bouwrites

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 15

Sink In

First, Previous.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Harry awakens with a warm hand in his and a splitting headache made worse by Madam Bones a bed to his right barking orders at her aurors.

He opens his eyes, blinking against the harsh light exacerbating his splitting skull. He locks eyes just for a moment with Madam Bones. She softens all at once, smiles at him relieved and friendly and kind, and then green healer’s robes block his view.

“Harry! How’re you feeling?”

Harry vaguely registers the healer asking the same, but he looks at Michael when he answers, “Headache…”

A vial is pressed to his free hand. “Drink this,” says the healer. “It should help.”

Michael helps him lift the potion to his lips, but when he downs it, he does feel better. The splitting pain flows out of him, his head clears, and his hand steadies.

“What happened?” Harry asks Michael. “How long was I out?”

“Just overnight.” Michael smiles. His thumb gently strokes the back of Harry’s hand. “Don’t know how much you remember… after Voldemort tried to possess you, you stayed up with me until the healers said you needed to rest. You conked out right on the spot. You must’ve been exhausted.”

Right… it’s starting to come back. Everything after he meets eyes with Voldemort is kind of fuzzy, but it’s coming together. Michael tells him last night that everyone is okay, but… “The prophecy?”

“We weren’t allowed to take it out of the Ministry,” Michael answers with a roll of his eyes. “But since you’d signed the forms for us to hear it, Madam Bones was able to listen to it before they put it back in the Department of Mysteries. She said she’ll tell us all when you’re ready. Or, we can go back in. But You-Know-Who didn’t get it.”

“Madam Bones telling us will be fine,” says Harry. He doesn’t want to go back into the Ministry anytime soon. He knows he’ll have to to take his O.W.L.s soon enough, but he sees no reason to subject himself to that any more than necessary.

And he trusts Madam Bones.

“I can’t believe you looked Lord Voldemort in the eyes and declared a game of keepy uppy,” Harry says as he continues to process everything that happens last night. “What’s wrong with you?”

Michael laughs helplessly. “I panicked, okay? Sure, it wasn’t my best moment, but it worked, didn’t it? Mr. Theseus knew exactly what I meant!”

Harry giggles so hard his head starts hurting again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on,” Michael protests, though he’s laughing too. “That wasn’t even the most absurd thing to happen last night. I mean, Mr. Theseus hulking out and giving You-Know-Who a muggle beatdown? Highlight of my life, honestly.”

“You played keepy uppy with the Dark Lord and you still won’t even say his name?”

Michael coughs and blushes. “It’s habit. Sorry. Although you have a point. Weirdly enough, despite him totally winning that fight and all and definitely trying to kill us… seeing Mr. Theseus punch him in the face really makes him a lot less scary.”

“God,” gasps Harry, “that should be today’s headline. ‘Theseus Scamander Punches He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named In His Great Ugly Mug.’ …Speaking of, what is the Prophet saying about it all?”

“They haven’t given any details, yet. Everyone knows it was- Voldemort, but really the only substance on the report is that Fudge is going to make a statement about it today. I expect tomorrow’s edition to have more information.”

“Oh,” says Harry. “Good. Can we be not here when that happens?”

Michael smiles sympathetically. “Dunno. I’m stuck either way for a couple weeks before the internship, but you can leave as soon as the healers clear you and Mr. Theseus. Assuming there’s no complication with you from the possession, it shouldn’t take long. Mr. Theseus is still sleeping, but his leg is already healing, and he wasn’t really hurt otherwise. Madam Bones was worst off, but as you can see,” he nods to where Madam Bones is threatening a cowering auror with something students probably shouldn’t be hearing, “she’s raring to go.”

Susan, a wicked glint in her eyes glancing back at the scene her aunt is causing with the people (presumably from her department in the Ministry) running in and out of the wing they’re resting in, comes over to Harry and Michael’s side. “She’s just grumpy because she’s not allowed back in the office,” Susan giggles. “With all the Death Eaters to process through the courts and arranging their delivery to Azkaban and all that, she’s busier than ever but the healers tell her she has to stay put at least for today. I reckon she’s going to push herself too hard and be stuck here for tomorrow, too, before the healers get sick of fighting her and just let her go. But she’s fine. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be so impatient.”

“How’re you feeling, Harry?” asks Terry, who pops up over Michael’s shoulder. He comes over from Theseus’ bed when he sees Harry awake.

Harry can’t honestly answer that he’s feeling totally fine, but, “Not bad. Well enough to get out of here.”

Terry snorts. “Well, fortunately, you’re not the one making that decision.”

It occurs to Harry just then, with memories of all his times in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing filling his head, that some people who would normally be here are missing. Having Susan, and Michael, and Terry with him, and Anthony is here too by Theseus’ bed, is welcome, but, “Where are Ron and Hermione?”

“Oh!” Michael chuckles. “It’s too early for visiting hours. We actually spent the night here as well. For observation, they said. But we’re more or less unharmed so there’s no need for us to be confined to bed.”

“More or less?” Harry repeats, alarmed.

“Bumps and scratches.” Michael shrugs. “Anthony was jinxed – took it for Terry – but it was just a small thing and easily fixed within the first hour we were here. We’re all okay, Harry.”

With Michael’s reassurance, Harry slowly relaxes again.

“So…” says Susan. “Did you want to hear the prophecy now, or after your other friends get here?”

Maybe Harry should wait for Ron and Hermione, but the original plan is to go without them, anyway. Harry only goes to the Ministry to hear the thing because Dumbledore still doesn’t trust him to handle hearing it. And though they have his back when he meets Dumbledore at Grimmauld…

Part of Harry just isn’t ready to forgive them. If they trust Dumbledore’s judgement on what’s safe and not so much, then they can wait to hear the prophecy until Dumbledore thinks they’re ready.

If nothing else, Harry can decide to tell them about it when they get here.

“Now,” he answers. He looks over to Madam Bones looking just about ready to beat an auror over the head with the clipboard in her hands and balks. “Whenever your aunt is ready.”

Susan looks, over, laughs, and saunters back to her aunt’s bed to whisper in her ear.

Madam Bones nods, barks at the aurors to get out, then calls Harry over. “I’m under strict orders not to get out of this bed,” Madam Bones grouses as Harry attempts to stand. “Unfortunately, I have to set a good example to the cadets, so I can’t just tell the healers where to stick their precautions…”

Harry chuckles. His feet support him. His head swims, just a little, but Michael with his arm around Harry keeps him steady over the short distance to Madam Bones’ bed. She flicks her wand, casting a spell so that no one will overhear them.

“So, are you sure you’re ready to hear this prophecy?” she asks.

Dumbledore will say no, but that’s exactly why Harry insists, “I am. It’s about me, I deserve to know.”

Madam Bones nods sharply. “I quite agree with you, Mr. Potter. And know that I am with you. I’ll support you through this damn thing, as I’m sure my niece will as well no matter my protests.”

Susan sends Harry a clever wink.

“The prophecy says: The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…”

Harry and company take a moment to let it soak in. Brows furrow and surreptitious glances are cast.

Then, Harry roars, “That’s it?”

Michael snorts. Madam Bones just drily examines him. “Expecting something different?” she asks.

Harry is fuming. “Dumbledore made such a big deal about it! He acted like it’s this great weapon, that if Voldemort hears it, he’ll know exactly how to kill me and win his stupid war! What part of that gives Voldemort any advantage? At all? What part gives us any advantage? It only says what we all already know! That Voldemort won’t ever leave me alone, so I’m going to have to kill him somehow or die trying.”

He tugs at his hair in frustration. “Maybe if Voldemort had heard it from the start, he’d have been more cautious about attacking me as a baby? It would’ve been wiser to wait and see, considering Neville also could’ve been the baby in the prophecy until Voldemort marked me… but there’s nothing he can do about it now. Why did we go through all that to keep it from Voldemort when it gives him nothing? Why does Dumbledo-” Harry’s breath wells up and clogs his throat. He chokes over the thought. “Why did Dumbledore keep it from me?”

“Maybe Dumbledore didn’t know?” Susan offers. “Only that there is a prophecy and that it might give You-Know-Who something?”

“No,” Terry shakes his head immediately. “Remember the label? The prophecy was initially delivered to A.P.W.B.D. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. He knew the whole thing from the start.”

Michael holds Harry’s hand tightly, allowing Harry to squeeze for all he’s worth without complaint. Still, he snickers. “That’s really Dumbledore’s full name?”

Terry mutters back, “Read a book, Michael.”

Madam Bones watches them all stoically until an opening appears when she asks, “Potter. …Harry. Tell me now and tell me honestly… do you want to fight? You-Know-Who is back, and there will be war. You are fated to defeat him, but do not consider that for now. Do you intend to fight in the coming battles?”

Well, those are two different questions. Harry sees where she’s going with it, though, so he answers the intent. “Yes,” he says. “I’m not just going to sit back and be hunted down while everyone else is risking their lives against Voldemort.”

Madam Bones closes her eyes and dips her head. She hums lightly, not quite approval but not disapproving, either. “Very well. In that case, we will be working very closely together for the foreseeable future.”

Susan beams at her aunt’s decision. Harry blinks, still confused. “Wha-?”

“I sincerely apologize,” says Madam Bones. “A child should not feel the need to fight someone like this. It is our duty as adults, and my job as head of the DMLE, to fight that battle for you. But owing to your role in the prophecy, and according to the Reasonable Concessions for Fated Actions Act of 1855, I would rather have you with me, trained and with a team of people willing to help you, than going rogue on your own or left defenseless as Voldemort himself pursues you.”

Harry stares. “You mean…”

“Yes. Like I said, I will support you through this. And nowhere in the prophecy does it say that you have to defeat the Dark Lord alone. You will have the full might of the DMLE with you.” She hums. “You are staying this summer in America, yes? With the Scamanders?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Theseus can begin your training. His sister-in-law, Porpetina Scamander would also be a good resource for you. She was an auror in America in her day, and will have insights and tactics not common here in Britain.” Her eyes cast out to Michael, Terry, and Anthony. “They can also oversee the training of any of your friends there who are determined to fight by your side. Once you return to Hogwarts, I will organize for you to undergo basic training outside of your lessons. Or perhaps I’ll simply get you excused from Defense Against the Dark Arts and replace it… I’ll negotiate it with Dumbledore and the Governors.

“This does not mean that you must become an auror, naturally, nor does it mean that you will be fast tracked to a badge should you decide to become one in the future, but if you are going to be fighting in the coming war, I will see you properly prepared for it.” Her stern eyes fix him in place. “I trust you have no objection?”

“N-no ma’am.” Actually, that sounds wonderful. Harry can be sure at least that Madam Bones isn’t going to coddle him. She won’t treat him like a child after he faces down Voldemort and survives… what, four times, now? She treats him from the start, from even before they hear this prophecy, like someone who understands the cost of fighting. A teenager, yes, someone to protect rather than someone to order to do the protecting like she tells Theseus to do, but not innocent or naive.

Dumbledore has so many opportunities to prepare Harry for what’s coming and he takes none of them. Amelia Bones learns that she can’t keep Harry out of the war and promises him every tool she has at her disposal to help him survive it. That’s the difference. That’s why Harry doesn’t hesitate even a moment to agree.

That’s why he trusts her.

Proving why no one should ever call him a coward, however, Terry steps up between Harry and Madam Bones. “I have an objection,” he says firmly.

Madam Bones raises her brow. “Speak, Mr. Boot.”

Michael looks at Terry like he’s mad, and Susan frowns gently, but Terry only raises his chin and maintains his steady glare. “I do mean no offence,” he starts diplomatically, “but do you honestly expect us to trust the Ministry? Your organization couldn’t be more corrupt if you tried. The Minister himself has proven himself willing to slander, endanger, and outright attack school children as young as eleven. Your Ministry attempted to murder Harry personally, at his home. Why should Harry ever cooperate with you in any capacity?”

Harry watches as Michael and Susan’s faces both go from incredulous to, “Well, actually, yeah, he’s got a point,” and Harry knows he has exactly the same expression on his own face.

Because… well, actually, yeah, he’s got a point. Harry likes and is willing to trust Madam Bones, but the department behind her… that’s a different story.

But as eyes turn to her, even her own niece’s, Madam Bones merely hums once, sharply, and answers, “I am in no way trying to entrap Mr. Potter. If he has any objections at any point, he can bring them up with me or withdraw entirely. I admit, you would all be great fools to trust the Ministry at this point, but I am only asking you to trust me. Again, you are not joining the auror force, and you are not becoming a part of the Ministry. I am merely offering the resources I have at my disposal. They can be used at your good judgement.”

