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The hours seem to go as slowly as molasses in detention. But Harry takes it one line at a time, delving into his mind trying to think of anything other than the pain.

It’s a strategy that doesn’t always work, but he’s used to it. 

At Privet Drive, he’d think about weeding the garden. The process of inspecting the plants to see which ones needed weeding, of picking up his trowel and tenderly dragging his fingers along the bottom of the plant to access the root before pulling with all his might to get it out. 

He’d go over setting the weed next to him, of finding little bugs in the garden to talk to, of saving the bugs from the awful pesticide Petunia forces him to use. 

At Hogwarts, however, he thinks about Quidditch. 

He thinks about the past games, trying to remember everything he’d done or not done, of ways to improve, of the feeling of the wind in his hair as he soared from one goal to the next in search of the little golden snitch. 

He thinks of the pranks Fred and George would pull in the locker room, of Wood’s old plays, of the way Cho Chang looked with her hair whipping in the wind and a determined glint in her eyes just two years before when they played against each other.

It doesn’t always work, though. In fact, it rarely does. 

Harry thinks he’s handling it, keeping the secret of what actually goes on in detention with Umbridge, until he runs into Ron one late night and gets dragged to the common room so Hermione can fuss over him. 

The murtlap essence smells horrible. But it’s a soothing balm on his hand, and Harry wonders what his childhood could have been like if he had known Hermione then. Would she have smuggled him pain killers during school? Would she have told someone about the unexplained bruises? Would she still be his friend, even though he was the freak of the school? 

One week of detention passes. Umbridge asks him if he has anything to say, and he thinks about Cedric lying cold on the ground of the graveyard, Voldemort hissing at him, of the cold steel of the knife digging into his skin, and he declines. 

The detentions don’t end. And he has nothing to say. 

Angelina keeps getting angry with him for missing Quidditch practice and he takes it. He deserves it. Cedric can’t ever play Quidditch again, so he takes her shouts and passive aggressive comments, and puts it in a special place in his mind where he puts every justified upset comment about him. It’s overflowing, and mainly composed of Hermione, but he likes to visit every once and a while to humble himself. 

Sometimes a few comments about how worthless he is comes through, but that was when he was little and didn’t understand the difference between concern and hatred. 

It’s getting harder to do homework. The pain in his hand is agony, flaring up even when he tries to eat. He’s considering learning to write with his left hand, but he’s so tired, so he ends up not completing a large chunk of his homework most nights. 

He tries his best to ignore the looks his professors give him every time he comes up short on his assignments. It settles on his skin like a heavy weight anyways. 

But then Sirius sends him a letter. It’s a wonderful letter, asking after him and his well-being, and if he and Ron have gotten up to anything, and if he’s used the map or the cloak anytime since coming back to Hogwarts. Sirius gave him a list of hidden entrances and rooms that he and the other Marauders didn’t bother putting on the map, and Harry visited a couple with Ron and Hermione before he became so tired that getting out of bed became a chore. 

Harry wants to write back that he’s doing well, and that Hermione is being just as much of a swot as she always is, and that he’s excited for the Quidditch game, but- 

But he can’t write it. His hand shakes and his fingers can barely hold the quill, and he’s getting ink everywhere, and it looks like a toddler wrote the letter, and suddenly all the repressed pain and anger he swallowed down just so he could get through the day comes bubbling up.

Ron finds him sobbing in their dorm minutes later, a pile of crumpled parchment all around Harry, a quill slightly bent in Harry’s hand. 

Ron takes the quill from his hand and presses his shoulder against Harry’s. It’s a comforting weight, and Harry can’t help but lean into him, begging for someone to help him carry the weight of everything he’d been shouldering for the past few weeks. 

“It’s not worth it, Harry,” Ron whispers, and Harry wants to disagree. He wants to shout at him that it is, it’s worth it for Cedric’s memory, for the future of their world but- 

But he’s so tired. And his hand hurts so much. And he feels like he’s going back to the mindset he had at the Dursleys, and Hogwarts is supposed to be his home. 

So Harry, at detention that night, after he’s done bleeding on the parchment Umbridge handed him, says the very thing she’d been threatening him with since the beginning. 

She sends him on his way and he thinks that’s that. 

He expected a heavy weight to be lifted off him, but he only feels guilt and shame for not being strong enough to take some measly detentions. But at least it’s over.

It’s not over.

The next day during class, Umbridge hums and titters about the class like a hyped up hummingbird and asks Harry, in front of everyone , if he has anything to say about his behavior at the beginning of the school year. 

Everyone’s looking at him. And Ron’s looking at him with a miniscule shake of his head, begging him not to say what Harry desperately wants to say. 

But his hand throbs still. And the whisper of survive, survive, survive echoes in his head, and his class is with the Slytherins. He doesn’t need to tell them that Voldemort is back. They’re probably having summer parties with lemonade and goblets of blood in celebration. 

So Harry stands up shakily and says as quietly as can, “I lied. Vold- You-Know-Who is dead. I just wanted attention.” 

It’s so silent he doubts anyone is breathing. Umbridge’s face is filled with vindication, and Harry hates that he put it there. 

He ignores Seamus’s I knew it whispers and Neville’s confused pout. He sits back down and stares resolutely at the lines on the desk, tracing them with his eyes wishing he could disappear. 

He can imagine Rita Skeeter getting a tip from someone and the truth being blasted on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Boy-Who-Lied, Boy-Who-Wanted-Attention, Boy-Who-Should’ve-Died.

Hogwart’s rumor mill will have a field day with this one.

All because he couldn’t handle a little pain.

He stops showing up to meals. He starts spending all his time in bed, staring at the scar on his hand wishing for a little more courage. 

Hermione and Ron drag him out of bed to take a walk around the lake. They ditch Charms class, walking the stretch of the lake that’s usually too full of students. 

“How’s SPEW going?” Harry asks, kicking a rock in his way. He notices Ron and Hermione looking at each other before Hermione fixes her scarf. “What?”

“Nothing!” Hermione says a little too loudly. For someone so brilliant, she’s awful at lying. 

“Hermione.” 

She sighs her signature Harry put upon sigh, and says, “the elves and I have a deal. I stop knitting them hats and they- well, they put meals on your bedside table.” 

Harry stops walking. His hand doesn’t throb. It barely even hurts anymore. 

“You stopped- why?” 

Hermione strides up to him and puts her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes are full of determination, her jaw set and her eyebrows furrowed. 

“Because you’re worth it, Harry! You stopped eating, you stopped doing homework, you stopped doing everything short of going to class and sleeping! This is the first time I’ve seen you outside in days!” 

She’s crying. Harry made her cry. He takes all the words and puts them in his special little place to look at later, and takes her hand in his and squeezes it. 

“I- I don’t know what to say,” he whispers, because he feels like saying sorry isn’t enough, will never be enough. 

Ron places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Will you have lunch with us?” he asks, and Harry bites his lip, wanting nothing more than to say no . But he got Hermione to ditch class and stop looking after the elves, so he can go to a simple meal. 

The looks on their faces when he nods is worth it. 

He’s sandwiched between them as tightly as he can without physically becoming part of them when he walks in the Great Hall for the first time in what feels like forever. 

He can feel the stares of everyone, and whispering fills the hall. Ron and Hermione both take his hands and they lead him to their usual seats. He makes the mistake of looking at the Hufflepuff table. They’re all glaring daggers at him. 

Ron fills his plate up with food and quite literally shoves a fork in his hand. Hermione talks about OWLs and Ron whines about changing the subject with food in his mouth. It’s familiar. It’s easy. It’s a farce.

Harry doesn’t take a single bite of anything, instead stares at his hand and notices the way the light of the magic sun glints off the scars. He thinks they’re more pronounced here than in his dorm. 

Angelina stops in front of them and crosses her arms. His head feels foggy when he looks at her. 

“Good to know you’re feeling better, Harry. The game’s next week. Will you be joining us?” Angelina asks in a casual way, but Harry can hear the veiled rage behind it. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. 

“You’re sure? No more detentions? No more sick days?” 

Harry stares at his full plate of food. His face is burning hot. 

“No.” 

Angelina’s arms fall at her sides and she smiles at him. 

“Oh, thank Merlin! I was so afraid that we’d have to use the reserve seeker! No offense, Ginny, you’re brilliant, it’s just, well, Harry.” 

She says his name like it holds something other than shame. 

He pushes his plate away and stands up. As he walks away, he hears Angelina shout after him that there’s practice tonight. 

He sicks up in the loo. His head feels full of cotton, and his face is hot, and his heart is thumping so fast he can barely focus on anything else. 

He loves Quidditch. He loves it so much. So why does he feel such dread at the possibility of playing?

