right away, but Harry lifts a rock in front of it. Voldemort is rather predictable, after all. Harry levels his wand in Voldemort’s direction and calls out the incantation for the Disarming Charm, but instead fires a stunner. Both are a brilliant red, so Voldemort throws up a shield to protect against the Disarming charm and it flies right through, knocking him out.

“I am really glad I’m casting with my left hand, now,” Harry comments to no one in particular. “That was far easier than in practice.”

“That’s the adrenaline!” Hermione yells to him, ducking a cutting curse and letting it slam into the wall behind her. “Now, focus!”

“Right, right.” He sends off a few more spells, just to keep Voldemort bound and asleep, then levitates him up and walks to the steps. “Your so-called great leader has been defeated,” he announces to the twenty remaining Death Eaters. “Lay down your wands! This battle is over!” But the Death Eaters continue to fire curses, outnumbered more than ten to one.

Several are taken down by quick-thinking and fast-footed animagi while the rest are put down by sheer numbers. You can’t dodge every stunner coming your way if they’re coming from all different directions.

“Hermione, contact Amelia Bones. We need the Aurors to collect the trash. Everyone else, pick a living Death Eater, bind them completely so they can’t get away, and carry them inside. We will corral them in the Great Hall using the same wards we already have set.”

“But everyone else is in there,” Colin Creevey calls as he lifts his Death Eater.

“And these guys are stunned and bound. When we get in there, we can set up the tables as a barrier between the students and the captives.” Harry marches to the doors, a slew of floating Death Eaters behind him. “So the King says,” he mutters, breaking the outer half of the ward and allowing entry to the Hall, all while leaving anyone who enters and doesn’t know the code to leave trapped. “Anyone who doesn’t have a captive in the air, start moving those tables and benches. Make a barrier halfway into the room. That’ll be plenty of room for both groups.”

The hundred-plus students who don’t have a captive jump into action, shooing students to the other side of the Hall and then turning the tables parallel to the entrance. They bring most of the benches over to the student side, but leave enough for Gryffindor to rest after the fight.

“I want captives on the right side of the room, injured on the left. If you have any injuries—and I mean any—go get treated immediately after dropping off your captive,” Harry orders. “Med and warding squad, are you guys holding up okay?”

“Aye, aye!” the two groups yell. Injured are all transferred to the Gryffindor side of the Hall and captives are moved to where the Slytherin table usually sits.

“Anyone with enough magical energy remaining, come see me,” Harry orders and deposits Voldemort closest to the door. With any luck, he’ll wake up and try to get out the wards. Harry turns and says a trigger word to cause them to shock anyone who tries to leave without the passcode. When he turns back, there’s a crowd around him. “I want twenty of you keeping an eye on the captives. There are enough of us in here that they shouldn’t be able to escape, not to mention they’re stunned and bound. But this is just a precaution. Yell if one of them wakes up. The rest of you, help with healing. And one of you come heal me.”

“Aye, aye!” The group yells and splits. There’s a little waffling while they count out twenty of themselves, but they arrange themselves quickly, leaving those with the least skill at healing remaining to watch the captives and the others moving to the injured.

Now that the battle is over, there’s no need for anyone to try to heal themselves, even if it’s just a minor scrape. Healing magic is hard to work on yourself, which is why it’s only advisable if you have no other option.

Harry settles on one of the laid out costumes that’s been transfigured into a mattress.

“Here, Harry,” a third year kneels next to him, “let me look.”

Harry lets the kid inspect his right arm, which got hit by a rock shooting past to stop a curse.

“How do you feel in terms of blood loss?”

“I could use a potion. It’s been there since the start of the battle.”

“Right, here.” The red potion tastes like iron and red meat but is thin and runny and the two don’t mix well. Harry shivers slightly as it goes down. “Let me just…” The third year murmurs two quick spells and the wound knits itself shut and fades down to a barely-there pink line. “That should fade within the next hour or so. If it doesn’t, let me know. Or, you know, someone else so they can check it.”

“Gotcha, thank you, Max.”

“You bet. Anything else? Besides the cuts on your face, I mean.”

“A few bruises, but I’ve got cream in my room for that. Try to fix me up pretty, okay? My face is my best feature,” Harry teases with a little grin.

“Arguably, some might say it’s your eyes. Or your musculature,” Max counters with a wink. Harry laughs. “But really, stop moving so I can fix these.” He casts a few spells, then curses, “Merlin, I hate head wounds, they bleed too much. Scourgify!” The blood vanishes from Harry’s face and Max quickly casts the last few spells before he can bleed again. “Let me check you for a concussion and then I’ll do a general diagnostic and make sure nothing internal is going on, then you’re clear to go.”

“Perfect.” Harry pauses, “Oh, we’ll set that up. Everyone should have a diagnostic run, just in case. Don’t do mine yet. Have you been doing them on everyone you saw?”