Terry stands tall, bristled up with his hard stare for a moment longer, then he allows the tension to bleed away. He slumps, drops his eyes to the floor, then slides his gaze around back to Harry. “What do you think?”

“I trust Madam Bones,” Harry says. That part is easy. “I’m not sure about anyone else, but I trust her. And I do need help if I’m going to survive Voldemort.”

Terry holds his gaze for a moment, searching for something within Harry’s answer. Then, he nods and steps aside. “Alright. I’m with you.”

“Very good.” Madam Bones nods. “I expect regular updates, and we will remain in constant communication to organize everything. Do not ever hesitate to contact me, for any reason.” Her countenance softens considerably, then, and Harry thinks he sees more of the mother that Susan must know than the Director of the DMLE. “We will get you through this, Harry. I promise.”

-----

Seeing as the thing is practically worthless, Harry does share the prophecy with Ron and Hermione when they ask, and he tells them about Madam Bones’ plan as well. They immediately volunteer to join training with him, promising to fight by his side through it all.

What takes Harry by surprise, however, is that when Dumbledore comes to talk to him, he is more relieved than anything. Even when Harry shouts at him about the prophecy and keeping secrets, Dumbledore nods and accepts it and even admits that he is wrong to hide it from Harry. He apologizes.

And most of Harry’s fight kind of leaves him, then. He tells Dumbledore that he doesn’t know how much he can trust him, and that he thinks that while he knows that Dumbledore wants the best for him, and he’s going to fight alongside him, Harry is, for now, firmly on Amelia Bones’ side of it all, not the Order of the Phoenix’.

He is asked how much he trusts the DMLE and he laughs in Dumbledore’s face. Terry already covers this. But Harry does trust Amelia Bones, and that counts for a whole lot. It’s not like Harry can trust Dumbledore or his Order any more than the Ministry, anyway. They all, even the Ministry (broadly speaking, not on an individual level, which is his whole point), want to defeat Voldemort. Harry trusts that. He doesn’t trust anything else.

Once all the confrontations are over, everyone is up and all of the children are cleared to leave so the plan is to head back to Hogwarts where Harry will reside temporarily until Theseus is let go (probably tomorrow) and help the others pack up for summer.

But at the moment, it’s Harry and Michael huddled on a bed together, with Michael’s hand in his hair as they wait for their escort to the castle.

“Hey, Michael…?” says Harry. “What are you telling people about Tiger?”

Michael hums quietly as he gently rakes his nails along Harry’s scalp. It tingles. In a good way. “You said I could tell Mom and Dad the truth. Everyone at school… they think you’re back home with Rosie. Why?”

Harry’s cheeks blaze. “Because-” he admits haltingly, “I like being Tiger. I, er, don’t really know how I would make that work, but… I still want to be Tiger.”

There’s quiet. The silence stretches.

“Don’t judge me.”

Michael starts. “Sorry, I wasn’t- I was thinking of how we could pull that off, actually. I wasn’t…” He clears his throat, ignoring his own pink cheeks. “I’m glad you said that. I’d miss Tiger, too. Like… even though I love being with you like this… I feel like I’d be missing part of you, you know? There’s a side to you that comes out a lot more when you’re a cat. And besides that, I never want you to feel like you can’t be everything that you are. You’re an animagus, and even if you can’t show that off to people, I want you to be comfortable with it with me. I’ll never judge you for being a cat sometimes. Or wanting to be a cat.”

Harry slackens, falling limp. “You know a bit about my relatives,” he murmurs. “It’s safe there, but… there’s no love. Not for me. They don’t care about me. When I ran away, and I got picked up by the Magical Menagerie… It’s going to sound stupid, but I’ve never been… takencareof, like that. No name, no fame, no reason, even when I acted out and caused trouble.

“I was actually tempted for a bit to just be a pet. Figured if I went all in with it, I could get away with it. Peter Pettigrew did for twelve years, and he was only caught because Sirius knew about him being an animagus.”

“It’s not stupid.” Michael’s arm surrounds him, pulls him in tight. “I can’t imagine, but… I love you just the same as a cat or as a human. You’re you, either way. I’m happy to take care of you, either way.”

Harry hums. He knows that’s true, but… “I think it’s easier for me to accept when I’m a cat,” he admits. “I got to work on that.”

“I’ll help,” says Michael. “Exposure therapy. If I love you long enough, you’ll accept it eventually.”

Harry snorts. Michael sticks out his tongue teasingly.

“But it is also just… part of me,” says Harry. “I like being a cat, and not only for unhealthy reasons. It’s fun, and I like how it feels to- to cuddle with you, and how you pet me…” He chuckles awkwardly and is quick to add, “And I don’t have to walk anywhere if I don’t want to. I can just make someone carry me. The Hogwarts staircases are a thing of the past.” He sighs dreamily, exaggeratedly for his joke.

Michael giggles along. “Do I have to worry about you getting fat?” He hums, runs his hands temptingly along Harry’s abdomen. “That’s alright. You’ll look good with a little more fat on your bones. You’re too skinny, anyway.”

Yeah, thank his relatives for that. But since he’ll be spending the summer with the Scamanders this year, he won’t have the usual yearly setback in his diet. …Not that he has any idea how cat food factors into a healthy diet for him, but he supposes he’ll figure that out later. If it’s healthy for cats, it’s probably healthy enough for him while he is one. The complication comes upon changing back and forth.

He should probably ask about that, actually, once he’s in America. One of the Scamanders is sure to know, or be able to find out, the dietary specifications of an animagus.

“…You know… I get it, now.”

Harry hums a question.

Michael sighs. “I was so… bitter. About Ginny, I mean. I’m not anymore. I know why she did what she did. It was hard on her, too, all the secrets to keep me safe. That’s why she broke up with me. I was so angry about how she was treating me that I didn’t realize she was struggling, too.

“Ron and Hermione, as well. They’re in the same boat. I never understood why you kept standing by them, kept putting your trust in them, when they treated you like they did over the summer. I guess I was projecting my feelings about Ginny onto you, too. But…”

Michael hums thoughtfully. “What happened in the Ministry… that’s not something you just turn your back on. I get that, now. You went through so many things with Ron and Hermione and I didn’t realize just what that does to you. Like… Susan. Before this, she was, what? An acquaintance at best? Skirting the line of a friend? But now, after she saved my life from Death Eaters? That woman is my best friend in the world and I’m not letting her go for anything. Even if she does terrify me.”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah. In first year, Ron and I weren’t really friends with Hermione. In fact, it was Ron that insulted her and made her cry and miss the Halloween Feast. But then we went to warn her about the troll, and it turned out the troll was there, and we fought it together, and we’ve just been inseparable ever since.”

He idly plays with Michael’s sleeve. “I was worried at first about bringing them and you guys together, but… after what happened in the Ministry… I know Ron and Hermione will accept you guys, no question. You defended me, you fought with me, and that means- a lot- to us. I’m pretty sure they already think of you guys as part of the group now.”

“And all I had to do was risk my life. You’ve such a welcoming club, Harry.”

“Pfft. Shut up. You brought it up.”

Michael grins impishly, but it quickly fades. “Nah, for real, I get it. They’re protective of you. Even if they make some errors in judgement, like listening to Dumbledore last summer, they’re still trying to look out for you. You got to respect that much. I understand now why you still trust them despite everything. I’ve started to trust them, despite everything. Anyone who goes through that kind of Gryffindor nonsense with you can’t be all bad.”

“True, but that was not my fault. I went through the official channels and everything! It’s not like I broke into the Ministry to do something stupid like steal the prophecy before Voldemort could or something.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault,” Michael chuckles. “I’m just saying it’s Grade A Gryffindor Brand Nonsense. Honestly, we go to the Ministry of Magic and get wrapped up in a full-scale attack by Death Eaters! That doesn’t happen in Ravenclaw!”

“More than half the people there were Ravenclaw, you know. And technically I’m not even a Gryffindor, so there actually weren’t any Gryffindors present.”

“Hehe, whatever makes you feel better, dear heart.”

“Don’t get cute with me just because you’re wrong.”

“I’m always cute, though?”

Harry very maturely sticks out his tongue. Michael ruffles his hair. “Was it ever confirmed if you’ll be resorted? Did they go over that in your readmittance meeting?”

“I don’t have to be,” Harry says. “Since I’m on record as being a Gryffindor I can just rejoin the house when I come back. Technically, I should be resorted, but I can be placed if I choose it.” He shrugs. “I think I’ll just stick with Gryffindor. It’d be interesting to do the sorting again, but I just don’t want that kind of attention.”

“But then that means you’re not in Ravenclaw with me…” Michael whines. “What about sleeping together?”

Harry grins mischievously. “What do you mean? No one would keep Tiger out of your dormitory.”

Michael’s pout quickly turns into a beaming smile. He laughs and plants a kiss on Harry’s cheek. “You’re so right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

-----

“So, where are Stephen and Kevin?”

“Out,” answers Terry. “This is an odd time to pack.”

Harry grunts. It is that. Technically there are still a few more days of term left. The Hogwarts Express won’t be bringing everyone back to King’s Cross until Thursday, and even the early packers won’t be doing so in the middle of a nice day like this. They’ll be enjoying the last of their time with their friends before summer.

Harry wanders to Terry’s desk as the three Ravenclaw boys gather up their trunks to begin organizing. He snatches up some Transfiguration notes and hums, examining them, then folds it up and slips it in his pocket.

“You can ask to borrow my notes, you know.”

Harry sends him a grin and a wink. “I know, but that’s not half as fun.”

Terry rolls his eyes. “Kleptomania is the worst habit you picked up by being a cat.”

“I disagree,” says Michael before Harry can protest. “The worst habit is that he’s distracted by little lights.”

Harry squawks. “I am not!”

“Vermillious.”

Harry’s eyes track the red sparks that shoot from Michael’s wand and- yeah, okay, they’re distracting. He draws his own wand. “Finite- That means nothing.”

“It’s cute, though,” says Michael.

The boys snicker at him, which makes him pout. “Anthony, your friends are bullying me.”

“Don’t be mean,” says Anthony, eyes never leaving his own packing.

Harry puffs up triumphantly. “Ha!”

“Besides,” says Anthony, “his worst habit is easily knocking things off of tables for no reason.”

Harry scrunches up his nose as the boys laugh. “I have only ever done that on purpose.”

“Yeah, that’s not a good defense, mate,” giggles Terry.

“Still, it’s not habit if it’s deliberate every time.”

Anthony rolls his eyes. “Touché.”

Letting the chuckle fade, Michael holds up one of his winter cloaks. “Hey, Anthony, is it cold in America?”

Anthony hums a noncommittal sort of noise. “Not cold enough for that. At the reserve, definitely not unless you’re in a habitat made to be that way. At the Scamanders’ house, though, it’s a bit cooler. They live in New York. The reserve is mostly in Texas.”

“…Isn’t that really far?”

Anthony chuckles. “It’s America. Compared to Britain, everything is far. They’ve got a special floo specifically for travel between their home and the reserve, but yeah, they do have to contend with the time difference.”

“So, where will we be staying?” asks Terry. “Harry is going to live with them, of course, and I imagine you will, too, but will there be room for Michael and I or will we be lodging on the reserve like most out-of-area interns would?”

Anthony keeps a wry smirk. “The four of us will share a keeper residence on the reserve, actually. But as we’re all underage and they are my cousins, we’ll all be expected at the house regularly. Expect Rolf to stop by often to check on us, too. And we’ll probably have most of our meals with them whether we like it or not.”

“Sounds good to me,” says Michael.

It does sound good. Kind of similar to how they are here at Hogwarts. Living together and going to class and doing assignments together.

Harry sighs. It’s similar, except that they’re going to begin training to fight Voldemort. A large part of Harry really doesn’t want them involved. He’s scared for them. He knows how strong Voldemort is, he knows how dangerous fighting him is, and every second that they decide to fight with Harry is another where they can die.

But Michael hits the nail on the head earlier today. The same reason Harry accepts Ron and Hermione there at his side in the fight is the same reason he has to accept Michael, Terry, and Anthony.

Harry can’t abandon them even if he wants to. He can’t even really say for sure that their choice to fight is solely motivated by his role in the coming war, but if he considers that it isn’t, if Harry has the opportunity they do, to back out and choose to stay out of it and stay safe, he’d fight, too. He won’t even consider allowing any one of them to go out there without being at their side.