He doesn’t know how long he sits on the ground for. He contemplates never leaving. He could become the boy version of Moaning Myrtle. Poor Potter is what they’d call him. He’d spend his days watching his body decompose and then crying about it decades later. 

Sobs cut his thoughts off. They’re high-pitched and stifling, as though someone is trying not to cry but can’t help it. Harry knows that kind of sob intimately. 

He follows the sounds until he happens upon a first year holding her hand. It’s bleeding and Harry’s heart falls into his stomach. 

“Er- hello?” he asks, walking slowly towards her. Her face snaps up and she looks up at him in embarrassment and surprise. She cradles her hand closer to her chest. Little droplets of blood fall on the floor. 

Harry tears a piece of his robe off and hands it to her. She looks at it in alarm before slowly taking it and fastening it around her hand. It takes her a minute, and it takes everything in Harry not to reach out to help her. 

“Can I- can I take you to your house’s prefect?” he asks her. He knows better than to ask her if she’s okay. 

“Prof-Professor Umbridge t-told me not to t-tell anyone,” she hiccups. His hand doesn’t throb. It doesn’t hurt anymore. 

“Your prefect knows how to keep secrets, promise,” Harry says, forcing a smile on his face. He hopes it doesn’t come out as a grimace. She stands up shakily and follows him. She’s pale, as though she lost a lot of blood, and Harry pushes the rage down. 

They walk in silence until he happens upon her common room. He knocks on the wall and waits. 

“Potter,” Malfoy says with a raised eyebrow. His voice is full of disdain. The disdain is mutual but Harry has a job to do. 

He gestures to the little girl. She holds up her hand. Malfoy’s face contorts for just a moment until it settles back into its usual pompous look, but his eyes deceive him. They’re full of fear.

“Murtlap essence helps. This won’t happen again. I promise.” 

Harry walks away without another word, determination settling in his stomach. This might kill him. He might let it. 

The next day in defense class, he stands up from his seat, interrupting Umbridge’s lecture, and says, “Voldemort is back and you’re a lying bitch who’s too afraid to do anything but sit on your thumbs and watch the world delve into chaos just because you can.” 

He tries not to notice the look of satisfaction in her eyes as she gives him detention. 

He spends his lunch writing letters to Sirius, not making them too specific so he can send them at any time. He scraps one that got away from him, begging Sirius to help him from this crazy plan of his. 

That night, he walks into Umbridge’s detention with a bag filled with salves of murtlap essence and ripped bandages of one of his robes. He sits down across from her and picks up her horrid quill. 

“Before I start, I want to strike a deal,” he says. He hopes his voice isn’t as shaky as it sounds in his head. Umbridge smiles sweetly at him. 

“And what makes you think I would ever strike a deal with you ?” 

“Because I’m the one you want. You hate me. It’s fine, I’m used to it. It’d be strange if you didn’t hate me. But don’t take out your anger on other kids.” 

Her smile drops and she looks at him with the most genuine expression he’s seen on her face. He heard she was a Slytherin in her days. He can see it now in her eyes as she contemplates his words. 

“These children need to learn their lesson. These children are too spoiled, too reckless. It is up to me to set them straight.” 

He thinks about her appearance this year. How he’s the Ministry’s scapegoat for everything. How he’s the sacrificial lamb so the Ministry doesn’t have to come to terms that they screwed up again.

“No, that’s not what you want. You wouldn’t resort to torture if that were the case. Let me take their detentions and I’ll let you do whatever you want with me. Just stop hurting them.” 

It’s the stupidest thing he’s ever thought of. It’s the most reckless, most suicidal thing he’s ever thought of. But it makes Umbridge smile like a Cheshire cat. 

“Very well, Mr Potter, we have a deal. But do know that the second you decide to stop, I will give every single one of your little friends a worse detention than you’ve ever gotten. Am I understood?” 

Harry takes a deep breath and clutches the quill tighter. He tries to tell himself that what she’s going to put him through is child’s play compared to Voldemort.

“Yes ma’am.” 

He seals his fate with blood.

Their deal is different from regular detentions. Instead of five to eleven, it’s five to one in the morning every single week night. Saturdays and Sundays are from noon to midnight with only a single break for dinner.

He listens to Lee’s announcement of Ginny catching the snitch from Umbridge’s pink office, his head pounding due to blood loss and his vision fading in and out. 

He’s not just writing I must not tell lies anymore. He’s writing everyone’s lines, and they all appear on different parts of his body. 

He starts categorizing everyone by their lines. 

Anthony Goldstein. I must not fall asleep in class. On his left hip.

Luna Lovegood. I must adhere to the dress code. Underneath one of his ears.

Susan Bones. I must not presume to know better than the Ministry. Across his heart.

Fred and George Weasley. I must not wreak havoc. On both of his collarbones. 

All of them scarred on his body. All of them not knowing that he took all of their pain, their humiliation, their penance. 

He ignores their whispers and stares as he feels their punishments stretch and pull on his skin. He even takes Seamus’s detentions, who still isn’t talking to him. He doesn’t get to pick and choose who he saves. That’s not up to him, and even if it was, he wouldn’t want it. 

Although, he could do without serving the detention of the seventh year Hufflepuff who was enacting revenge for Cedric on him. I must not fight in the corridors stings just a little bit more with a matching bruise.

Harry doesn’t think he’s gone a single day since starting this that he hasn’t bled. He’s gone through several stacks of paper, repeating empty words and promises over and over again, and Umbridge watches with a smirk and a twirl of her quill. 

The students he’s serving detention for never knows. He doesn’t want them to know. But it’s all the same kids he’s serving for since they never learn their lesson. He knows Umbridge knew this when she agreed. She doesn’t want the school to get better. She just wants him to suffer. 

He tells Hermione and Ron that he’s just writing lines. Normal lines, not blood lines. It’s an easy lie since he never writes his own anymore. He has to be careful, though, since he has Colin Creevey’s I must not use muggle products on his right wrist. Every flash of the camera makes him grit his teeth. 

The most pronounced, though, is Fred and George’s. He wishes they were better at not getting caught, but he’s pretty sure that’s the whole point. They’re seeing how much they can get away with. 

He thinks he’s getting the hang of it, hiding all his pain and cuts, while still trying to be a normal student. He does his homework as much as he can, staying up late and doing it during meals, and he tries his best to be a good and attentive friend to Ron and Hermione. He congratulated Ginny on the Quidditch win, and apologized to Angelica, and still tries to be the same person he was the year before. 

But then Fred and George charm paint all over Umbridge during dinner, and she casts her wand on him and screeches Crucio. 

He’s on the ground biting his tongue to keep himself from screaming before he understands the pain he’s experiencing. 

No amount of Quidditch plays will distract him from this kind of pain. It’s all-encompassing and he feels his mind as well as his body go along with the strong waves of pain. He wants it to end, he wants it to end, please make it end- 

It ends. He’s gasping for breath on the cold stone ground, his body shaking all over, and Umbridge is standing over him, some of her hair standing up as though she were the one just electrocuted. 

“Your detention is not over yet, Mr Potter,” she says sweetly, vindictively, “you have more lines to write. You can start with the wretched Weasley twins, yes?” 

His mouth is full of blood as he attempts to get up. He takes too long and finds that Umbridge is shouting at him to get a move on. She sounds exactly like Petunia. It breaks something in him. 

Hogwarts was his home, once. Not anymore. 

The next day, his body feels as though it’s filled with lead and it takes too long to get up to go to class. He told Ron to go without him to breakfast, and now he’s alone. 

He didn’t end up changing the night before. It took over an hour to get to the tower and into his bed, and he’s not looking forward to tonight. He slings his bag over his shoulder and winces as it rubs against one of his collarbones. He hopes Fred and George are happy with themselves. 

He swallows that bitter thought down and tells himself better him than them. Better him than anyone. He’s the one that deserves it. 

His mind wanders during his classes. He thinks McGonagall tried calling on him, but he wasn’t responsive. He thinks about Neville’s parents. How long were they under the curse before their minds went away from them? 

Neville’s never gotten detention before. He’s a good person. Such a good person. He wishes his parents were okay. 

“Harry? Was there something you wanted?” 

Harry blinks and finds himself in the Great Hall staring directly at Neville. 

“What?” Harry asks, tongue feeling too big for his mouth. He probably just needs some water. 

“You’ve been looking at Neville for the past ten minutes, Harry,” Ron says with a snort. 

“Oh,” Harry says. His mind is going fuzzy again. “Sorry.” 

His mind goes away and he doesn’t realize he never stopped looking at Neville. 

That night at detention, he goes through another round of the cruciatus before writing lines. 

Sirius has sent him another letter. He sent one of his pre-written ones back, not caring that he didn’t answer a single one of Sirius’s questions. Every time he writes, Colin’s scars rub against the paper. He’s stopped doing homework again. It would be no good if the letters and papers he’s sending in have blood on them. 