“No, not yet. I just…”

“Yeah, I know. Check my head, then I’ll make an announcement.”

When he comes up clear for any remaining head injuries, he hops up from the mattress and raises his voice. “I need ten healers with plenty of energy left up here, please!”

“Aye, aye!” Ten students make their way up, but Harry can see Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey coming over out of the corner of his eye. He looks to them and shakes his head. Snape scowls but doesn’t come closer, while Madam Pomfrey carries on.

“We need diagnostic scans run on everyone to make sure there’s no sleeper injuries,” Harry explains quickly. “With ten healers running them, we should be able to knock it out in less than a half hour. Got me?”

“Aye, aye,” they agree quickly.

“Good, run each other, then I’ll get Chain up here and you can run them, then we’ll have everyone else line up.”

The process goes smoothly; all of Chain is clear of any remaining injuries and, when Harry makes his announcement to have everyone form ten as-even-as-possible lines, no one argues. They simply line up and wait their turn. Once they’re done, they lay down on the mattresses and start to nap.

Harry darts over to the table to put out the fire that is Madam Pomfrey as soon as his diagnostic is run.

“Madam Pomfrey, I know you’re upset right now, but we trained for this and you need to let us handle this, okay? You may be the school mediwitch, but even you can’t check all of Gryffindor in one night. We’ll be fine, you keep an eye on the rest of the school, okay?”

She’s not pleased and tries to argue, but Harry doesn’t let her. Instead, he whips around to watch the rest of the scans. The twenty guarding the captives are all that are left by this point and he’s starting to get irritated with Auror response times. Shouldn’t they have been here at least a half hour ago?

As he’s frowning at the door, a shrill scream echoes through the Hall.

Harry spins on his heel and flings out a stunner before Pettigrew cause any more harm.

“Marcy!” He yells and sprints over to the little, first-year Slytherin he’d met that first day, leaping across the table to reach her. “Did he touch you?”

“He had my throat… his silver hand…” she gasps out, clutching the neckline of her shirt.

“It’s alright, you’ll be alright,” Harry promises, then turns and calls, “I need a Calming Draught here, please.” He mutters under his breath, “how did Pettigrew even get to this side of the table with no one seeing?”

“Harry,” Ginny says and tosses him the potion.

“Here, Marcy, drink this and then I’ll heal your throat, okay?”

“Th-thank you, Mr. Potter,” she whispers and chokes down the potion.

“No, no, you call me Harry, remember?” Harry smiles kindly at her and helps her sit on one of the benches. “Does that feel any better?”

“Yes,” she sighs gratefully, “thank you.”

“Good. Now, let’s see if I can cast this right, shall we?” He winks at her and casts a quick bruise charm, healing up the skin around her neck, and follows it up with a throat-soother, since he’s sure being grabbed like that caused it to be sore.

“Oh,” she beams at him, “you did it!”

“I may have been practicing a little before this,” he whispers conspiratorially and she giggles. He glances to the door, “Would you look at that, the Aurors finally decided to arrive. I better go.”

“What is going on here?” Amelia Bones bellows into the room. Harry jogs over to her and points at a specific prisoner.

“Voldemort.” Really only that one word is needed.

“Can you identify everyone here?”

“If not me, then someone here can, I’m sure. Or you could just wake them up and ask.” Harry shrugs. It doesn’t really matter to him.

“Care to give me your statement?”

Harry breaks down what happened as quickly as he can, but he knows he’ll be brought in for questioning later.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” Amelia studies the captives on the floor being placed into magic-binding cuffs. “We’ll speak again soon.” Voldemort gets his own set of binding cuffs and shortly after, all the Death Eaters are removed.

“Oh, and Madam Bones?” Harry says before she can leave. “Gryffindor House needs to register their animagus forms.”

When Gryffindor gathers in the common room that night, Harry only has one thing to say.

“Voldemort has been defeated!”

“So the King has spoken!” His Chain cries.

“And so it has been done!”

“Mr. Potter, what you did was incredibly—”

“All due respect, Headmaster, what I did was necessary. The adults weren’t doing anything about Voldemort besides denying his existence, so I had to step up. We had to step up.” Harry’s sitting in a meeting with all the teachers, being grilled on his behavior from Halloween now two weeks later, since it had taken that long for the Aurors to collect all the statements.

“And you felt you couldn’t reach out to anyone for assistance?”

“Sir, you told me over the summer to go home and be a good little boy and wait to be picked up, that you would handle the Death Eaters,” Harry narrows his eyes. “We both know that didn’t happen. We’ve been training since my first year, everyone has. We learned battle spells, healing spells, warding, and the animagus transformation—yes, we’re all registered now. We spent every day we had at this school getting ready to fight the battle we knew was coming. Could any of you have said the same?”

“No, but we are older and more experienced, we could have, at the very least, helped with training.”