So, he shouldn’t be a hypocrite and ask them to stand back. He’d only invite resentment. Like Dumbledore keeping Harry out of the loop in the name of keeping him “safe.”

Safe is important, but even more important than that is that they’re happy with their choice. That they have a choice to begin with.

“Harry?” Michael asks softly. “You alright?”

Harry looks up at the boys who come to mean so much to him so quickly, who understand him, who listen to him when no one else does, who involve him when the people he relies on are unwilling to. And he can’t keep the question from his tongue. It stings his lips; he knows he shouldn’t ask, but he does anyway, “Are you all really sure about this? Training to fight Voldemort… You have the chance to walk away, to stay safe.”

The boys all go quiet. Anthony, surprisingly, speaks up first in a low, intimidating growl. “No, I don’t,” he says. “That chance walked away when Voldemort threatened the people I care about. I will- always- lift my wand for you guys. Any of you.”

Harry swallows thickly. Anthony is by far the protective one, so it’s not out of left field, but… Harry knows he hates fighting. Harry knows he’s not as bold, can’t brush it off as easily, as Ron and Hermione do over the years.

“We told you the day you trusted us to know you’re an animagus, didn’t we?” asks Terry calmly. “You’re our friend. It doesn’t matter what we face. An impossible problem, or an unbeatable enemy. We’re in it together.”

Terry… Terry is the most unsuited for combat. Anthony at least has those protective instincts driving him to face down whatever he must, even if he breaks a little afterwards when he’s safe again. But Terry isn’t made for confrontation. He’s in near hysterics in the Ministry, and he’s chosen to talk to Fudge and Madam Bones during the Umbridge thing for a reason. He’s a brilliant, brilliant man, but he’s good at talking, at logic and deduction, and at reading situations. He’s not good for a firefight.

There’s nothing shameful about that. Frankly, Harry is the opposite. He sucks hard at all the things Terry is best at. They need a Terry, but Harry worries that putting him into combat…

No, Terry is stronger than he looks. He holds his own in the Ministry, too, and his quick thinking is invaluable. And… he’s no less determined to be there for his friends. He’s even braver than Harry.

Michael’s gentle hands cup Harry’s cheeks, turning him so that they come face to face. Michael smiles softly, kisses Harry’s forehead, and whispers, “We’re sure. We know, and we’re sure. Just like you are.”

Just like he is. They know the danger, just like Harry does. They’re resolved, just like Harry is. They’re not being kept in ignorance. They make their choice with Voldemort’s claws flashing before them, and they show their fangs, anyway.

How can he deny them, that?

“Thank you,” Harry whispers. He gulps for a second. His eyes linger in Michael’s dark ones, then sink to his lips, then come back up.

He reaches up, grabs Michael’s face, and kisses him on the mouth.

For a blissful second, it’s just their kiss, their first real one, though they occasionally kiss on the cheek or forehead before this. Technically they don’t even have their first date, yet, but Harry thinks fighting together against Death Eaters and Voldemort counts as a bonding moment.

And then Anthony makes a gagging sort of sound, and Terry wolf-whistles, and Harry and Michael break apart with identical groans of exasperation and embarrassment.

Michael glares weakly at his two best friends. “You couldn’t have just let me have it?”

Terry snickers. “That’s what she said.”

“I hate you.”

Harry holds tight to Michael and laughs. He laughs until Michael laughs, too, and all four of them chuckle until they’re all chuckled out and they go to sit on each of their respective beds, quietly agreeing to just relax for a moment.

Harry considers joining Michael in his bed, but he doesn’t want to push it, and he does initiate their first kiss just then. He doesn’t think Michael will mind, but he thinks it’s a good idea for him to take a moment and sort through that new development in their relationship himself before doing anything else.

So, he climbs up over Terry instead, to the spare top bunk no one actually sleeps in, and jumps thoughtlessly onto the mattress.

There’s a small, muffled poof and Harry and the bed is engulfed in a noxious stench cloud.

The boys all jump up to attention even as Harry slowly registers what just happens.

The spare bed… a stink pellet hidden in the sheets…

“Wha- who-?” asks Michael.

Harry closes his eyes. He takes a deep, steadying breath and regrets it because of the stench. “Did… Did I just prank myself?” he asks no one. God, or Fate, maybe. He can’t believe he forgets about that stupid stink pellet!

A beat passes. Then the howling starts.

Michael is inconsolable. In seconds there are tears streaming down his face for laughing so hard. He’s wheezing and very nearly falling off the bed. Terry shouts, “Ha! Karma!” and laughs just as eagerly.

Harry looks to Anthony, his one ally in this cruel world. Anthony shakes his head, a smile on his lips, and says, “Sorry, Tiger. Not getting you out of this one.”

“I’m betrayed,” moans Harry.

Michael falls out of his bunk. The only thing keeping Harry from breaking into laughter himself is the temporary concern over whether he’s okay falling from the top bunk like that. He’s fine, though, literally prone on the floor cackling like a hyena.

“Abandoned. Forsaken.”

“It’s just the consequences of your own actions,” says Terry.

“I have never done anything wrong, ever, in my life,” declares Harry. Michael is just a trembling ball on the floor. No help at all.

Anthony scoffs. “That doesn’t even work when you’re a cat.”

“I have no allies left in this world.”

“Drama queen.”

“Well, he is a cat.”

“You all are so mean,” Harry whines. “I love you guys.”

“We love you, too. I’m still not going to save you.”

“…Rude.”

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 14

Devourer

First, Previous, Last.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

“Harry!” Harry is once more tackled in a crushing hug, but this one he meets head on, just as eager for it as the boy embracing him. “I missed you!”

It’s only been a few days, but… Harry misses Michael, too. A lot. “I missed you, too,” he breathes. “What’re you doing here?”

Michael grins. “Susan and Terry talked our way into visiting. We had our last exam today, so the adults agreed to let us come this far. Whether we actually go into the Ministry with you is your choice, though.”

“Of course, I want you there!”

Harry doesn’t think twice about showing how familiar he is with the Ravenclaw boys in front of Susan, who arrives with the rest of them, since Susan assumes they know each other anyway from how she tells them to contact Harry when the charges against him are dropped rather than looking for Ron and Hermione.

Maybe… they talk through letters sent through Anthony’s relatives, and get to know each other that way? That might work. He’ll let Terry come up with something if Susan asks, though. Terry’s the best at improvising reasonable excuses.

And he’s nervous about going to listen to this prophecy. Having the boys and Susan there puts him at ease way more than Theseus and Madam Bones can. Not that he doesn’t trust the adults, he knows those two are good ones, but his friends just have his back in a way the adults can’t.

“Did Ron give you your cloak back?” Anthony asks. “I noticed he and Hermione left the castle when you came back to pick up your things.”

“He did,” Harry confirms.

Terry makes a face like he really wants to not trust Ron and Hermione and is put out that they prove their trustworthiness in that regard. Michael is the same way. Anthony rolls his eyes. “Ignore those two. Here.” And from his pocket, Anthony pulls out a folded bit of parchment. “Figured you’d want this back with your things, too.”

“Thanks, Anthony.” Harry takes it like a treasure. Harry honestly doesn’t consider it – he figures he’ll pick the map up when he gets back to Hogwarts for sixth year – but he feels better having it back in his hands. A weight he doesn’t realize is there lifts from his heart.

Susan lifts her brow at the inconspicuous scrap of parchment being treated like something so important, and the mention of an equally important cloak, but thankfully doesn’t ask.

“Ready to go, everyone?” asks Theseus. “We need to leave soon if we’re to make it to the Ministry on time.”

“Oh, wait!” Michael exclaims. “I want to do something first!” He takes a deep breath, grabs both of Harry’s hands in his and looks him intently in the eye. After a beat, a quiet breath, his brow furrows and his dark eyes dart to the side at everyone else. “Get out.”

Anthony balks and swiftly retreats. Terry, thoroughly amused, grins at Harry and gives him two thumbs up as he backs out of the room. Susan rolls her eyes with a wry smirk and tells Harry it’s good to see him as she follows the others’ lead.

Theseus just openly laughs and tells them not to take too long before he’s out the door and shutting it behind him.

“…Michael?” Harry asks tentatively.

Michael turns back to him, grins that familiar grin Harry loves to see, and says, “So, Harry… I’ve wanted to ask you this for a while, but I didn’t think I should until you were cleared and could go out without being a cat.”

Harry blinks. What is happening right now?

“Will you let me take you on a date?”

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, “Yeah,” Harry breathes dumbly. His voice comes out a bit like he’s just struck in the chest by a hippogriff, but he doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Yeah, I’d love that.”

Michael really just asks him…?

“Really?” Harry can’t help but ask.

Michael’s cheeks pink. “Honestly,” he says, “remember when I had to take some time to sort through how I felt about everything? After I found out you’re Tiger? Well, one of the things I figured out then is that I kind of fancy you. Like I said, I didn’t think I should say anything until all the mess with the Ministry being after you was sorted out. You had more than enough to deal with without thinking about trying to date while on the run. But I promised myself I’d ask when you were cleared, so… now’s the time.

“That’s okay? You really mean to say yes?”

“Yes,” Harry laughs. “Of course, I’ll go out with you.”

“Ha! Yes!” Michael throws himself at Harry once more, landing in a tight embrace. “A proper date might have to wait until we’re in America, but don’t worry, I’ll think of something for us to do.”

“I figured,” Harry says. And he does. There isn’t much opportunity for them to get together before term officially ends or even after while Harry will be studying for his own exams in the Scamander household while Michael is getting ready to leave for his internship. “But we’ll have all summer together.”

“I know! I’m so excited! You just wait, Harry, I’m going to sweep you off your feet.”

That’s a bold thing to say. Harry flushes a little not because of Michael’s confidence in that statement, but because of his own secret acknowledgement that Michael has already succeeded.

“Come on.” Michael lets go only enough to slide his hand down Harry’s arm and lace their fingers together as he starts for the door. “Mr. Theseus said we can’t take too long. We have to get to the Ministry.”

That’s true. Harry lets himself be pulled along by the gravity of Michael’s beaming smile.

When they leave the room, Terry looks at Michael’s expression, their joined hands, and Harry’s dazed look, and says, “It went well, then?”

“Please, like you ever doubted.” Anthony rolls his eyes. “You two. I’m happy for you and everything, but keep the funny business to the Gryffindor dorms. Please.”

Harry instantly turns scarlet, suddenly imagining getting into… funny business with Michael. Michael laughs it off, though. “But what if he’s sorted into Ravenclaw this time?”

Anthony grabs Michael by the collar. “You will silence your curtains,” he growls.

Terry snorts. “Anthony’s hairy heart aside, seriously do silence the curtains, guys. I don’t want to hear it, either.”

“Guys!” Harry squeaks.

“If we get to that point,” Michael says easily, “we’ll remember to silence the curtains. But seriously, guys, he’s only agreed to one date.”

Anthony and Terry share a significant look. Harry drops his head into his hands. Is he that obvious?

“You guys are cute,” Susan declares, which makes all four of them blush. “But we really do need to get moving. My aunt is waiting for us.”

“Right, sorry,” says Terry. “Let’s move, then.”

The whole group follows Theseus to the floo, which they have permission to use this time to enter the Ministry mostly courtesy of Madam Bones in allowance to the relatively large group they have.

Harry stumbles from the floo into the Ministry atrium, where he’s greeted by stern-faced Madam Bones herself. “Welcome back,” she says. Her expression cracks into a smile, then, and she opens her arms for Susan to give her a hug, “Hey, Susan.”

Susan smiles at her aunt but quickly brushes past the greetings. “Let’s go, auntie. I know you’re dying to hear this prophecy.”

Madam Bones purses her lips. It’s clear she’s trying not to smile. “Follow me, everyone.”

She takes them all through check-in and down to the Department of Mysteries, where they are met by an Unspeakable who guides them through to an enormous, dark room filled with rows and rows of tall shelves holding orbs of all sizes. Each one is meticulously labeled.

Everyone keeps their hands close as they follow the Unspeakable through the shelves, knowing well that touching anything in the Department of Mysteries without permission is a horrible idea.

“Here we are,” announces the Unspeakable. ��Potter. Only you can remove it from the shelf.”