The one upside of being cursed with the cruciatus, time moves differently. He feels like he’s out of detention much earlier than any other night before. 

He walks the stretch to the tower on shaky legs and haggard breaths, trying to keep an eye out for Mrs Norris or an unsuspecting prefect. 

It’s no use when he bumps into Hermione. He tucks his wrist into his sleeve and pastes a smile on his face. 

“‘Mione!” he exclaims, trying to go for happy. He’s starting to forget what that feels like. 

“Harry? Are you just now getting out of detention?” 

He’s never noticed how bushy her hair is. Well, he has, but not to this calibur. It’s like a brillo pad. He wonders if it’s as soft as a brillo pad. 

“Harry? Are you listening to me?” 

He blinks and finds that Ron has joined them. He has the map in his hand. 

“What are- what are you doing?” Harry slurs, exhaustion catching up to him. “Don’t get caught, please.” 

“Nothing!” Hermione squeaks. Ron groans. 

Harry blinks again. She’s such an awful liar. 

“No, wait, what are you doing with the map?” Harry asks, his mind a little more lucid than before. 

Hermione looks at Ron, and Harry realizes how much time they’ve been spending together… oh. 

“We didn’t want to keep this a secret from you, Harry, but-” 

“Wait, you’re not saying that you two- you guys are-” 

“In a secret army?” Ron finishes. 

Harry’s mouth gapes. That’s the weirdest euphemism for snogging he’s ever heard. 

“What?” 

“Harry, we’re sorry! It’s just- Umbridge can’t know! And you’re spending all your time with her, so we just- we thought that if you didn’t know then you wouldn’t have to lie to her and-” 

“Why don’t you want Umbridge to know you’re shagging?” 

“Harry!” 

“What the fuck?” 

Hermione and Ron shout simultaneously. Ron puts his head in his hands and groans. Hermione’s stiff. Ron puts both hands on Harry’s shoulders and shakes him. 

“We’re not- erm- no. Mate, just no.” 

“Oh. Then why are you sneaking around?” Harry asks. He wants to go to bed. 

“Remember when I asked you earlier in the year if you would consider starting a defence club? Well you’re so busy that Ron and I decided to go for it anyway. It’s going well, actually. I can’t actually tell you who’s in it, but we think we’re doing a lot of good. It’d be better if you were there, but, well,” Hermione trails off, blush still on her cheeks. 

Harry thinks back on the summer and considers how he would feel if he knew Ron and Hermione were a part of a secret army to fight Voldemort and can’t muster up the same feelings. He’s mostly just tired. 

“Oh, okay,” Harry says through a yawn. “I won’t tell her. Promise.” 

Ron and Hemione look at each other. 

“That’s it? You’re not mad at us?” Ron asks him. 

“Should I be?” 

“Well, no,” Hermione says slowly. Harry pats her head. 

“That’s it, then. Enjoy your secret army. I’m heading to bed.” 

“Goodnight, Harry!” Hermione calls after him. 

“Night, mate. Oh, by the way, Sirius sent you a letter. I put it on your bed.” 

Harry stops, turns around, and looks at Ron. 

“No, he didn’t. He just sent me a letter.” 

Ron looks at Harry in confusion before smiling. 

“Come on, mate, that was weeks ago. It’s on your bed. Hermione and I’ve got to finish the rounds.” 

He starts to walk away but Harry calls out to him. 

“No, Sirius just sent a letter at lunch. Remember? I kept staring at Neville and we all had a good laugh? Two days ago Fred and George spilled paint all over Umbridge?” 

Ron’s smile has faded. Hermione’s eyes have gone wide. Harry’s head feels like it’s going to explode. 

“Harry, that was three weeks ago,” Hermione says softly. 

Dread fills Harry’s veins. He runs away, ignoring their calls, and heads up to his dorm. He runs into the bathroom and looks in the mirror. 

He looks like a ghost with how pale he is. His cheeks are sunken and his eyes have huge bags under them. He moves his hair a little and Luna’s punishment is stark red against his skin. He bets someone took her shoes again. 

Harry pulls up his shirt and lets out a whimper when he sees how many new scars are on his skin. Phrases and promises he doesn’t even remember writing. 

I must not eat in class. 

I must not laugh so loudly in the corridors. 

I must finish my homework in time. 

I must not waste my professor’s time with pointless questions.

I must not read other books in class. 

I must not question my professor’s authority.

I must not be friends with other houses.

I must not practice Quidditch outside of regulated times. 

Almost every inch of his body is covered with words etched into his skin in his own handwriting. On his arms, his thighs, his stomach, even his back. Some of them are still bleeding. Some of them are completely covered by other words. 

But none on his face. Luna’s is the only one close to showing. None that can be seen. He suddenly remembers asking Umbridge after writing Luna’s punishment to make sure none of them could be seen by anyone. 

He wonders how long ago that was. 

He wonders how long he’s been doing this. 

He wonders how long he’s going to keep having to do this. 

Choking down a sob, Harry pulls his shirt and sleeves down and heads over to his bed. He sees Sirius’s letter sitting on his pillow so delicately. He tries not to think about how that makes him want to cry, seeing something being handled so carefully and gently. 

He draws his curtains around his bed and says “lumos” and begins to read. 

Harry, 

I’m worried. Your last two letters were almost identical. Is someone else writing them? You haven’t answered a single one of my questions. 

I wrote Ron and Hermione. They told me you aren’t eating. Ron told me about your nightmares. If this persists, I’m going to contact Dumbledore. I can imagine what you’re going to say about that, but Moony agrees with me. We’re worried about you. 

If there’s anything I can do, I will do it. I know you told me not to earlier in the year, but I was thinking that I could visit you as Snuffles at Hogsmeade this upcoming week. At the very least, Moony. 

Please answer me. Actually answer me. Not one of those letters that doesn’t even sound like you.

Love, 

Padfoot

When Harry was a kid, there used to be a tree a few yards away from the playground at his primary school. He’d climb up there and read books he borrowed from the library. It had been a safe place for him, away from the dangers of his adolescent life. He thinks about that a lot. 

“Next we’re going to talk about the mating patterns of flobberworms!” a big booming voice excitedly says. 

Harry blinks and sees Hagrid in front of him holding a giant worm-monster.

“Hagrid!” Harry yells, a smile splitting his face. “You’re back!” 

Hagrid drops the worm. It’s fallen silent. Hagrid’s face contorts into something of pain. He looks around and sees horrified and confused expressions on everyone's faces. 

“Yeah, ‘Arry. I’m back,” Hagrid says softly. He sounds sad. 

“What? What’s going on?” Harry asks. He sees tears fall down Hermione’s cheeks and Ron’s jaw set tight. He sees Neville with the fiercest expression on his face. He didn’t know he could look that mad.

“This is the third time you’ve said that,” Malfoy says with a snort. 

Harry looks around and sees a thick layer of snow covering the ground. He looks up at the sky and sees small snowflakes fall. He reaches a hand out and one rests on his skin. Just like one of his scars. 

He wonders how many more there are. 

“Are you cold, ‘Arry? Do ya need to go inside?” Hagrid asks. “You’re shivering a lot.” 

Harry looks down and notices that he’s shaking quite vigorously. 

“Oh.” 

Aunt Petunia’s mad at him. He isn’t sure what he did, but he knows the signs. Tutting around, shrieking, throwing things at him. Pain. 

He has to hide. Uncle Vernon may be finished with him, but it’s not safe yet. He runs around the furniture and corners until he’s safely enclosed in his cupboard. 

It seems bigger than usual. He tries to feel around for the headless stuffed pig Dudley decapitated and threw away but he doesn’t find anything but cleaning supplies. How strange. Petunia must be cleaning the shed. 

Harry rests his head on his knees and hums. He’s in so much pain, so, so much pain. He must’ve done something really bad. He must’ve done magic in front of them. 

But, wait, no. 

There’s no such thing as magic. 

Harry giggles. As if magic really existed! 

He has to get up soon. He has to cook breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. He’s not sure what time it is. Maybe he’ll be stuck here forever. But his face doesn’t hurt so that must mean Vernon made sure not to leave noticeable marks. He must still be able to go to school. 

He met a snake last week named Berry. Well, he named her Berry. He’s going to try to talk her into coming home with him. He’s always wanted a pet. 

Light invades Harry’s space. Petunia must be asking him to do something. She grabs him and he tries to wrench free of her. 

“No! Let me go!” he tries to say, but it’s hard to speak. 

She’s saying his name. That’s weird. She never says his name. Maybe she feels guilty for something. But, no, she’s never felt guilty about anything. After all, everything’s justified. He’s a freak, after all. He deserves everything he’s ever got. 