“Did you not see me take three hundred students, forty of those being first years who had never cast a spell before, and whip them into good enough shape to take down a team of over a hundred Death Eaters and Voldemort himself while only sustaining injuries that could be healed in a matter of minutes? What more help do you think we needed?” Harry is seething at this point—how dare Dumbledore question their abilities? “We lured Voldemort out before he had a chance to build his army up. We defeated him. In two weeks, Voldemort will receive the Dementor’s Kiss. He will be no more.”

“There is still—”

“If you’re referencing the Horcruxes, we destroyed all of them.”

“But, my dear boy, you must—”

“Including the one within me.”

Dumbledore pales.

“When I said Voldemort is defeated, I meant Voldemort is defeated. He will never return. His ideals may linger, but that is why Gryffindor no longer seeks conflict.”

Dumbledore sighs, “I can understand that you did what you thought was right and, to be fair, you did it quite well, but there must be consequences.”

Snape sneers.

“Wartime dispensation,” Harry counters. “And besides, we didn’t break any rules beyond trapping everyone in the Great Hall. All the training we did was in carefully controlled and monitored situations that fit well within the rules outlined in the charter. You could argue that the ward we used was against the rules, but again, wartime dispensation; we did it to protect the untrained. And any damage we did to the school, we cleaned up the next day.”

“And studying the animagus transformation?”

“I studied under someone who had already completed theirs. Everyone else studied under either myself or someone I trained,” Harry replies calmly. “We broke no rules.”

Dumbledore just stares at him for a long minute, then finally sits back with a sigh. “I suppose, under the circumstances of the school being attacked, the ward you used is acceptable. And as for trapping us within it, those who cast the ward were also trapped within, so I can see no reason to punish them. There will be no punishment enacted upon Gryffindor House, but there will also be no praise. What you all did was incredibly—”

“Save it.” Harry stands. “We did what was right. We want no praise. And we don’t want to hear your lectures about safety. We did what we were prepared to do and we did it without losing anyone. Remind me, Professor, how many Order members did you lose?”

As Dumbledore gapes at him, Harry turns to Professor Snape, “May I see your arm, sir? I would like to try something.”

“No.”

“Fine,” Harry shrugs. “I was only going to use a Parseltongue spell to remove the Mark, but if you’re so attached to it, then by all means…”

“Wait! You can remove it?”

“It was cast with Parseltongue, it must be removed with Parseltongue. Yes, I can remove it.”

Snape unbuttons his sleeve and holds it out for Harry to fix. Gently pressing the tip of his wand to the center of the Mark, Harry hisses commands to the snake within and, sure enough, the Mark begins to recede. Snape grits his teeth and grunts in pain, but the Mark eventually flows entirely away.

“There,” Harry smiles proudly, “all gone. If that’s everything, Headmaster?”

Dumbledore nods, still looking quite shaken.

“Professor McGonagall,” Harry nods to his Head of House respectfully and takes his leave.

“That boy,” Professor McGonagall says lowly, “saved all our arses and you wanted to punish him?!” She finishes on a yell and begins to rip into her co-workers, cowing them into seeing the situation her way.

The next morning, in Gryffindor Tower, Harry finds himself dragged into a meeting with his dormmates.

“Alright, mate,” Ron glares, “it’s the fifteenth. There’s no more questioning or confrontations with Dumbledore to excuse it. Spill. What’s it like when you read?”

A half-hour later, Ron gasps and yells, “dyslexia!”

Come to find out, there’s a plethora of spells to help Harry, including ones that will read his books aloud to him so he doesn’t have to get others to.

The day Voldemort gets the Kiss is also the day Sirius is declared innocent. Both events draw rousing cheers from Gryffindor House, although Voldemort’s end signals the start of a party that lasts literally until the bell to start the first class of the day rings. Gryffindor House sleeps instead, that day.

The detentions, everyone agrees, are more than worth it.

Harry moves in with Sirius that summer, as Dumbledore has no excuses to force Harry back to the Dursleys. He lets Malfoy burn the rags, just as he wanted.

Their relationship improves over the next few years. They’ll never be best friends, but they meet for a drink regularly. The fifth-year re-Sorting never happened again, but they’re grateful it happened their year, so at least they could settle their differences.

In the years to come, Harry and his Chain graduate, leaving Gryffindor without a King once more, and it remains that way for decades to come.

Harry takes up the job with Fred and George, but he doesn’t move into their apartment upstairs, despite the generous offer. Instead, all five boys from his dorm choose to get a townhouse together. And if they end up in their forties, still waking up Saturday evenings after drinking two bottles of firewhiskey the night before and minorly injured from whatever stupid dares they’d done, well, they’re war heroes.

And if Harry requests something from a store where a Gryffindor works and still smiles a little when he hears, “and so it shall be,” in reply, well, he is the King of Gryffindor, after all. Even if the Hat still vows he should have been in Slytherin.