Harry gulps as he approaches the shelf labelled ninety-seven, eyes landing on a smaller sphere that glows with a dull inner light. It’s very dusty, obviously untouched, except for small fingermarks that glow brighter from the dust being shifted. Harry nervously glances at the Unspeakable, wondering if the silent man even notices that, and wondering who tries to grab this prophecy, and what happens to them when they do.

Below the sphere on its stand, a small yellowed label lists in spidery writing a date of some sixteen years ago and below that, “S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D. Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter”

Summoning his courage, Harry reaches up, plucks the sphere off the shelf, and brings it down to him. He stares at it. The others move in closer around him, gazing at the orb as he brushes it free of the clogging dust.

And then, from right behind them, a drawling voice speaks.

“Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me.”

Harry’s blood goes cold. He feels Michael stiffen over his shoulder. But he does turn, nice and slowly, to face the Unspeakable.

“Rookwood,” Madam Bones growls. She, like Harry, is rapidly taking stock of the situation. Black shapes emerge out of thin air all around them, blocking their way left and right, eyes glinting through slits in familiar masks. A dozen lit wand-tips are pointing directly at their hearts. “What is the meaning of this?”

“To me, Potter,” Unspeakable Rookwood repeats as he holds out his hand, palm up. “You are, after all, the only one who can safely remove the prophecy from its stand. But this is not the time or place for a battle… Give it to me, and you will be on your way, unharmed.”

“And you believe you will walk away unharmed?” Madam Bones asks imperiously. “I will have each of you in Azkaban before the day is done.”

“Not if you wish the children to leave unscathed, Madam Director,” counters Rookwood smoothly. “Or do you believe, in all your might, that you can subdue every one of us and protect them at the same time?”

Madam Bones grinds her teeth. Rookwood is right. Madam Bones can and will face down all of these Death Eaters, but she isn’t sure she can do it while preventing any of the students from getting caught in the crossfire. Even with Theseus Scamander backing her up… this situation is bad.

Harry sees Madam Bones’ moment of hesitation. He sees Terry’s pale face, hears Anthony’s breath ragged with fear, feels the tension in Michael so ready to spring.

It’s not worth it. Harry tightens his grip on the prophecy. “They walk away now,” he demands. “Then, I give it to you. One wrong move, I smash it.”

Rookwood slowly tilts his head. “The boys can leave now, as a show of good faith. Mr. Scamander will go with them. The girl stays. You can’t expect us to give up our greatest leverage against the esteemed Director, here.”

“Harry, no,” Michael hisses.

Harry hisses right back as the Death Eaters part to allow Michael, Terry, and Anthony through. “Get out,” he says. “We’ll be fine.”

Terry steps forward first, to Michael’s offense, but he shares a look with Susan, and with Madam Bones, and grabs Michael’s robe to pull him through the group of Death Eaters towards the exit. Anthony, after some hesitation, follows. Michael is all tense and coiled and his eyes beg Harry not to send him away. It breaks Harry’s heart to do it, but he needs them to be safe.

“I’ve got them,” Theseus murmurs to Harry before he too separates from the group and herds the Ravenclaw boys along.

But as soon as they’re on the other side of the Death Eaters, as soon as the ranks close once more and Harry’s grip on the prophecy starts to loosen, Susan steps up. “Rookwood, was it?” she asks.

“Miss Bones,” the Unspeakable nods in greeting.

“Susan-” Madam Bones starts in warning, but Susan ignores her.

“You’re really going to let us go?”

“The Dark Lord will deal with Potter, but now is not the time or place for that. When we have what we need… yes, you will be free to go.”

Susan hums. She taps her wand into her open palm, just like Umbridge does back in her office. “That’s good to know,” she says, sounding legitimately relieved.

“It’s too bad we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“Glacius!”

“Incarcerous!”

“Depulso!”

Most of the Death Eaters, who turn back to focus on Harry and Madam Bones, don’t see the three Ravenclaw boys’ spells coming. Susan smirks and shouts, “Protego!”

Ice sweeps across the floor moments before a long rope flies at speed across the whole group’s ankles, toppling them all on top of each other, and then Terry’s spell hits, blasting the pile of Death Eaters right into Susan’s shield.

Madam Bones and Harry don’t waste a second. Both shout, “Incarcerous!” immediately, tying up as many Death Eaters as they can manage in one go.

Well… that’s not what Harry plans, but he supposes they’re fighting now. He should know better than to believe those boys will actually walk away and be safe.

“Get down!” Madam Bones roars. Susan jumps atop Harry without hesitation, her arm over him, forcing him to crouch as she shields the both of them. Harry adds his wand to the shield to reinforce it.

Madam Bones whips her wand around in a large circle, water condenses in the air, following her wand’s movements like a raging tsunami. In a second, a thin stream becomes a crashing flood and the aisle they all stand in is overwhelmed.

Harry watches wide-eyed in awe behind their shield as the Death Eaters are washed up in the flood, but the shelves and prophecy orbs appear untouched. Madam Bones twists her wand and yanks back. Harry sees his breath before him. In an instant, the flood flash-freezes, locking the majority of the Death Eaters in ice.

Only a few manage to counter Madam Bones spell, but they’re immediately on the attack. “Avada-”

Michael seizes the man around the knees, tackling him to the ground before he can finish his incantation.

Anthony shouts, “Stupefy!” to block another Death Eater from attacking him in return as Terry summons Michael back by his clothes so that Theseus can smugly step up and wordlessly hit two of the remaining Death Eaters with the dancing feet spell, which makes them flail their legs uncontrollably in a comical way.

The lot of them turn to the sole remaining Death Eater, Rookwood himself. For that sublime second, it appears as if they’ve won. Then Rookwood snarls, twirls his wand in a complicated pattern, and Madam Bones’ ice explodes.

“Run, Susan!” Madam Bones’ order echoes over the cacophony of spellfire that follows. “Get the boys out! Order Gamma Violet! Scamander, you better keep those brats safe, or I’ll kill you myself!”

“Defodio! Reducto!” Susan shouts immediately, seizing Harry by his collar and shoving him forward, urging him to run through the path she creates. “Incendio Draconis!” An enormous gout of searing fire surges from Susan’s wand, filling the aisle entirely, forcing the Death Eaters to jump out of the way into a neighboring aisle. She growls, swings her wand down, and screams, “Aberto!”

The flames, which linger viciously in the air, part right down the middle, allowing Harry and Susan to dash through what feels like the inside of an oven with the flames on either side of them.

(Anthony is right. Susan is terrifying.)

Theseus bustles the two of them behind him with the rest of the kids as soon as they reach him, and the group at once turns to run. With a wink, Theseus waves his wand at the prophecy, which shakes for a moment, then pops into two identical spheres. Theseus nimbly catches the duplicate, doubles a few more, then waves his wand once more and says, “Geminio.”

“Accio Prophecy!” shouts a Death Eater. Harry conjures a shield before they finish the incantation, but two other copies of the prophecy fly through the air to the Death Eater. They victoriously grab hold of one, then recoil in horror when the orb starts duplicating again and again, burying them under a pile of fakes.

Theseus cackles at the Death Eater’s misfortune. “Flagrante!”

Harry winces as the screaming starts.

“You’re enjoying this,” Terry gasps with horror.

“I was top auror for a reason, kiddo! Ah, it’s been too long!”

The next Death Eater that catches up to them finds Michael beaning him in the face with the copy of the prophecy that Theseus gives him, and Michael’s own shout of, “Flagrante!” to make the rapidly duplicating copy heat up to burn the Death Eater on touch.

Michael gawks for a moment, then laughs. Theseus cackles madly. “You learn quick, kid!”

They spot the door, then. “Grab onto each other!” Michael shouts. Harry latches on to the back of Michael’s robes, and feels Terry grasp his forearm. Michael reaches into his pocket and draws a small clump of tightly-packed black powder. He throws it at the floor, and everything is engulfed in darkness.

They run blindly through the Instant-Darkness Powder towards where they last see the door. Anthony’s grunt implies he actually runs straight into it. There’s a tense moment of fumbling, shouts are heard from Death Eaters trying to find them, and then someone gets the door open. They tumble through. Terry gasps, “Colloportus!” the moment they slam the door behind them.

They pause to breathe for a moment. Footsteps and shouts echo from behind the door they just seal. Harry puts his ear close to the door to listen and hears Rookwood roar, “Leave him, leave him – his injuries are nothing to the Dark Lord compared to losing that prophecy. Rodolphus, Rabastan, go right – Dolohov, Jugson, the left! Damn it- Bones! Scatter! She’s alone now, surround her!”

“Will Madam Bones be alright?” Anthony asks quietly.

“Auntie will be fine,” Susan says stiffly. “But we’re not safe until we’re out of the Ministry. We’ve rested long enough. Let’s go.”

Theseus, with a bit more care, gently says, “No one gets to her position without being able to handle a few Death Eaters. We can’t worry about her.”

Anthony gulps, closes his eyes, then reluctantly nods. “Okay. Where to?”

Theseus guides them, retracing their steps through the Department of Mysteries to get back to the elevator that brings them back up to the atrium. Aside from the distant sounds of fighting deep in the Department, which fade entirely as they rise in the elevator, there is no sign of the Death Eaters pursuing them. Madam Bones evidently manages to keep them all occupied.

The atrium is empty now, though. Harry gulps thickly. Has enough time passed that this place should be empty? He doubts it. So, where do they all go?

“Harry Potter.”

Tall, thin and black-hooded, his terrible snake-like face white and gaunt, his scarlet, sli-pupiled eyes staring… Lord Voldemort appears in the middle of the hall, his wand pointing at Harry who stands frozen, quite unable to move.

“I see you have brought me my prophecy…” says Voldemort. “Accio.”

The prophecy slips out of Harry’s grip.

“Ebublio!”

The sphere’s trajectory across the hall is stopped suddenly as it is encased in a large bubble.

Voldemort, and everyone really, turns to look at the caster of the jinx. Michael pales, a manic sort of panic across his face, and he shouts, “Keepy Uppy!”

“What-?”

Theseus surges forward, hits the bubble with the prophecy high into the air, and with a flick of his wand separates himself and Voldemort from the students with a tall wall of fire that erupts from the floor.

Anthony shouts, “Grandpa!”

All the laughing glee from their battle and flight from the Death Eaters is wiped clean off of Theseus’ face. He’s dead serious, dead determined, in a way that frightens Harry deeply. It might be the first time Harry sees Theseus without that air of ease around him. This Theseus is ready for war.

Voldemort eyes him, not intimated but wary enough of someone he knows to be a talented wizard.

“Anthony,” Theseus says sternly. “I need you to keep your friends back.”

“But- Grandpa-!”

“Do as I say, Anthony.”

Anthony winces. There are tears in his eyes. “…Yes, sir.”

“A duel it is to be, then, hm?” comes Voldemort’s high, cold voice. “Very well, Theseus Scamander. Though I admit, I did not anticipate that you would be here. I thought you were content with your family in America. Such a shame. They will miss you, I’m sure.”

Theseus, stony faced, takes but a single breath. “Protego Maxima. Fianto Duri. Repello Inimicum.”

With each spell, as a translucent barrier replaces the flames, separating the entire section of the hall that the kids are at from the rest, the teenagers grow ashier and paler.

Theseus’ eyes blaze, focused on Voldemort. “You will touch these children only after I am dead.”

Voldemort is unbothered. “So eager for death, are you? Avada Kedavra.”

Theseus vanishes at once, reappearing behind Voldemort. He swings his wand, and a chunk of the statue in the center of the room breaks off and swings around at enormous speed like a club, intent for Voldemort’s head.

A silver barrier blocks the attack, crumbling the statue to dust. Voldemort raises his wand as though brandishing a whip, and a thin stream of fire lashes at Theseus.

He takes cover behind the statue, which with a tap comes to life. The statue witch and wizard step off the pedestal, and the magical creatures surrounding them scurry about, leaping off the fountain to the floor below. Conjured birds fill the air, cacophonous song so deafening it’s hard to think. After a moment, Harry can barely see straight.

Voldemort raises his attention to deal with the birds, and a dark metal chain wraps tight around his wrist, then his other wrist. One attaches itself to the statue centaur, the other in Theseus’ hand. Wasting no time, the centaur gallops off, and Theseus yanks hard, and Voldemort howls as he’s pulled in two different directions as if Theseus is trying to rip him apart.

A sharp crack, and Voldemort is gone. There’s a burst of flame above Theseus just as Voldemort reappears atop the plinth in the middle of the fountain pool.

“Look out!” Harry yells.