Petunia is forcing his mouth open. He tries to push her away, struggle as much as he can but-

Harry blinks. He’s in Filch’s cupboard staring at Malfoy with wide eyes. He blinks again. 

“Vernon threw Berry in the fire,” he says with clarity.

“What?” Malfoy asks with a sneer. 

“My pet snake. My uncle threw her- nevermind. What day is it?” 

“Mordred, Potter, that’s fucked up even for me,” Malfoy mutters, letting go of Harry and sitting across from him. It’s still dark in the castle. Malfoy’s wand is lit. 

“How’d you know I was here?” Harry asks, rubbing his head. His body’s shaking, he realizes. 

“I heard you giggling from three corners away like a fucking maniac.” 

“What’d you give me?” Harry asks. He tries to muster up suspicion, but he’s too tired and worn out. 

Malfoy hands him a bottle. 

“Wit-sharpening potion. Figured you’d need it after months of the cruciatus.” 

Harry drops the bottle. It shatters. 

“I-I’m not-” 

“Almost everyone in Slytherin knows. Snape keeps telling us we’re being dramatic and you’re just being your usual weird self. Don’t know how your little friends don’t know, but maybe they do and just don’t care. How often is it happening?” 

Harry’s skin feels taut with scars. He turns his right wrist over and sees Colin’s punishment bleeding. He lets out a wet sob despite himself. 

“I don’t know.” 

Malfoy’s eyes track Harry’s wrist and lets out a curse. 

“You’re an idiot, Potter. We all thought you had finally learned some self preservation when you told Umbridge the dark lord isn’t alive, but then you go and do all this.” 

Harry wipes his tears away with his other hand. He lets Malfoy bandage his wrist. He does it gently, to his surprise. No one’s touched Harry in such a kind way in so long. It had to be Malfoy of all people. 

“Wh-what day is it?” Harry asks after a moment of sniffling. 

It’s not a good sign that Malfoy’s quiet. Harry nudges him. 

“December twelfth,” Malfoy spits out. 

Harry’s heart constricts and a fresh wave of tears comes out. 

“When do you last remember?” 

Harry shakes his head and cries . He wants to go away again. At least he isn’t aware of the pain when it’s happening. Malfoy nudges him. 

“October twenty-second!” Harry shouts.

“Fuck,” Malfoy whispers, his voice filled with horror. “You have to tell someone.” 

Harry scoffs.

“I probably won’t even remember this,” Harry says sardonically. Malfoy’s eyes flash with rage and he shakes Harry. 

“You bloody moron! You have to tell someone! You can’t let-” 

Malfoy cuts off and he inhales sharply. Harry narrows his eyes. 

“What?” 

Malfoy shakes his head, his eyes wide with fear. Harry nudges him again. 

“You can’t let him win. You just can’t.” 

Harry stares in shock. He opens his mouth to say something but Malfoy stops him. 

“I’m going to start stocking wit-sharpening, nerve regeneration, and blood replenishing potions in here. Come here straight after every detention and take one of each. I’m serious, Potter. Don’t die on her terms.” 

Malfoy leaves. Harry draws his knees to his chest and sits there for a while. 

The next morning- and Harry knows it’s the next morning because he checks the date- Harry joins Ron and Hermione at the table and spreads butter on a piece of toast. Hermione’s eyes are wide and Ron stops eating. 

“‘Ello,” Harry says casually, forcing himself to take a bite of toast. He resists the urge to look at Malfoy across the hall. 

Hermione throws her arms around him. 

“Oh, Harry!” she exclaims. He meets Ron’s eyes to help him out, but Ron only smiles widely. 

“We were so worried! For months you’ve been acting so strangely, barely even responding to us when we called your name! Hagrid’s back, you know! And Umbridge canceled all the extracurriculars, and she’s auditing every single professor. But you know that, you’ve been there, of course!” Hermione stops and looks at him with narrowed eyes. “You remember, right?”

He’s not Hermione. He’s not a bad liar. 

“‘Course, ‘Mione, please,” he says with a smile, finishing off his toast. 

Hermione smiles at him. Hermione’s words catch up to him and his eyes follow the dias, and sure enough Hagrid is back. He wonders when he got back. He gives him a little wave. Hagrid smiles with all teeth and waves back, almost knocking into the muggle studies professor. 

Harry laughs. He blinks. He can’t remember the last time he laughed. He can’t really remember… anything, really. 

“There was this muggle television show I used to watch sometimes,” Harry starts, speaking as fast as he can, “maybe you know it, Hermione, I think it’s quite popular. Doctor Who, you know? Anyway, there’s this bloke with this giant scarf and I think you’d be quite good at making it, ‘Mione. Or your mum, Ron. It’s multicolored and he always wears it, every single episode, even though the actor isn’t always the same. Oh! Every couple of series the main actor changes- I forget what it’s called, but there’s a name for it and-” 

“Harry, what the hell are you on about?” Ron interrupts. Harry takes a deep breath, frowning before plastering a smile on his face. 

“Oh, that’s right, you don’t know what television is! So it’s in this wooden box that’s powered by electricity and every day new programs come on and people can watch it! It’s like a play but filmed- er, shown? Shown! It’s shown every day and there’s tons of shows. Dudley really likes-” 

Harry goes on and on and on. He says everything and nothing, going as far as telling Hermione and Ron all the dishes he’s made the Dursleys and the process of making them. 

For the next few days, his life consists of constantly checking the date to make sure he hasn’t slipped away again, taking his potions, eating as much as he can stomach, and speaking to Hermione and Ron. 

During classes he hexes himself under his breath to keep himself aware. During detention, he commits every single phrase to memory, repeating them over and over again, trying to figure out who it belongs to. 

He thinks he’s handling it. He thinks he’s got it under control.

Then he dreams he’s a snake biting Mr Weasley. 

Sirius hugs him tightly when he sees him. He holds onto him like he might slip away. Harry’s afraid that he just might. 

Ron drags him next to him, hanging onto him for dear life on the couch. He’s handed a bottle of butterbeer. He doesn’t take a drink. Neither does anyone else, for that matter. 

It’s agony, waiting. Harry can still feel his fangs sinking into Mr Weasley’s flesh. He recites the date over and over again in his head to hold onto something concrete and real. 

During the early breakfast, Harry’s dragged away from the terrified Weasleys by Sirius and Remus. 

“We came to the Shrieking Shack your last Hogsmeade day but Hermione told us you had detention,” Sirius says. He’s holding onto Harry’s face. “You never responded to my last letter.”

“I sent you a letter,” Harry says. He doesn’t understand why Sirius looks so concerned. Sirius and Remus look at each other. 

He’s reminded of Ron and Hermione. Maybe they’re like that. He wonders who their Harry was- the person they always looked at each other for. Maybe it was his dad. He hopes it wasn’t his dad. 

“Harry, what are you mumbling about?” Remus asks him, a hand on his shoulder. Harry blinks. 

“What have I been saying?” he asks. He tries to remember the date. It’s slipping away from him. 

“You mentioned your dad, and Hermione and Ron?” Sirius clarifies. He’s running his fingers through Harry’s hair. It feels quite nice. It’s somewhat like when Hedwig would pick at his hair with her beak. 

“Berry never got to play with my hair,” Harry says. That was quite mean of Vernon to mess with his snake. She was just a little garden snake. She barely even spoke, too concerned with mice and bugs. But Harry promised her a nice nest. His promises tend to always fall short. 

What was the date again? 

Harry blinks and he’s in an unfamiliar hallway. It’s sterile like a hospital. He thinks he smells cleaning supplies. 

Ron and Hermione are talking to a man wearing all white. He’s pointing to many hung pictures of himself and saying how handsome he is. He’s not wrong, necessarily. But it is quite conceited. 

“What’s the date?” Harry asks. His voice feels away from his body. Or maybe that’s just how it is. He can’t quite remember. 

Ron turns around with a surprised expression. 

“You remember Lockhart, right, Harry?” Ron asks. 

Lockhart… Lockhart… Oh! 

“You tried to kill Ginny,” Harry says with a frown. “There was a snake, too. Odd.” 

Harry thinks the scar is replaced by a punishment. He can’t remember of what, though. He can’t remember every punishment. 

Ron and Hermione take him out of the room. They take him into another room. He thinks he recognizes the people in front of him. It’s a couple, a man and a woman, and they seem familiar. The man is lying in a bed, and the woman is playing with little scraps of paper. It seems fun. 

Harry sits down on the bed next to her and starts playing with the paper as well. He hears a regal sounding woman exclaim her surprise that Harry Potter is in this room. 

He’s Harry Potter, yeah? Yeah, he is. Well, here he is! 

The woman hands a boy- Neville! It’s Neville- 

“Hi Neville!” Harry exclaims with a smile. Neville looks sad. 

The woman hands Neville a gum wrapper. Harry hands him a gum wrapper too. 

“Thanks Mum. Harry,” Neville says softly. Harry likes how soft Neville is. 

“You’ve never made me scar, Neville. Thank you,” Harry tells him. 

“Neville isn’t here, Harry,” Hermione says with a strained voice. 

Harry blinks again and he’s in Grimmauld Place. There’s food in front of him. He’s sandwiched between Ron and Hermione. 

“Oh. Shame.” 

There’s shouting from across the room. Hermione’s clutching his hand, and Ron has his arm around his shoulders. It’s rubbing against some of Harry’s scars. 

“What is wrong with my godson? What did you do to him?” Sirius shouts. Screams, even. Snape is beside him and an old man with a white beard. It reminds Harry of Santa Claus.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks the room.

No one responds. Hermione starts playing with his hair. It feels nice. He hums and leans into her, and he finds that she’s crying. He made her cry again. 

He reaches up to wipe away her tears. Blood spreads against her cheek. He looks at his wrist. He giggles. 

“Colin and that damn camera,” he smiles fondly. 

Someone grabs his arm, wrenches him from the table. 

“This is from a blood quill,” the voice says. His voice is low and smooth. 

“Yep!” Harry says. Wait, he wasn’t supposed to say that. Dread fills his stomach. If Umbridge knew-

“It’s okay, Harry, it’s alright,” someone says. Hedwig is fixing his hair again. “No one is going to hurt you, I promise.” 

Harry makes a lot of promises he can’t keep. Is it any surprise he doesn’t trust anyone who makes them as well?

The air is suddenly colder. He hears shouts and sobs. He wonders what the date is. 

“Oh! Oh! I have to take the potions! I have to get to the cupboard, excuse me,” Harry says, wrenching free. He tries to walk away but he’s grabbed again. 

“What potions?” the low and smooth voice asks.

“The potions. That um, er, huh, I don’t remember!” 

He’s being forced into a sitting position and he finds that he can’t move. Something is being poured down his throat. He drinks despite himself. 

Harry blinks. He’s in the dining room at Grimmauld Place. Ron and Hermione are crying. Remus’s eyes are amber. Sirius has turned into a dog. Snape and Dumbledore are here, of all people. 

“Wha- what’s going on?” Harry asks. He’s cold. And shaking. 

He looks down and he finds that he’s shirtless. 

He’s shirtless and his scars- his punishments are out in the open. 

Hermione’s staring at her own. I must not read other books in class. Across his chest. 

He feels himself beginning to panic. He can’t- they can’t- nobody can know- nobody can know- 

Another potion is being poured down his throat. He blinks again and he feels himself calming. Snape has a scowl on his face, but he hands Harry his shirt back regardless. 

“Dolores did this.” 

It’s not a question, so Harry doesn’t respond. 

Sirius transforms back into himself. He starts walking towards the door but Remus grabs his arm. 

“Let me go, Remus, I’m going to kill her,” Sirius says, and Harry doesn’t have it in him to flinch at the ferocity. 

“Then you’ll go back to Azkaban and leave Harry alone,” Remus says in a very quiet, controlled voice, but it somehow sends shivers down his spine. 

“I’m already wanted, why not let my sentence become true?” 

“Then they’ll know you’re in Scotland and put dementors back at Hogwarts and Harry will never recover.” 

Sirius stops. He looks at Harry with a heartbroken expression. Harry looks down at the table. 

“Nobody’s killing anybody,” Harry mutters. “I have a deal with her. She didn’t just do this to me. I asked for it.” 

“Don’t defend her, Harry, she doesn’t deserve it-” 

“Quiet, mutt. What do you mean?” Snape asks. Harry has noticed that Dumbledore hasn’t said a word, just stands in the very corner looking at the proceedings with a neutral expression. 

“I take on everybody’s detentions. That way, no one gets hurt and Umbridge gets what she wants.” 

“Oh? And what is that, exactly?” Snape snarls. 

“To watch me suffer.” 

It’s gone quiet again. Harry tries to guess the date in his head. He doesn’t know how long he’s slipped away again. 

“What’s the date? How long have I been out?” Harry asks. 

“December twenty-fourth, my boy,” Dumbledore says. 

Oh. He hasn’t missed Christmas. That’s good, at least. 

“How’s Mr Weasley?” 

Ron takes Harry’s hand in his and squeezes.

“He’s recovering speedily. He’ll be coming home soon,” Dumbledore says. 

Good to know the man has some answers. 

“Wait, I’m mad at you, I shouldn’t compliment you,” Harry says with a frown. Dumbledore’s expression falls. 

“I know, Harry, I know.” 

“You should get some sleep, Harry,” Remus says. His eyes are still amber, but they soften as he looks at Harry. 

Harry’s helped out of his chair, and he’s about to protest the help, but he finds that he’s still shaking and can barely move. Ron slips an arm around his waist and helps him with the stairs. He’s guided into his bed. 

Ron settles into his own bed and turns off the light. 

“It’s going to be okay, Harry,” Ron says, but Harry doesn’t know who he’s trying to comfort more. 

The next morning, Harry feels a little bit more himself. But that’s not saying much.

There’s a pile of gifts at the foot of his bed, but he doesn’t feel like opening them. Not when he’s missed a quarter of the year. Not when he’s afraid that he won’t remember ever receiving these gifts, nevermind who they’re from. 

Harry avoids them and tiptoes out of the room so he doesn’t wake Ron. He drags a hand across the wall as he walks throughout the house, muttering the date as he goes along. He sees a door cracked with light shining through, and he walks through it. 

It’s a library. It’s stacked high with books and creaky looking chairs and wobbly tables. 

Remus sits at one of the tables, combing through a book. He looks stressed and tired. He looks a little like Hermione around finals. 

He wonders if he’s going to have to repeat the year. 

He wonders if he’s even good enough to stay at Hogwarts. 

He wonders if Umbridge will kill him before the school year is over.

He wonders if he hopes Umbridge will kill him or not. 

“December twenty-fifth,” he says. 

Remus’s head shoots up. His eyes track every inch of Harry’s body, eyes wide and calculating. 

“Harry? What are you doing up so late?” 

Harry walks closer to the table. He picks at the corner of one of the books Remus is reading. 

“It’s morning. Did you stay here all night?” 

Harry tries to pick up one of the books but he’s trembling too hard. He ignores Remus’s sympathetic eyes. It borders on pity. 

“Suppose I did. Are you hungry? I can make something to eat.” Remus stands up and starts heading out the door but Harry doesn’t follow. Instead, he stares at one of the books Remus was reading, eyes never leaving the title. 

Remus stops and turns around. 

“Harry,” Remus says, voice strained. 

“What to Do with The Insane,” Harry reads. 

Remus walks over and picks up the book. He puts it high on a shelf like that will make it disappear. 

“I- Harry, I-” Remus stops, rubs a hand over his face, swallows. “Let me make you some breakfast. Tea will help.” 

Harry looks Remus in the eyes. “December twenty-fifth.” 

Later, Harry scrounges around in his trunk to look for gifts for everyone. He avoids his own pile like the plague. He goes downstairs to one of the more inhabitable sitting rooms where everyone is. He thinks he remembers cleaning one of the couches, but he isn’t sure. 

He hands Hermione a book he stole from his primary school library when he was only eight and never returned. King Arthur. It’s a worn copy, one that he spent hours upon hours reading and rereading.

He gives Fred and George his cloak.

He passes Sirius and Remus his album. 

To Ron, he gives him his Firebolt. 

The room has fallen silent. Ron is frowning. 

“Happy Christmas and all that,” Harry says. He picks up a biscuit and nibbles on it. It’s dry and too sweet.

“What the hell is this?” 

It’s Ron that fills the silence. He knows this tone. It’s not a good one. 

“You give gifts on Christmas. December twenty-fifth, right?” 

“You can’t just- what are you-” Ron stops and stares at the broom in his hand like it personally offends him. 

“Well I’m not going to use any of that,” Harry shrugs. He sits on the arm of a chair. Crookshanks doesn’t look impressed with him.

“Harry, you can’t give away your father’s cloak!” Remus says, his voice strained. 

Harry’s tired of being told of what he can and can’t do. He’s tired of being pitied for doing what he was taught to do. 

He can go against the fiercest dark lord at only fourteen but this is where they cross the line?

“Why not? Maybe they’ll get caught less,” Harry snaps. It’s mean, it’s rude, and he knows it cuts straight deep into Fred and George’s hearts by the expressions on their faces. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. 

“I must not wreak havoc,” Harry whispers, knowing that it’s silent enough in the room that everyone would be able to hear. “She has eyes everywhere. You don’t honestly believe you were being cunning, do you?” 