But even as Harry shouts, another jet of green light flies at Theseus from Voldemort’s wand and a flaming snake emerges, fangs bared mid-strike, from above.

Theseus disapparates with a crack, reappears whole and unharmed a few feet away, out of the path of both attacks. He twirls his wand. The plinth under Voldemort’s feet turns into a tusked pig that raises its head to gore him as he stumbles.

Voldemort blasts the pig away. The flaming snake swallows it whole. A moment later the snake explodes and evanesces into smoke, though the pig is also gone.

Theseus follows up by turning the water in the pool around Voldemort’s feet to ice. Voldemort raises the ice up, up, up, reaching atop his tall pillar for the prophecy orb floating high near the ceiling in Michael’s bubble.

Theseus blasts the base of the pillar with a spell that even from where Harry is makes his hair stand on end with the power of it, and Voldemort falls through the air from a great height.

He vanishes midair, appears again behind Theseus, a cutting curse leaves his wand, slices open the back of Theseus’ knee. Theseus cries out, collapses unable to support himself with that leg. Anthony whimpers, but physically restrains Michael when Michael tries to jump forward out of the cover of Theseus’ protective spells.

They all hold their breath as Voldemort walks slowly up behind Theseus. “You are more talented than I expected,” Voldemort praises. “Few can stand against me as long as you have. But still, in the end, I am the better wizard.”

Theseus’ knuckles turn white around his wand.

“What can we do?” Terry whispers. “Can we call someone? A patronus?”

“To who?” asks Susan.

“Dumbledore?” Harry hisses back.

Michael glances fiercely to them. “Do it,” he growls. “I’ll cover the light of the patronus.” He waves his wand, and Terry sends off a streaming flash of silver light that races up out of the Ministry.

“Out of respect for a skilled opponent,” says Voldemort, “I will allow you your last words to those children you failed to save…”

Theseus snarls. He spins on his injured knee, good leg extended, to physically sweep Voldemort’s legs out from under him. The moment Voldemort hits the wooden floor, Theseus is on top of him. His own wand is discarded, Voldemort’s wrenched from his grip and tossed away as well, both too far for Voldemort to easily grab and use to defend himself.

Anthony is the only one that doesn’t gasp at the horror and strangeness of witnessing a wizard wrestle Lord Voldemort to the earth like they’re both nothing more than muggles. Theseus being obviously far more familiar with physical combat, quickly pins Voldemort and raises his fist, landing one blow, then the next, to his white, gaunt, snake-like face. His other hand is tight around Voldemort’s throat. There’s blood on his bared teeth from where Voldemort strikes him with his elbow, and his face is twisted into a feral, furious rage.

Harry wonders for a moment if that’s it, if all it really takes to subdue Voldemort is to come at him like a mad muggle. But Theseus’ advantage doesn’t last. Voldemort, being physically stronger than such an old man and with Theseus still contending with his useless leg, manages to overpower Theseus and throw him off to the side.

Voldemort sweeps to his feet, rushing to where his wand lay a few meters away. Theseus crawls desperately to his own wand and grabs hold moments before Voldemort straightens. Both pairs of furious eyes meet as they round on each other once more. A brilliant, wicked axe appears whistling through the air for Voldemort’s neck. A jet of bright green light lances for Theseus.

At the very same moment that Voldemort disapparates out of the way of the axe, the cage bars of the elevator crumple and shoot between Theseus and the killing curse. A pile of smoldering scrap hits the floor a meter away, but Theseus is still alive.

Anthony makes a sound something like a sob.

From the elevator, revealing just who saves Theseus in the nick of time, Amelia Bones storms into the hall. She has a bad burn peeking over the collar of her robes, crawling up her neck. She has the slightest of limps, and her robes are torn and tattered. Her hair is wild, loosened from the tight bun it’s usually in and fluttering around her like there’s a swift breeze. But considering she comes from a fight with something like twelve Death Eaters, she looks remarkably unscathed.

“Voldemort,” she barks. “It was a mistake to come here. Your followers have been detained. You’ve failed. Surrender, now.”

“Madam Bones,” Voldemort greets calmly. The split lip and black eye do nothing to make him less intimidating, even when he’s observing niceties like greetings. “You could not have overpowered all of my Death Eaters alone…”

Madam Bones smirks. “I didn’t need to. I’ve had people watching the Department of Mysteries since we found Arthur Weasley outside attacked by your snake. You all but announced your intentions to anyone not stupid enough to shut their eyes to it. I’ve been ready for this attack for months. You never had a chance.”

Harry breathes out. So, she has backup. Even though Harry never sees them, there are people stationed around that go to support her when she’s down there fighting the Death Eaters. That pulls a heavy weight off Harry’s heart, knowing that they don’t just abandon her all alone down there to hold the line against all of Voldemort’s available Death Eaters at once.

Harry clings helplessly to Michael. He hates that he can’t do anything but watch, but he knows stepping out there will only get in the adults’ way. Not to mention it’s likely to not just get him killed, but all his friends who will rush out after him, as well. Anthony and Terry grab hold of Susan, trying to comfort her or restrain her depending on what’s necessary, as they watch her aunt fearlessly face down Voldemort.

He casts the killing curse. She twirls out of the way and counters with a curse of her own. Something more akin to a traditional duel in that way goes on for a few volleys, but Madam Bones doesn’t have to hold out for long because mere moments into her face-off with Voldemort, there’s the green flare of a floo behind Harry and the others. They all whirl around to see, “Dumbledore!” Harry shouts. A kind of electric charge surges through every particle of Harry’s body – they’re saved.

Voldemort’s attention slips, eyes turning to the new arrival. Madam Bones’ hex strikes him in the shoulder, making him rear back with a hiss.

Dumbledore glides past the teenagers with barely a glance. He passes the threshold of Theseus’ protective spells without flinching, and immediately fires off an intense, flashing spell for Voldemort.

Voldemort summons a silver shield. Dumbledore’s spell, fizzling with energy, doesn’t appear to damage the shield, but the strike produces an echoing gong-like sound that chills Harry to the bone.

“You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?” calls Voldemort, his scarlet eyes narrowed over the shield. “Above such brutality, are you?”

“We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom,” says Dumbledore calmly, continuing to walk toward Voldemort as if he doesn’t have a fear in the world, as if nothing at all happens to interrupt his stroll up the hall. “Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit-”

“There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!” Voldemort snarls.

“You are quite wrong,” says Dumbledore, continuing his advance. “Indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness.”

Voldemort’s eyes flash dangerously. He takes a step back, pinned between Dumbledore and Madam Bones, even Theseus who still holds his wand, though he’s immobilized further back. Voldemort’s scarlet eyes dart between his two opponents, then catch Harry’s.

Harry gasps. Voldemort vanishes.

There is a long, quiet moment. Just enough time for Harry to wonder if Voldemort decides to flee. Then there’s a pressure that makes Harry double over. An intense squeezing of his head. His mental shields shatter like glass. Harry’s scar bursts open and he knows he is dead: it is pain beyond imagining, pain past endurance –

The hall is gone. Harry sees a glimpse of the sky, a familiar mindscape – his own, what his develops with his occlumency through Anthony’s tutelage. He is locked in the coils of a creature with red eyes, so tightly bound that Harry does not know where his body ends and the creature’s begins. They are fused together, bound by pain, and there is no escape.

And when the creature speaks, it uses Harry’s mouth, so that in his agony he feels his jaw move…

“Kill me now, Dumbledore…”

Harry is dying, he knows it. Every part of him screams for release. The creature uses him again…

“If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy…”

Let the pain stop, thinks Harry. End it. Death is nothing compared to this.

Familiar hands cup his face. A familiar scent fills his nose. Gentle fingers card through his hair and scratch him behind the ear just the way he likes. For some reason, the memory that comes to him isn’t any of their more recent ones, not even their best ones, but one of their first.

Rosie asks what Michael is going to call him. “It needs to be something fierce, I think,” says Michael. “He is a little Tiger.”

And as Harry’s heart fills with emotion, spurred on by the familiar touch and the familiar scent and the knowledge that Michael is still with him, that Michael expects him to fight, that Michael hopes desperately for him to live, the creature’s coils loosen. The pain is gone; Harry lays peacefully, his shivering the only sign he is not relaxing under a tree, on a picnic date, with his head in Michael’s lap, Michael’s fingers pulling a purr from his chest as they stroke his head.

He opens his eyes to find Michael’s dark ones inches from his own. “If there weren’t so many people watching us,” Michael murmurs under his breath, only for Harry’s ears, “I would kiss you right now.”

People? Watching them? Harry shakes so violently he can’t hold his head up properly when he tries, but he sees – the atrium is full of people; the floor reflects the emerald-green flames that burst to life in all the fireplaces along one wall. Fudge splutters about something, talks to Dumbledore. Harry only feels capable of focusing on Michael, so that’s all he worries about.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks.

Michael laughs incredulously. “Me? You’re the one who was bloody possessed, you idiot!” Desperate, relieved laughter escapes him in fits that fall dangerously close to sobs. “Tell me you’re alright.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. Michael never stops petting him. Harry closes his eyes again, soaking up the feeling. “I think so. Is everyone else…?”

“Yeah, Harry,” says Michael softly. “Anthony’s with his grandpa, so’s Terry. Susan’s with her aunt. They’re all getting ready to go to St. Mungo’s. I’ll bring you there, too. I, er, I don’t know if it’s a great idea to sleep after a possession. Maybe it’s like a concussion or something?”

Harry snorts weakly. “I don’t think it’s like a concussion.”

“Well, I don’t know! Either way, keep talking to me. At least until the healers see you. It’ll make me feel better.”

“You just want to keep hearing my voice,” Harry accuses. He says it because the reverse is true. Harry doesn’t want to stop talking, either, because he doesn’t want Michael to stop talking, yet. He wants to keep Michael’s gentle tone ringing through him. He holds it close, and it warms him from the iciness that pervades him.

“Obviously,” responds Michael. “But you love me, so you’ll indulge me, won’t you?”

Ha. Haha. Yes, he will. Harry does love him, so of course, he will. Anything.

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 13

The Hand That Feeds

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Though the threat of Umbridge is gone, the Ravenclaws and Harry keep up their secret lessons. First and foremost, Umbridge has little to nothing to do with Harry’s need to continue honing his occlumency or learning all the material for his O.W.L.s, but also, they just really enjoy practicing Defense together as a group.

Outside of that, Michael spends more and more time in the Room of Requirement where Harry can be in his human form. O.W.L.s approach for the Ravenclaws, so a great deal of time is spent studying, but for Michael he’s just as likely to be found in the library with his friends, at his desk with Tiger, or in the Come and Go Room with Harry.

Harry himself alternates somewhat manically between worrying himself to death over his own O.W.L.s, forgetting that he still needs to study for them on account of him not taking them with everyone else, then remembering that he is taking them no more than a few months later (depending on the progress of the review on his case and when the tests can actually be arranged) and panicking all over again.

He’s certain that if it isn’t for Michael, Terry, and Anthony, he can just kiss his O.W.L.s goodbye. But as it is, he feels like he has a fighting chance. …In most subjects. The fact remains that the entire school year leading up to his exams is, in mild terms, troubled.

But then, what school year of Harry’s isn’t? He’s used to dealing with what the Ravenclaws affectionately call his Gryffindor nonsense. It’s only natural, then, that Harry occupies himself mostly with just enjoying Michael’s constant company.

Susan approaches them just a few weeks before exams, beaming brilliantly. “Harry’s review is scheduled for tomorrow,” she says proudly. “My aunt will oversee it personally.”

Michael lights up. Terry and Anthony both share huge grins as well. “So, tomorrow?”

Susan nods. She hesitates for just a moment, bites her lip, and eyes the three of them. “I never believed what they were saying about Harry.”

“I know you wouldn’t have,” says Anthony. He tells Harry as much before, that there’s no way Susan would ever believe that rubbish the Daily Prophet was printing.

“But I admit, I don’t know him very well.” The look in her eye implies that the boys do, despite publicly knowing him about as well as Susan does. “It was your idea to use Umbridge’s trial to make her confess new evidence to exonerate Harry,” she says, eyes landing on Terry.

She looks between the three of them one more time, cuts off whatever she originally wants to say, and instead mutters, “Thanks for mentioning it. No one else would have thought to do it. Harry’ll appreciate knowing his name will be cleared,” before she smiles warmly, turns on her heel, and walks off.