“Harry!” Hermione shouts. Anger curls around Harry's heart and constricts. It’s the strongest emotion he’s felt in months.

“Suitable gift to read in class, huh, ‘Mione?” 

She looks as though he slapped her. Her eyes trail to his chest. 

“That’s enough,” Remus says, standing up from the couch. “I suggest we all take a breath and-”

“Nobody asked you to do this,” Ron interrupts. He’s clutching the broom with white knuckles. His face is flushed, and Harry notices his body slightly trembling. “We had no idea any of this was happening. You lied to us, told us she stopped having you use the blood quill, I don’t- you chose to do this.” 

Harry can’t help it. He laughs. 

“You think I chose to go mad? To carve words into my skin I never deserved? I must not eat in class. I must not use muggle products. I must not socialize with other houses. I must do all my homework. Dozens more, all over my body.” Harry stares deep into Ron’s eyes. “I must not practice Quidditch outside of regulated times. You’ve been practicing a lot, mate. Maybe with this broom you’ll actually be good.” 

Harry thinks Ron’s going to hit him. He thinks Ron is going to hex him. 

Instead, Ron throws the broom to the floor and storms out. Hermione and the twins follow him. Crookshanks hisses at him. 

Harry waits for the moment his mind disappears. It doesn’t come. 

“Well, you’ve found a way to punish them all. How does this hurt us?” Remus asks, holding up the album, his voice casual, but Harry can detect the anger barely simmering underneath. Sirius isn’t looking at either of them. 

“I don’t- I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Harry says, and part of it is the truth. 

He didn’t go rummaging around his trunk for the worst things to give them. He just- 

“I’m not going to use them anymore. Face it, Remus. If Voldemort came here, right now, I’d be screwed. I can’t remember the last time I did magic or anything, really. Most of the school year is blank. I’m not- I’m not real anymore. What use do I have for a broom or a cloak or some pictures of people that are as tangible as I am?”

All the tension seems to seep from Remus’s body. He slumps forward and frowns something fierce. 

“Oh, Harry,” he whispers. He moves like he’s going to hug Harry, but Harry backs up. He can’t trust himself with touch right now. 

So he leaves. 

He ends up wandering on the upper floors of the house, maneuvering around the creatures and suffocating dust. He opens a random door and finds it opening to nothing, just the ground all these stories up. 

He holds onto the door frame as he leans, the wind rustling his hair. It seems to taunt him. 

He imagines letting go and falling. Of becoming nothing more. 

It’s tempting. It’s so tempting, so sugary sweet that it thrums through his veins. 

He inches closer to the edge. One strong gust of wind and he’d just be gone. 

No more detentions. No more curses. No more of having to protect everyone. He gets to be selfish just once in his life, right? 

He lets go. 

He falls.

He thinks this is it. He thinks he’s finally getting something that he wants. 

Then he’s floating and being dragged up until he’s back inside the house and the door is shut and Sirius is looking at him with a fierce expression on his face. 

“What the bloody hell were you thinking!” Sirius shouts. 

Harry looks at the door. 

He almost killed himself. 

Merlin, he really has gone mad, hasn’t he? 

Harry stuffs the guilt and shame down deep inside of him and smiles lopsidedly at Sirius. Maybe he can salvage this. Maybe if he pretends to be in one of his states, then the consequences won’t be so dire. 

“I wanted to fly!” Harry exclaims. 

Sirius narrows his eyes at him, looks at the door, and back at Harry. He lowers his wand. 

“You wanted to fly,” Sirius repeats, slowly and severely. 

Harry doesn’t respond. He mimics his best Lovegood expression, staring at the point above Sirius’s head. 

Sirius lets out a curse and picks Harry up by the arm. He’s dragged down the stairs towards his room. It’s blessedly empty. 

“Rest, Harry. We’ll talk about this later.” 

Harry’s left alone, standing in a room staring at a bed that looks far too used. He doesn’t remember leaving his trunk here. He doesn’t remember anything past arriving here that first night when Mr Weasley’s fate was still held in the balance. 

Harry crawls into his bed and stares up at the ceiling. 

He almost killed himself. 

He pushes the disappointment down and shuts his eyes. 

He’s woken up by rustling. Ron’s putting things in his trunk. Harry feels a sense of unease in his chest. 

“What day is it?” Harry asks, throat dry, heart pounding in his chest. 

Ron stops throwing things in his trunk and stares at Harry. He has at best a conflicted expression on his face. 

“December twenty-fifth, Harry,” Ron says. “It’s still Christmas. Dinner just ended.” 

Harry can’t help but sigh with relief. He didn’t disappear again. He’s still here, he’s still present. 

“Wait,” Harry says, looking at Ron’s trunk. “What are you doing?” 

Ron shifts from one foot to the other. His jaw is clenched. 

“Dad’s back from hospital. We’re going back home to be with him,” Ron says without looking at Harry. 

They’re going home. Away from him. 

“Oh,” is all Harry can muster up to say. He looks up at the ceiling. Tries not to think about the door on the fourth level. 

“We’re leaving soon. Mum wants us to spend some time with Dad before Christmas is over,” Ron says softly. 

Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust himself to say anything. 

It’s not slipping away, what Harry is feeling. But it is something . A detached sense of everything happening around him, and he has absolutely no control. 

He thinks about gardening as he watches every Weasley leave through the floo. He thinks about the feeling of the trowel in his hand, the feeling of digging through the dirt, of finding little bugs as Mrs Weasely hugs him tight and tells him to contact her if he needs anything. 

He thinks about the horrid stench of the pesticide spray as Hermione kisses his cheek but refuses to look at him. 

He thinks about naming all the bugs and wanting to be a bug just so he could be less lonely as Ron claps him on the shoulder and tells him that he’ll see him back at Hogwarts in a week. 

He thinks about what dying would feel like as he, Remus, and Sirius are the only ones left in this massive house. 

“Why don’t I make you a plate, Harry,” Remus says, hesitating with his touch before deciding it’s not worth it and leaving the room. 

The floo powder dish is still open. Harry walks over to it and picks the lid up. It’s clay and has that chalky texture that all clay dishes have. It’s heavy in his hand. 

He chucks it at the wall. It crumbles, shards flying everywhere. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. 

Harry picks up the floo powder dish and throws it at the ground, the bright green dust flying up and spreading everywhere. His socks are stained with green. 

“What happened!” Remus shouts, running into the room. 

Harry’s chest hurts, and he realizes he’s been crying. His knees give out and he falls into the green powder and ceramic shards, wishing that everything could be different, that he could be different. 

Two strong arms envelop him and hold him. Harry tries to push them away because he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve the comfort, but he’s too weak. All his energy is being sapped from him by way of tears and sobs and gasps of breath. 

Harry wonders what would have happened to him if he had been expelled. Would he be in a better state than he is now? Would he be a completely different person? After all, who is he without Hogwarts? It’s all he’s ever known. 

His life is separated from before Hogwarts and after Hogwarts. 

What happens when they deem him too loony to stay? 

A cup of hot chocolate is being pushed into his hand. He’s sitting in the same sitting room he was before when he gave all his precious belongings away. They’re all gone. He’s not sure where they are. He’s not sure he cares. 

He stares down at the swirl of milk and chocolate, the cup warm in his hands. He wishes he could disappear. It’d be easier than just feeling numb. He’d rather be nothing at all. 

“We need to talk about all this, Harry,” Remus says. He’s sitting next to Sirius. They’re a strong looking unit, Harry observes. Too bad their life is wasted on him. 

“What were you doing up on the fourth floor?” Sirius asks. He sounds tired. 

“Harry, please talk to us. Tell us something, anything, please. What are you feeling right now?” Remus asks. He sounds desperate. 

“Am I what you thought I would be?” Harry whispers. 

Sirius’s eyes widen. Remus’s eyes shut. Both look like they’re struggling to breathe. 

It’s Sirius that speaks first. 

“No.” 

It cuts straight through Harry’s heart. His grip on the mug weakens and it falls to the floor. This is the second substance that stains his socks.

“Sirius didn’t mean that, Harry,” Remus immediately says. Always the mitigator, always the one who eases the tension, softens the words, downplays the emotions. “We’re just scared right now and emotions are high and-” 

“Remus, stop,” Sirius says. He’s frowning. But he looks right into Harry’s eyes. “Never in a million years would I ever consider that my godson, James and Lily’s baby, would be in this much pain . That any of this would turn out like this.” 

Sirius waves away the hot chocolate and he crouches down in front of Harry. He grabs his hand and squeezes it. 

“Harry, you’re so much more than what I ever dreamed while in Azkaban. I used to imagine someone exactly like James, but you’re- you’re so much more than him. More than both of them. And I’m so sorry if I ever made you feel like you weren’t enough, because you’re so much more than that.” 

It’s too much. It’s too honest but it doesn’t sound like it. Harry can’t make himself believe Sirius’s words, despite how earnest he looks. He pushes Sirius away and stands up.

“Harry-” Remus starts, but Harry cuts him off. 

“No!” Harry shouts. He shakes his head. He repeats December twenty-fifth over and over again in his mind, clutching onto it like it’s the only thing he can trust. 

But he can’t even trust that anymore. 

“Harry, we love-” 

“Stop!” Harry yells. He’s shaking again. He isn’t sure if he ever stopped. He can’t process this, he can’t handle it, he can’t-

It smells like flowers. He tries to pinpoint which kinds, but they’re too elusive. He drags a hand across the petals but never tugs on them. He knows how precious and gentle they are. He used to think he was like a flower. 

Too easy to break. 

Petunia never let him plant lilies. He didn’t understand until he was ten and had to do a family tree project for school. He tried pestering Petunia but she would purse her lips and tell him to shut up, or she’d give him another chore. 

His father’s side was completely blank. His mother’s side was only full because he copied off Dudley’s. He only learned his mother’s name because Petunia gave it to Dudley and not him. 

He was never worthy enough to know anything about himself. After all, he was nothing. He is nothing. It’s all he ever will know. 

The sky is blue, the grass is green, Harry James Potter is nothing. All is right with the world. 

Harry blinks and finds himself walking in a garden. Remus is beside him, one gentle hand on his arm, guiding him around. 

Harry swallows and breathes deeply. It’s sunny out. Remus looks tired. 

“What day is it?” Harry asks. Remus stops, surprised, then smiles softly. He continues guiding them along the garden path. 

“December twenty-ninth.” 

Four days. He missed four days. Panic curdles in his chest. 

“Oh.” His voice is small. He feels small. 

Remus leads him back inside the house. Harry wasn’t even aware there was a backyard, and yet it’s filled with beautiful flowers. Remus leads him to the kitchen. Sirius is humming and making toast. 

“Snack time!” he says, placing a plate of bananas on toast in front of him. Cinnamon is sprinkled on top. Harry doesn’t touch it. 

“Snack time?” Harry asks, confused. What is he, Dudley?

Sirius’s eyes widen and he looks at Remus, then at Harry. 

“Harry!” Sirius exclaims. He goes to hug him, but Remus holds up a hand, and Sirius stops and wrings the towel he’s holding in between his hands, bouncing on his feet in an anxious manner. 

“Madam Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and we both have figured out a sort of routine to help you out,” Remus explains, handing a piece of paper to Harry. 

Harry’s Routine

9:00 - Wake up

9:15 - Breakfast

9:30 - Recreation

11:00 - Walk

12:00 - Snack time

“This is-” Harry stops, searching for the right word. He doesn’t think he can use the word insane anymore. “Absurd!” 

Sirius and Remus look at each other. Sirius pushes the plate closer towards Harry. 

“Routines are helpful, Harry. They’re helpful for mental health. This one actually is structured after St Mungos-” 

“I’m not mental!” Harry shouts, pushing the plate away. Sirius purses his lips. Remus puts his head in his hands. 

“Why don’t you eat your snack and then we can all talk about-” 

“I don’t want to eat the fucking toast!” Harry yells, picking up the plate and throwing it across the room. “I don’t need a fucking snack time or a fucking schedule to tell me what to do every single hour of every single fucking day! I’m not one of those loonies at the hospital! I’m not Neville’s parents!” 

Remus winces. Sirius flinches. 

“This stress is not helpful-” 

“Oh, sorry, I know it wasn’t written in your fucking schedule!” Harry bellows. He picks up the paper. “What’s next, hm? More recreational time, whatever that bloody means!” 

Harry walks out of the kitchen, and he hears Sirius and Remus quickly approaching. He walks into the sitting room he could’ve sworn he was literally just in, and sits in one of the seats. 

“Recreational time!” Harry says, seething. “What’s on today’s docket?” 

The two bloody stupid adults he’s been entrusted with look at each other and then at him. 

“What,” Harry snaps. 

“Well, usually you just kind of stare into the distance. Recreational time is a nice word for that,” Sirius says slowly. Harry throws a pillow at him. 

“I’m not crazy,” Harry says after a moment of silence. Remus sighs heavily. He crouches down to Harry’s level. 

“We never said you were, Harry. We just- we don’t know what to do . We’re hoping that after a couple months of this, and-” 

“What?” Harry breathes. “Months? What about Hogwarts?” 

“Harry-”

“No!” Harry interrupts Remus. He’s so bloody tired of being treated like he’s glass. “I’m going back to Hogwarts in a few days, right?” 

“The wit-sharpening potions aren’t working anymore,” Remus says softly. “We’re all afraid that if you return to Hogwarts, your mental state will only get worse. We can’t risk it.” 

Harry feels like crying. He presses the heels of his palms in his eyes and takes a shaky breath. 

“It’s not too bad!” Sirius exclaims. “I know it’s a change, but we can make it work.”

Harry looks up and sees that Sirius is smiling. 

“Oh, fuck off Sirius! I bet you’re real bloody happy about this! You’ve been wanting me to get expelled so I could spend all my fucking time with you!” Harry yells, getting up. He runs to his room and slams the door as hard as he can.

It feels too big now that Ron’s gone. Harry spots his trunk open and sees all his belongings back in it. 

He grabs his cloak and throws it across the room. He then grabs his album and chucks it at the door. He chucks everything he sees out of his trunk, feeling the strongest desire to just destroy. 

He’s left with an empty trunk, sweat on his forehead, and broken bottles of ink and glass phials. He takes off his glasses and wipes away the stray tears. He’s so tired, and it’s not the kind of exhaustion that can be fixed with a good night’s rest. 

He thought he was doing a good thing, taking on everyone’s detentions. Part of him, a small, selfish part of him, believed that if he took on everyone’s pain, they would stop hating him so much. 

But all he got was scars and a broken mind.

He wakes up gasping for air, stumbling out of bed and downstairs as fast as he can. He clutches onto the wall for support, trying to rid his mind of the nightmares he just saw, just experienced. 

He pushes open the dining room doors and finds the Order all present, some talking loudly and others looking exhausted. They all silence when they see Harry. 

“I have to go to Hogwarts, I have to go back,” he tells Dumbledore, who’s looking at him with a mixture of disappointment and pity. 

“My boy-” 

“No!” Harry yells. “No, I have to go back! You don’t understand, we have a deal, Umbridge and I have a deal! If I’m not there when school starts-” 

“School has been in session for almost a week, Potter,” Snape snarls. Harry looks at Sirius and Remus for confirmation, and the way they refuse to look at him is proof enough. 

“What’s the date.” 

Harry’s so tired of disappearing. He’s so tired of coming back and everything changing. 

“January fourth,” Dumbledore says. 

Harry takes a sharp breath and shuts his eyes, trying to bottle down all the rage and fear thrumming through his veins. 

“Is she still there?” Harry asks. He feels hollow inside. 

“If you’re referring to Dolores-” 

“Is she still there!” Harry repeats, his impatience getting the best of him. He’s sick of Snape looking at him with contempt as though he didn’t save the very Slytherins he was entrusted to protect from having their skin split open. 

“Yes, Dolores Umbridge is still the High Inquisitor,” Dumbledore says, his voice grave.

Harry’s eyes trail along every Order member. His eyes stop at Mrs Weasley. 

“Has Ron contacted you?” 

Mrs Weasley shares a look with Bill. 

“Why would Ron have contacted us, Harry?” Bill asks, voice on edge. 

Harry tries to take another breath but it seems as though it’s a high order. 

“If you had just listened to me when I said I had to go back to Hogwarts then he’d be fine!” Harry shouts, his rage filling the room. 

Harry whimpers, thinking about Ron and Hermione in that awful, pink-filled nightmare of a room, carving words into their skin and being tortured with the cruciatus. 

“Harry, please, let me help you back to bed,” Remus says, placing a hand on Harry’s arm. Harry shoves him off. 

“No! No, stop trying to- to help me Remus! I don’t need you to help me! I was fine at Hogwarts! I had it handled! ” 

“Is Ron okay?” Bill asks, his voice cutting through the chattering that has since gone up. 

“Potter’s concern over the child is pointless, he was in my potions class just yesterday making a mess of very expensive potions ingredients,” Snape drawls. Harry wants to hit him. 

“What about Fred and George? Or Hermione? Or Neville? Ginny, or Luna, or-” 

“While your concern over your friends is admirable, Harry, I have to ask what this has to do with you returning to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore hums. Harry wants to hit him. 

“Because they’re the reason I did this!” Harry yells. “I couldn’t let them be hurt like me! Or anyone, for that matter! A little girl, only eleven years old, had her hand cut up by Umbridge and you think I could just let that slide?” 