“She terrifies me,” Anthony says.

“She’s kind of hot,” says Terry.

Anthony makes the most disgusted kind of face. Michael chuckles. “You just like that she actually knows how to be subtle.”

“True,” concedes Terry immediately. “Also, that she can kick my arse.”

“Gross,” Anthony moans.

Harry lets out a confused little, “Mrp?” because while he picks up that Susan knows something, he’s not sure how much. If she knows he’s an animagus…

Michael chuckles and strokes Harry’s back. “She basically said, ‘You thought about clearing Harry’s name because you’re in contact with him. I don’t know if he’s somewhere where he can get the Prophet, so please let him know that it’ll be safe to return soon.’ Don’t worry, all she knows is that we have some connection to you. No details.”

“And that’s just the way she wants it,” Terry says, a clever smirk on his lips. “If she did know more, she’d be complicit in hiding a criminal. At least until tomorrow when you’re cleared. She probably will ask for more details when it’s safe for her to know them. Then, we can just give her the story we’ve got for everyone else.”

Harry purrs quietly into Michael’s arms, considering that. He kind of wants to trust Susan. He feels like he can. Not just anyone will duel Umbridge without hesitation – and without even preparing for the possibility – not to mention she does do what she can to help get her aunt to ask Umbridge about Harry, which is the only reason he’s facing freedom at all.

But telling her the real story will put her against her aunt. Harry using his animagus form without registering it is illegal, so while she may be on his side, he’ll feel bad asking her to lie to her aunt.

…No, it’s for the best that she gets the cover story. Just like Ron and Hermione will. He hopes they can become friends after this, though. After what happens, he trusts her to have his back. And he has a lot of respect for her for just doing all that, without even being in on the plan.

Harry closes his eyes. His purring gets a little louder. It’s a light, airy feeling in his chest, a little like flying. He realizes slowly that he doesn’t ever think that way about people before. He doesn’t look at people and think, “I want to be their friend.” He vaguely recalls doing it once, when he was little, and then Dudley beats up that potential friend for talking to him and so they avoid him.

It's not so different this time, really. If Susan does become his friend, then Voldemort will target her.

…Harry hopes that, someday, he has a chance to tell Voldemort to his face that he’s just like his muggle childhood bully. Someone won’t come out of that conversation alive, but then, that’s always kind of the plan, anyway, so…

But really, Harry thinks he underestimates his classmates all these years. For so long it’s just him, Ron, and Hermione against the world. He doesn’t really try to reach out to anyone else. And he can lie and say that it’s for everyone’s safety, because he does get into a lot of Gryffindor nonsense. But the truth is that he just doesn’t think to. He doesn’t give most of his classmates more than a passing thought.

Maybe that’s egotistic of him. Now that he knows Michael, who just generally has a much wider group of friends than Harry’s insular trio, and can see that these Ravenclaw boys, and Susan, too, are every bit as capable, every bit as loyal and determined, as his trio, he thinks it’s a selfish mistake to discount everyone else so easily in his mind.

It’s almost weird to remember that duel in Umbridge’s office and not see Ron and Hermione’s faces there. Because they will, if they have the chance to. Facing down Umbridge is exactly the kind of thing they’ll do for him. It’s the kind of thing they do year after year.

But they don’t need to. Or maybe they are too insular, too, and don’t even realize how badly that confrontation needs to happen because Harry isn’t there to be targeted by Umbridge.

When Harry comes back for sixth year, he decides, he’s going to make an effort to make more friends. Susan, of course. Neville for sure. Maybe the Gryffindor girls, too – Lavender, Parvati and them. And he can connect to other Hufflepuffs through Susan, maybe? Kevin and Stephen, at least as much as Michael and them are friends with their other two roommates.

If he, Ron, and Hermione can fight, if Michael, Terry, and Anthony are willing to fight… why should Harry let fear of Voldemort stop him from making friends? Voldemort is Dudley on the playground threatening anyone who tolerates him, but so is the Ministry. There are plenty of people who believe him despite the Ministry’s campaign against him.

Harry won’t force anyone into anything. Everyone should know that becoming his friend might be dangerous. But if they’re ready and willing to stand up to Dudley on the playground and be his friend anyway… Harry is pretty sure Susan can beat up Dudley, anyway, if she really wants to.

He won’t underestimate his classmates anymore. They can defend themselves as well as Ron and Hermione can. If they’re on his side… he’s happy to have more allies.

-----

“It’s so good to meet you, Harry.”

Harry freezes. He doesn’t know where to begin trying to process the old man he meets for the very first time just smiling at him, welcoming him, and giving him a big hug. He stands paralyzed in the man’s arms, unsure what to do.

“I did warn you; he’s a hugger,” Anthony says.

The man laughs and pulls back from Harry, allowing him to muster a weak chuckle as well. “Like I’m sure Anthony told you,” says the man, “My name is Theseus. Newt is my brother. He wanted to be here himself, but… well- er… he didn’t want to deal with the British ministry.”

…

Understandable. Harry doesn’t, either.

Theseus laughs boisterously. “Rolf wanted to come, too, but he’s got his exams coming up. Speaking of, Anthony, are you ready for yours?”

“I’ll be fine,” says Anthony drily. But his lips quickly crack into a smile. “It’s good to see you, too, Grandpa Thee.”

Theseus seems to start to go for a hug, but quickly turns it into just ruffling Anthony’s blond hair out of respect for Anthony really not liking that kind of thing.

(Anthony still grumbles as he fixes his hair.)

“What about you, Harry? I’d understand if you haven’t been able to stay on top of your studies.” Theseus looks at him with such genuine curiosity and care that it throws Harry completely. He doesn’t know what to do with this. “I’m sure Anthony and the boys will have kept you up to speed, but if there’s anywhere you feel underprepared, we’re more than happy to help you get ready for your own exams. Just let us know, alright?”

“I- I, er-” Harry stammers. “I think I’ll be alright if I just have a little calm to review before I have to take them.”

Theseus chuckles. “Well, you’ll have plenty of peace when we’re back in America. Until then, I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with Britain collectively losing its mind. And on that note,” he claps his hands together, “are you ready to face the music?”

“No,” answers Harry honestly. “Let’s go.”

Theseus laughs, pats him on the back, and guides him with an arm around his shoulder.

“I’ll see you later, Harry,” Anthony says fondly. “Maybe even at school in a few hours once people realize Dumbledore stole your things from your relatives’ house.”

Harry snorts. “See you later, Anthony. Thanks for doing this for me.”

Anthony just silently waves him off and leaves with his mother, who pulls him out of school so that he can bring Harry to this meeting.

With them gone, Theseus brings Harry to a telephone box, what Anthony tells him is one of the public entrances to the Ministry of Magic, since the floo is only supposed to be for employees.

When they lower down into the atrium, and the flashing of cameras blinds Harry and reminds him too much of his time as a Triwizard Champion, Harry sighs. He’s really not ready. But he’s also never going to be ready for this. He just sticks close to Theseus’ side, unashamedly using him as a shield (not that Theseus seems to mind at all), and keeps his eyes trained ahead as Theseus advises him.

They march single-mindedly to their destination, not acknowledging the press at all. But past the atrium, it’s really a very boring visit to the Ministry. It’s just a lot of red tape, signing forms, and bureaucracy to formalize his acknowledgement of the generous reparations the Ministry grants him for falsely sentencing him. There are also a lot of apologies, both sincere (Amelia Bones) and insincere (Fudge) in varying levels of public so they can show off that they’re doing the right thing.

They move to a different department, where there are even more forms and even more bureaucracy to get him readmitted into Hogwarts next year, and to organize his O.W.L. exams, and to manage his placement year-wise into Hogwarts again depending on the results of those O.W.L.s, which means more bureaucratic form-filling for him in the future.

Then, they have to hop over to another department to organize the retrieval of his things, since Theseus actually does visit the Dursleys already and confirms that some witch they don’t know takes Harry’s things not long after he vanishes.

Harry doesn’t particularly want to get anyone in trouble for taking his trunk from the Dursleys, but to keep to his cover story he shouldn’t know that Ron is able to take anything from it and so he shouldn’t have any idea where it is. That, and Harry doesn’t actually have any idea where it is, on account of no one trusting him enough to bring him to this safehouse of theirs for Dumbledore’s anti-Voldemort resistance force club.

So, he does need help tracking it down, regardless, and doing it through the Ministry is just as good as going to Dumbledore himself. And as Harry “assumes” that the Ministry confiscates his things when they condemn him, the Ministry is the better path to maintain his cover story. Not to mention Harry doesn’t actually know how to contact Dumbledore, anyway.

After way too long and way too much waffling, Harry is exhausted and just wants to go take a nap. Newt is so right to avoid dealing with the Ministry, frankly.

After a mind-numbing wait, though, they do pull through. They identify the person who takes Harry’s trunk as a young auror named Tonks, who upon being called in by her boss Madam Bones (as Harry and Theseus move back to her department, because nothing can just be done in the Ministry, apparently) readily admits to taking it on Dumbledore’s orders to the safehouse where he plans to allow Harry to live with his friends away from Voldemort and his Death Eaters for the summer.

Harry does not believe this for a second. Maybe Dumbledore does plan to let Harry go there after the dementor attack and the Ministry expelling him, but until that wrinkle forces his hand, he never plans on Harry so much as visiting. He says as much, so that Madam Bones and Theseus know where he stands, but doesn’t push the issue as he’s ready to accept that Tonks thinks he’s going to be moved there.

Madam Bones has some harsh words and makes it clear that she’s got her eye on Tonks but she doesn’t actually do anything illegal – at least without Harry crying foul and suing over his “stolen” property, which he won’t do as he’s quite sure it’s kept safer wherever it is than it would be at the Dursleys – so it’s let go for the most part. Tonks cooperating with Madam Bones and Harry with this goes a long way, he can tell, to assuring Madam Bones that Tonks is committed to her job and will put it over whatever is going on with Dumbledore if she has to.

(Harry notices that Madam Bones doesn’t ask if Dumbledore is hiding at this safe house currently. Probably for plausible deniability. “It’s irrelevant to the issue at hand,” or some such excuse so that Madam Bones can get away with not chasing after Dumbledore, who is wanted for equally preposterous reasons as Harry was. Harry isn’t overly fond of the man at the moment and frankly doesn’t trust him with much, but he’s still glad that Madam Bones can see that Dumbledore isn’t the enemy here.)

Tonks explains that the safehouse is under a Fidelius Charm, so she can’t give them the location if she wants to, but she can go and retrieve Harry’s trunk for him, or she can talk to some people and try to get Harry in on the secret so he can pick it up himself.

The way she offers that idea makes it obvious that she thinks he should pick that option.

As tempting as it is to finally sate his curiosity over the place, Harry refrains from jumping to do as she clearly wants him to. The last thing he needs right now is to be trapped all over again. He won’t have Dumbledore telling him he can’t go to America this summer. As Michael and the others rightly point out, even if Dumbledore does believe it’s what will keep Harry safest, Dumbledore does not have that authority.

But it’s still Dumbledore, so Harry isn’t comfortable facing that all on his own.

He tells Tonks and Madam Bones that he’d like to go and pick it up himself and is willing to wait for Tonks to get the secret for him, but that he’s not going anywhere without Theseus, so he needs to be brought into the secret, too. If Tonks can’t swing that, she should just pick up his things and bring them back with her so that they can be on their way.

(He pats himself on the back because, he thinks, showing such trust in Theseus – which is mostly trust by proxy in Anthony – solidifies his story of being with the Scamanders all this time. He can be clever, too.)

Tonks is less sure about that, but leaves to go ask the secret keeper. Harry assumes it’s Dumbledore. He’s also counting on Dumbledore wanting to see him enough to allow Theseus into the secret. Harry might not count on it if Theseus is just anyone, but he’s aware of Theseus’ role in the war with Grindelwald, in broad strokes, since Anthony fills him in, so Theseus and Dumbledore do have a history of fighting side by side.

But mostly Harry just doesn’t want to walk into Dumbledore’s hideout, where he keeps Ron and Hermione safe from Voldemort while abandoning Harry to the Dursleys, all on his own. He wishes keenly that Michael can be here with him, but there isn’t anything they can do about that while maintaining their cover. Michael has to prepare for exams, and is stuck at Hogwarts, and Harry should barely know him.

Tonks returns not long later, visibly excited, to side-along Harry and Theseus to a desolate little square. All the houses around are grimy, with peeling paint. Some windows are broken. There’s rubbish in heaps outside several sets of front steps. Harry wrinkles his nose at the place.