“Oh, poor Potter,” Snape sneers, “facing the consequences for his actions-” 

“Watch it, Severus,” Remus growls all the while placing a hand on Sirius’s chest to keep him in his chair. 

“I don’t see why we should sugarcoat things, hm? The boy has lost his mind, and for what? If Potter had done the impossible and kept his mouth shut then Dolores would have never touched him.” Snape turns to Harry and raises an eyebrow. Harry can feel his heartbeat in his throat. “Tell us, Potter, why did you let your arrogance get the best of you, yet again?” 

“BECAUSE NO ONE WAS DOING ANYTHING!” Harry screams. “She was torturing people but none of you did anything because she wasn’t Voldemort! And you still do NOTHING! So let me go back!” 

“Harry-” 

“FUCK OFF, SIRIUS!” Harry pushes Sirius’s hands away and meets Dumbledore’s eyes. “Are you doing anything at all?” 

Dumbledore looks away, and it’s enough for Harry to let out a frustrated shriek. These are the adults who are supposed to protect them, and yet they do absolutely nothing when the chips are down? 

Cedric died. Why will no one listen to him?

“The Savior of the Wizarding World, everyone,” Snape drawls. “What a waste.” 

“That’s it!” Sirius shouts. He goes to attack Snape, but Remus stops him. 

“Yes, calm down, mutt. Like godfather, like godson. Two crazy wastes of space.” 

“No, no, no, I’m not crazy! It’s December twenty-ninth, it’s December twenty-ninth, December twenty-ninth-” 

“It’s January fourth, Harry,” Dumbledore interrupts, a waver in his voice. 

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He can’t do this anymore. He looks up at the faces of the Order of the Phoenix, and wonders how many children they’re going to let die for a war they should have no part in. 

“You’re going to let her remain at the school, then,” Harry says with no emotion. He’s tired of feeling. He wants to slip away again. He doesn’t want to come back. 

“We’ve discussed it, and we feel for the Ministry’s sake, yes.” 

Things happen around him. He’s never had control over anything, really. Ever since his parents died and he was left with the Dursleys, his life has been about survival, about learning the rules, about learning not to take up too much space or be too loud or want things. He never had control over anything in his life, so why would Hogwarts be any different? 

Harry leaves, ignoring Remus’s and Sirius’s shouts. Leaving the dining room feels like a death sentence in of itself, and perhaps it is. He cranes his neck up at the landing, thinking about the fourth floor and that door. 

He doesn’t have anything anymore. His mind is out of his control. He might as well take back some control before he disappears completely. 

The walk simultaneously takes a very long time as well as a short one. He opens the door and is met with a gush of wind. It blows through his hair and hits his cheeks with a harsh sting. He edges closer with his socked feet and shuts his eyes. His fingers trail along the doorframe, tapping against it rhythmically, waiting until he can finally push and just let go. 

He thinks about his life, and how it all led up to this. He was just trying to help people. He should’ve known that a hero’s life was never in the cards for him. 

But he doesn’t jump. He doesn’t leap off. He sits on the edge and lets the wind run through his messy hair. It’s longer than he remembers it being. 

He isn’t sure why that is the last straw. But it forms a lump in his throat that he’s unable to get around, and he ends up choking on sobs. 

“Oh, Harry.” 

The wind shifts and Harry feels a strong set of shoulders leaning against his. Sirius puts his arm around him in a death grip. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry says through the sobs. 

Sirius rubs his thumb across Harry’s cheeks, wiping away the tears as they come. 

“Let us help you, pup,” his godfather says. 

Harry doesn’t want help. He doesn’t want to have to go through the months of trying to get better, with the very real possibility that he won’t. 

But, oddly enough, he thinks back to Malfoy. 

“Don’t die on her terms.” 

“Okay.”

It doesn’t sound convincing. He knows Sirius and Remus see right through it. But… but maybe it’s enough that he’s even willing to try just a little bit. 

Sirius presses a kiss to his forehead. He feels another hand squeeze his shoulder and finds Remus beaming a small, proud smile down at him.

“Okay."

Harry rubs his hands together and paces the floor outside of the Great Hall. Its doors were ominous with their extravagance. 

“Take two,” he breathes. 

Sirius places his hands on Harry’s shoulders and squeezes. 

“Ron and Hermione are right inside keeping your seat warm and I’ll be there next to Remus if you need to leave,” Sirius reminds him for the sixth time. 

Harry already had two panic attacks leading up to this moment. He knows the Sorting has already happened, but his feet have been stuck to the floor in fear and anticipation.

He looks at his godfather and smiles. He never thought he’d get to see him stand beside him in Hogwarts again. 

Umbridge had been arrested. The trial was long and unrelenting and Harry felt like a bug trapped in a web the entire time since a lot of the evidence was on his body. Someone leaked the photographs, and for once, it wasn’t Skeeter. She announced her resignation the next day and started her own gossip newspaper, one that is steadily becoming more popular than the Prophet.

The Voldemort situation has been handled. He tried to put images of Sirius being tortured in his mind, but he was at Grimmauld being treated with Sirius at the time. So he told Sirius, who told Remus, who told Dumbledore, who told the Order and they handled the situation like adults.

Apparently Voldemort had been trying to get his hands on some stupid prophecy at the Ministry but the Order quickly found him along with Aurors and put a stop to him. Pettigrew had been found among the Death Eaters and was instrumental in proving Sirius’s innocence. 

As for Voldemort, he was told he was a shell of himself locked away somewhere that only the Unspeakables and Dumbledore knew about. Harry didn’t really care, as long as he wasn’t here. 

Remus, Sirius, and Harry moved out of Grimmauld as soon as they were sure Harry wouldn’t have an episode (as what they were calling them, instead of what Harry calls them in his head- loony time) with the unfamiliarity. 

His “episodes” (loony times) are happening far less frequently. He still has them, but not for days on end. 

Some days he feels like all the progress he’s made is steadily becoming unraveled. Some days he barely knows his name. 

But Sirius and Remus are by his side, as well as Ron and Hermione. 

“You know, it’s not too late to be homeschooled,” Sirius tells him as Harry’s hands flinch away from the door handles. 

“I know,” Harry says, because he does. Remus and Sirius would understand if Harry never wanted to step foot in Hogwarts again. 

But. 

Hogwarts used to be his home. It may not be, anymore, as the new flat feels far more comforting than Hogwarts ever really was, but he wants to remember what loving Hogwarts feels like. 

Harry takes a deep breath and pushes on the doors. 

The Great Hall goes silent the second they see him. He only just started looking at himself in the mirror again, so he knows he doesn’t look like a mess. 

He sees too many people look at him up and down, as if they could see his scars through his robe.

He shuts his eyes. Takes another deep breath. Whispers the date to himself as quietly as he can. 

He’s in the Great Hall. It’s the first of September. Sirius is behind him, Remus is in front of him sitting with the other teachers. He’s lucid. He’s in control. Umbridge is gone. So is Voldemort.

He opens his eyes again and chatter starts up. He shudders when he hears someone mention, “Janus Thickey Ward.” 

“Fuck off!” he hears someone yell. He’s surprised to find that it was Malfoy. 

Ron and Hermione get up from their seats at the Gryffindor table and they walk over to Harry. Sirius’s hand is a comforting weight on Harry’s back. 

Ron ruffles Harry’s hair. Hermione loops her arm through his. 

“You ready?” Ron asks him.

Harry feels himself settle back into his body and nods. 

“Yeah.” 

They walk towards the Gryffindor table. Colin snaps a picture and Harry laughs fondly.

Colin and that damn camera. 

Sirius kisses the crown of Harry’s head.

“Remember, Haz, we’ll be up there watching over all of you,” Sirius reminds him with a smirk. “So behave.” 

“You’re not even a teacher, Sirius,” Harry rolls his eyes. 

“No, but I’m married to a teacher which means I’m just as much a teacher as the rest of them,” Sirius explains. He leans towards Ron. “Ten sickles I can get McGonagall to do that wheezing laugh she does when she thinks no one is listening.” 

Ron snorts. “You’re on, mate.” 

"Love you, pup," Sirius tells Harry before he leaves. 

"I love you, too, Sirius."

People are still staring by the time Sirius gets up on the dias and smacks a loud kiss on Dumbledore’s lips. McGonagall chokes on her pumpkin juice and wheezes. Ron groans. Remus crosses his arms and asks Dumbledore if he needs to be worried about anything. Harry laughs. The new potions professor looks out of her depth.

Harry’s good. It’s September first. He’s surrounded by his friends. Umbridge is gone. So is Voldemort. He’s in control. 

“Are you good?” Neville asks, his eyebrows drawn together. Harry smiles.

“Yeah.”

It’s not a lie.