Then Tonks hands him a slip of paper, which he shows Theseus to read over his shoulder. The narrow handwriting reads, “The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, London.”

Huh. Harry looks up, and another house sort of inflates between numbers eleven and thirteen, shoving the two out of the way. Magic is weird sometimes. Awesome, but weird. Whatever. He needs to get his stuff.

(He also needs to get his invisibility cloak back from Ron, which means unfortunately that he can’t just pop in, grab his trunk, and let Theseus whisk him off to America.)

He barely makes it through the door before he’s nearly knocked flat with a hug from someone with familiarly bushy hair.

This hug, Harry knows how to respond to. He reflexively lifts his arms to hold his friend tight, returning the embrace eagerly. A thick breath sticks in his throat and shudders coming out, but somehow he manages to keep himself under control. “Hermione.”

“Oh, Harry, we were so worried!”

She separates from him, but Ron is there to take her place. Ron doesn’t hug him nearly as often, but even Harry agrees it’s warranted right now. He holds his best friend tight. “It’s good to see you, Ron.”

Maybe it’s not that long ago that he technically sees them, but he really does miss them. He’s still angry with them, still feels betrayed by them, but he misses them so much.

“Where’ve you been, mate?” Ron asks as he pulls away to look Harry over with a critical eye, as if to look for injuries. “You just vanished and we thought-”

“It’s been so long and no word,” Hermione chokes. “I- I thought-”

“You look good.” Ron sighs, sagging with relief. “I’m glad. Just tell me you’ve been safe all this time?”

Harry smiles. It’s good to have them back, despite everything, and their care for him settles something deeply troubled in his gut. “I’ve been safe,” he says. The way both of them immediately relax, actually trusting him with that alone, makes Harry want to cry. “I’ve been in America. Figured the best option I had was to get out of the country.”

“America!” Ron squeaks. “But how-?”

Despite his relief and joy at being with his friends again, a bitter part of Harry can’t help but add, “Sorry, I couldn’t send you letters. It wouldn’t have been safe.”

They both flinch. That bitter part of him whispers, good.

Their attention is brought deeper into the house, then, by a familiar voice. Harry snaps his eyes to Dumbledore, and by his side, Sirius. Harry’s breath stops in his throat upon seeing his godfather looking healthy. Worn, definitely, but a whole lot better than when he’s living in caves and surviving off of rats.

Mrs. Weasley is there, too, and welcomes Harry with her usual warmth and goes to make some food or something while they all talk. Harry honestly doesn’t pay attention. He’s fixated on Sirius and Dumbledore.

Sirius… is here? That bitter thing in Harry’s gut breaks. He’s overjoyed to see his godfather, of course, but if Sirius is here, then… then that means he’s part of it. He keeps everything from Harry just like everyone else does. Harry thinks all this time that Sirius is still on the run living it up in Majorca or something, but… but he doesn’t trust Harry either.

How is Harry supposed to trust people who refuse to trust him?

“We are all overjoyed to see you in fine health, Harry,” Dumbledore says sagely. “We were all worried when you disappeared.”

“I was attacked by dementors and then told that the Ministry was coming to snap my only defense against them,” Harry says calmly. “What else would I do?”

Dumbledore hums. “I suppose, then, that Arthur Weasley’s note did not reach you in time? I worried that would be the case…”

No, Harry gets the note. He just doesn’t trust sitting around waiting for his execution and letting Dumbledore handle everything when he has a perfectly viable solution right at his fingertips.

He doesn’t think it’s wise to say that, though. He’s angry with everyone in this room, in this house, really, bar Theseus, but it won’t do any good to blow up at them. He knows that if he is brought here instead of going off on his own, he would blow up at everyone, but he grows since then.

And, yes, he has some distance from it all through time and friends who support him. Not to mention occlumency helping to organize his mind. It’s easier to keep his cool, now.

“Where are my things?” Harry asks. “I only came back to Britain to handle some paperwork and pick up my stuff.”

“Upstairs in my room,” Ron says. “I’ll get it, but Harry- I, er- I borrowed the cloak and map for school since I thought maybe I’d find you there. I put the cloak back when we came here to meet you, but the map…”

Harry, who knows exactly where the map is and how and why Ron loses it, isn’t really angry with him about that. He just sighs and says, “Just give me my stuff, please.”

“Don’t you worry about that, now.” Theseus’ hand finds its way to Harry’s head, ruffling his hair affectionately. “I’ll go get your things. You take the time to chat with your friends.”

The look Harry gives him is somewhere between thankful and betrayed. Theseus chuckles and skips off into the house, heading upstairs to where Ron indicates.

“Perhaps we should sit down,” Sirius says. “You can tell us all about what happened, Harry.”

They make their way to a drawing room and settle in, everyone watching Harry expectantly. As if he owes them his story. He just shakes his head and lets out another sigh. “Not much to tell,” he says simply. “When I got the letter from the Ministry expelling me and telling me they were going to snap my wand, I knew I couldn’t waste any time.” All the truth, conveniently leaving out that he also gets Mr. Weasley’s letter telling him to stay put.

“I went straight to Gringotts to get money, then, since I had no idea where everyone else was, I just found a boat to America on my own. Except for like ten minutes in Diagon Alley, I stayed in muggle areas. Wasn’t hard. Didn’t realize the Ministry wasn’t actually chasing me, of course, until after I was already in New York. By the time they had that trial and did start their hunt, I was long gone.”

“That’s good,” Hermione breathes. “That’s great.”

Sirius’ eyes shine and he grins. Harry meets his gaze seriously, trying to convey without words or any expression that Dumbledore will notice not to say anything. Sirius is the only one who can rightly guess how Harry escapes, since he’s the only one who knows that Harry is an animagus.

“And you returned with Theseus Scamander?” says Dumbledore, slowly prodding.

Harry shrugs. “I did alright on my own, but I realized that I still needed to learn. I hadn’t even gotten my O.W.L.s, so I’d have trouble finding a job. My original plan was actually to just set up in America and apply to join Ilvermorny as a fifth year, but I figured I’d need help and so I looked for the only person I know of who lives in America who I figured wouldn’t be sympathetic to the Death Eaters. Took a while to get to them, but the Scamanders took me in. They taught me everything I would’ve learned in school so that I can take my O.W.L.s this summer and since the Ministry called off their hunt for me, I can rejoin Hogwarts as a sixth year with everyone. That’s part of why I’m here right now. Once we heard it was safe for me to come back, we came to set a test date with the Ministry.”

Hermione is naturally overjoyed hearing that Harry still thinks about his education while on the run. Ron is equally excited, though it seems to be more about the fact that they’ll still be in the same year despite Harry missing this one.

“I see,” says Dumbledore. “I’m glad that you managed to make the most of that terrible situation. Though I do wish you would have let us know that you were safe.”

“With all due respect, sir,” says Harry calmly, “not a soul in Britain knew where to find me. That includes the Death Eaters. Sending a letter telling anyone that I’m okay is just asking to be tracked. It wasn’t safe.” Though he keeps his voice and face steady, Harry doesn’t manage to stop his gaze from flashing dangerously, revealing his true feelings about it all for just a moment. “You of all people should understand that I was only doing what I had to to stay safe.”

“Of course, we understand, Harry,” Hermione says for everyone. “I wish you could have let us know, but you’re right that you’re safest with no word at all.”

Dumbledore frowns. “We could have protected you. But with no one aware of where you were, if something had happened-”

“Something like dementors attacking me in the street, you mean?” Harry asks. He takes a cruel satisfaction seeing Dumbledore wince. “I know you had guards watching me while I was at the Dursleys,” he says off-handedly. Dumbledore’s eyes widen. Harry has to stamp down his grin at getting one up on the old man. He lets himself chuckle, though. “Frankly, that’s why I knew telling you would be more dangerous than going alone. They were really obvious, you know. I figured it out the third time I heard their apparition.

“But when I was attacked? Where were they?” Harry shakes his head. “No, your guards are more of a danger to me than protection. All they do is draw attention to where I am. And again, I wasn’t stupid enough to send a letter that could be intercepted.” Sirius barks a laugh and it’s all Harry can do not to smile. Sirius knows Harry is using Dumbledore’s own words against him. Harry only does what Dumbledore warns him through Ron and Hermione about the entire time he’s with the Dursleys. He can’t really be surprised by Harry’s actions, can he?

Of course, if Sirius knows it, so does everyone else. Harry’s calm delivery has Hermione and Ron agreeing fervently with him and thinking that he forgives them for what they do because he obviously understands the importance, but Dumbledore knows the words for what they are.

Dumbledore can see Harry showing his fangs, here. He knows that Harry will bite if he has to.

“…Of course, I understand, Harry,” Dumbledore concedes. “I am just glad that you are well.”

Sirius, chuckling, jumps in to ask, “So what’s next for you, then? You said you’re taking your O.W.L.s at the ministry and you’ll be back at Hogwarts for sixth year, but it sounded like you’re planning to go back with the Scamanders?”

Harry sends his godfather a grateful nod for not making a big fuss about it. “Yeah, that’s the plan. I’m going to intern at Mr. Newt’s creature reserve. Get some work experience over the summer.”

“That’s a great idea!” Sirius chirps. “I’ll miss you, but it is about that time that you should be looking at that kind of thing.”

Harry grins. “Yeah… And I won’t be alone. Rolf is the same age as Fred and George, and he’s been showing me the ropes. Plus, I heard Anthony Goldstein and some of his friends are coming to intern as well, so I’ll still be with people I know who’re my age.”

“Anthony Goldstein?” says Ron. “He’s the Ravenclaw prefect. I didn’t know you knew him, Harry.”

“Not any better than you do,” Harry lies with a smile. “But he’s related to the Scamanders, so that’s why he and his friends are going to intern there for the summer. I hope to get to know them a bit while we’re working together.”

Ron laughs. “Mate, Anthony is a legend at school right now. It’ll take a while to explain why, so I’ll tell you the whole story later, alright? But the bloke is probably the most popular guy in the school. If you get on his good side-”

“Oh, grow up, Ronald,” Hermione sighs. “Harry hardly needs to use him for his popularity. Oh! But I’m sure you’ll get along just fine, Harry. And getting some work experience will be good for you. Maybe I should do the same this summer…”

“Could we go to the same place? Work together?” Ron asks.

Harry chuckles shyly. “Ah, no, they’re not accepting applicants anymore. All the positions are already filled. If we fail our Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L.s we might be replaced with someone who passes, but I think the backup slots are already picked, too.” Ron slumps. “But you should look for an internship. I’m excited for mine, and like Hermione said, it’ll be good for us.”

It might even be good – best even – for them to get their internships at different places. Being apart will make it easier for them all to make connections, make new friends, not just stick to each other like they do all through their first four years of school. If Harry never strikes out on his own, then he wouldn’t know Michael, Terry, or Anthony. Even Padma to a lesser extent. And Susan.

Harry will never regret that. He hopes Ron and Hermione can make more friends, too.

“And when does this internship of yours begin, Harry?” asks Dumbledore.

Harry takes a moment to smile at Theseus returning to the room before he answers, “As soon as I finish my O.W.L.s, officially. Technically it starts two weeks after term ends, but I won’t be able to take my exams for a little while after.”

Dumbledore frowns like it brings his great pain to play the bad cop. “Are you sure you will be able to handle the responsibilities while also preparing for your exams?”

“I’ll be better prepared with the Scamanders than anywhere else. They encourage me to study.”

Dumbledore’s frown deepens. Now, Sirius, Ron, and Hermione likewise scowl, but their expressions are directed at Dumbledore, not at Harry. “You understand I cannot just allow you to run away from home, Harry.”

Harry snaps, “Try and stop me.” Dumbledore already fails at that once.

“Oh, that’s not a concern,” Theseus says with a genial smile. There’s a sharpness hidden underneath it, though, that brings comfort to Harry. “When we visited the Dursleys to pick up Harry’s things, they were quite happy to give me permission to take him. I believe their exact words were, ‘By all means; don’t bring him back.’ Nasty pieces of work, those muggles. As a former auror I’m more concerned about Harry spending one more minute with those people than I am about him pursuing his education and work experience as any responsible kid his age should be doing.”

…Okay, Harry likes Theseus.

Dumbledore sighs. He gears up for another approach. “I did not want to tell you this-”

Harry snorts. “Goes without saying.”

At this point, Ron and Hermione are glaring at Dumbledore. Sirius watches with an eager grin like this is his favorite television show.

“I do not think it is wise for you to leave the country, Harry,” says Dumbledore. “Voldemort is currently trying to get his hands on a prophecy, one about the two of you.”

A prophecy? Harry’s puzzled expression shows, so Dumbledore elaborates.

“He believes the prophecy will ultimately reveal to him how he might win the coming war.”

Harry shares a look with his friends and Theseus. A prophecy about him and Voldemort… Harry wishes he can say he’s surprised, but frankly that’s just par for the course of his Gryffindor nonsense. Pretty much expected at this point. Still, if the prophecy is about him he should know what it says.

“And will it?” Harry asks. “What does it say? Why would that mean I can’t go to America for the summer?”

“That information is too sensitive to reveal to an unprotected mind, Harry,” Dumbledore says sagely, tone laced with regret. “I am sorry. I do wish I can tell you, but you must trust me when I say that it is for the best that you stay in Britain. If not with your relatives, then here with Sirius.”

“As much as I’d love to live with Harry,” says Sirius, “I wouldn’t dream of taking this opportunity away from him.” He looks straight at Harry. “I think you should go, pup. Don’t worry about me.”

“It’s a great opportunity,” Hermione mutters, “but if it’s really not safe…”

“It’s on a different continent,” Theseus reminds her gently. “Even Voldemort will have a hell of a time trying to cross the pond. And that’s not even starting on the reserve’s protections from invasion, or my own family’s skill with defensive magic. I shouldn’t need to remind you all that my brother and I fought Grindelwald right alongside Dumbledore. We can protect Harry from Voldemort.”

“It’s settled, then!” says Sirius.

Dumbledore tries to protest. “But-”

“It was settled before we ever got here,” Harry chuckles smoothly, ignoring Dumbledore. “No one here has any right to say otherwise. My guardians already gave their permission.” Harry smiles at Sirius to show his appreciation that Sirius approves of his decision, but his words stand. No one here can tell him he can’t go. Not even Theseus, since it’s Newt’s business Harry is going to work for. Harry values Sirius’ opinion, but he doesn’t have any legal authority over Harry. And Dumbledore certainly can’t dictate where Harry goes outside of school. Not even in school, anymore, at the moment, since Dumbledore is yet to be reinstated as headmaster.

Actually, that’s a good point. “No offense, Dumbledore,” Harry says, “but I was expelled, and you’re not headmaster anymore, either. You’re not even my professor anymore. You’ve no right to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

“He’s right,” says Ron immediately.

“Oh, you know he’s just trying to keep you safe,” putters Hermione. “But… you are right, and I can’t see how getting out of Britain can possibly be less safe than staying…”

“Quite right,” says Theseus. “Now, I’m sorry to cut your time with your friends short, Harry, but we’ve a schedule to keep. I’ve got your things, so we best be going.”

They do? Harry can’t remember organizing something time-sensitive after this. He expects getting through his friends and Dumbledore to take a while, so they don’t plan to be anywhere specific for a while.

He looks up at Theseus, who winks in return. There’s something in Theseus’ expression, though. There is business to take care of, still. Maybe something brought up by this conversation. But Harry decides to just trust him. He chooses to believe that he’ll hear about it when they’re out of this place and away from Dumbledore. “Of course,” he says. He looks back to the others. “Sorry guys, everything is so busy right now just being cleared and all. We’ll catch up later.”

“We understand, Harry.” Hermione jumps to her feet to crush him in a hug. ��Just stay safe. Write us when you can. We’ll arrange sometime to meet soon.”

“Got to be soon,” says Ron. “We’ve so much to get you caught up on.”

They quickly say their goodbyes, Mrs. Weasley looks quite put out for Harry to be leaving so soon but she makes him promise to visit again, and Theseus has his arm around Harry’s shoulder once more guiding him away from Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

“So, what is it we have to take care of?” Harry asks quietly.

Theseus’ lips pull down into a frown. “That prophecy that Dumbledore mentioned. You have been practicing occlumency, yes?”

“I have,” Harry says. “Has Anthony told you why?”

“No, of course not. That’s your business.” Theseus smiles down at him when Harry just blinks in shock at how firmly Theseus says that. “I assume it’s to do with Voldemort, though. Is he actively in your mind?”

Harry hums. “Not exactly? I was dreaming about him. We think there’s some kind of connection between us, something neither of us were aware of. I’m praying that we caught it soon enough that Voldemort still doesn’t know.”

Theseus frowns. “I see. You did the right thing going to Anthony, then. There are precious few people capable of teaching counter-legilimency. The dreams have stopped?”

“Entirely,” says Harry with no small amount of relief. “And I keep up a shield so that if they do come back I’ll at least know that Voldemort put it there on purpose. Hopefully he won’t be able to trick me.”

“Good.” Theseus nods. “Then I see no reason why you shouldn’t hear what this prophecy says about you. What do you say? Dumbledore did say it’s too sensitive for an unprotected mind, after all. He just doesn’t know that yours isn’t unprotected.” He flashes Harry an impish grin. “Let’s go back to the Ministry and arrange for you to hear your prophecy.”

“It’s that simple?” Harry asks. All this protection Dumbledore has on it, and Harry can just waltz in, fill out some forms, and listen to it? Maybe that’s why Dumbledore takes such great pains to keep him ignorant even of the thing’s existence.

“Since it’s about you, yes. You’ve a right to hear any prophecy determined to be about you. The Department of Mysteries handles that, though I’d recommend inviting Madam Bones along as well. If this prophecy is to do with Voldemort, she’ll want to hear it, but she won’t be allowed to without your permission.”

“That’s fine. I trust her.”

“Then we’ll make the arrangements.”

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 12

Cover Story

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

The door to the Room of Requirement is practically kicked open, and just as quickly slams shut.

Everyone present jumps and turns wide eyes to Anthony, back to the door, pale and panting. He fixes them with enormous, soulful eyes and pleads, “Help me.”

Terry sighs. “What is it this time?”

“Mandy,” Anthony whines. “She’s a madwoman. She tried to kiss me!” He looks green at the mere thought. “And the rest of the castle is just as bad! I didn’t ask for this!”

Michael giggles. It’s been a week since he’s cleared to be up and moving around, but Harry still just can’t get enough of hearing him laugh. It warms Harry’s chest pleasantly and makes him feel all floaty. “You’re a hero!” Michael teases. “The big, strong prefect who dueled Umbridge and kicked her out of the school. I might swoon.”

Anthony growls. “I didn’t do it so that they could declare their love for me and stalk me in the halls! And I didn’t do it at all! Most of it was Terry and Susan, actually, and we helped basically by just distracting the bint.”

“Oh, come on, Anthony.” Harry can’t let him get away with that. “Give yourself more credit than that. No one else here can say that they set Umbridge on fire.”

“And everyone wants to,” adds Michael. “Everyone wishes they were you.”

Anthony pinks slightly. “…She pissed me off.”

“And we love you for it,” says Terry.

Michael snickers. “Just like the rest of the school.”

“Better not be ‘just like,’” Anthony mutters. “You’re the only ones I can count on not to try to ask me out – stop giggling Michael, yes, that is a bad thing!”

“Pfft. Anthony’s hairy heart strikes again. And people call me the dramatic one.”

“Really, though, Anthony,” says Harry. “We know it was a team effort, but people just focus on the most dramatic parts. I couldn’t have done half of what I did before without my friends, but I’m always the one people end up talking about. And actually dueling Umbridge was by far the most dramatic part of the story. It’s been growing, you know.”

Anthony scowls bitterly. “Don’t remind me. This time next week I’ll have sicced a pet dragon on her the way those fools are going.”

“Oh, that reminds me! I’ve got to get Pyrrha back!”

“Pyrrha?” the boys all question him with puzzled expressions.

Harry grins. “My pet dragon.” Anthony smacks his hand to his face. “Well,” Harry concedes, “fake dragon. Animated dragon model, really. It’s what we had to pull out of a bag to decide which dragon we’d face in the Triwizard Tournament. She breathes fire, though!”

Michael stares at him with starry eyes. “I want a pet dragon…”

“Good! Because one of the things I wanted to do with her is figure out just how the Ministry made her. If you want to help, you might end up being able to make one of your own…”

“Yes!” Harry suddenly has to take a step back to support himself and the weight of Michael bodily throwing himself at him. (The collision isn’t hard, though, Harry thinks nervously that it’s because Michael still doesn’t have the strength to really jump at him.) “We’re doing that. We’re definitely doing that!” Michael laughs something close to a cackle. “If they’re safe, I’m going to be the coolest older brother and make Rosie one. She’s going to cause so much mayhem with it.”

“Where is this dragon model?” Anthony asks.

Harry taps his chin. “Probably in stasis in my trunk, still. I couldn’t exactly take her out while I was with the Dursleys, and I doubt Ron or Hermione would have bothered to take her or reactivate the enchantments.”

“You know, it’s kind of messed up that they went through your trunk at all,” says Terry with a frown. “I know with you missing they probably thought having that map of yours on hand would be wise, but still. They shouldn’t be digging through your things without permission.”

“Nah, it’s alright,” says Harry. “I told Ron a long time ago that he can go in and borrow my map or cloak if he really needs it. Far as I can tell, they haven’t taken anything else, so they didn’t do anything I haven’t given them permission for.”

“You’re too generous, Harry.” Terry slowly shakes his head. “Didn’t you say those are both heirlooms?”

Harry can only really shrug. They are, or in the map’s case he thinks of it that way at least, but they’re also incredibly useful and Harry trusts Ron and Hermione to treat them respectfully. They know how much those items mean to him as links to his dad.

“Where would your trunk even be?” Michael asks. “Ron had to have gotten to it at some point if he took the map and cloak, so…”

“So, it probably wasn’t confiscated by the Ministry when they came to my home to snap my wand,” says Harry. “Which means Dumbledore probably took it to whatever safe house the Weasleys and Hermione were staying at over the summer. I guess if I had stuck around, he might’ve taken me there, too.”

Michael pouts. “They don’t deserve you.”

Harry rubs his neck awkwardly. “Yeah… I think I’m happier with how things turned out. If he did bring me there just because the Ministry was trying to kill me, I would’ve just been angrier that they only trusted me to know even the smallest thing because they literally had no other choice. It’s obvious they never actually planned on telling me anything.”

“And why do you still trust them?” Michael mutters bitterly.

Harry makes a noncommittal sort of noise. “Despite everything, even if I’m not particularly happy with them… they’d risk their lives for me. It’s a different kind of trust, I guess. Like, I absolutely trust them to have my back against Death Eaters, but I don’t trust them to know I’m an animagus. Does that make sense? They’re definitely allies, I’m just… not really sure if we’re still friends…”

“We’re friends,” Michael says insistently into Harry’s ear. He squeezes Harry tight. “Even if they turn out not to be, you’ve got us.”

Harry holds him close in return. “I know. Thanks. I’m really glad I’ve got you.” After a pause, Harry’s cheeks warm and he looks over at Anthony and Terry, both with knowing gazes (although Anthony’s is rather more dramatically repulsed than Terry’s sly grin), and adds, “All of you.”

Terry flashes him a thumbs up. Yeah, Harry definitely nails that one.

“Speaking of.” Harry tries desperately for a change of subject. “Anthony, Umbridge’s trial is today, isn’t it?”

Michael loosens his grip on Harry to turn and look at Anthony as well, though he doesn’t actually let go of him at all. “It is,” answers Anthony. “Should be ongoing right now, in fact. Thanks to Terry, the Minister is actually pushing it through rather than stonewalling it, so they were able to hold the trial pretty quickly. Only reason it took this long is because Madam Bones wanted the time to gather and organize evidence.”

“Which means, hopefully, you’ll be a free man, soon,” says Terry. “It will still take time to organize and hold the review for your case, but I don’t see Madam Bones allowing it to take any longer than necessary. Assuming, of course, that she manages to get Umbridge to confess to sending those dementors after you. We’ll know by tomorrow.”

Harry looks to Terry hopefully. “Did you advise her on what to ask?”

Terry flushes and ducks his head. “Madam Bones is good at her job. She doesn’t need a student telling her what to say.”

Michael, Harry, and Anthony all stare expectantly at him. Michael hums a little. “Mhm…”

Terry turns just a little redder. “…And I talked to Susan. If Madam Bones is at all unsure how to approach Umbridge, she’ll have asked one of her prosecutors.”

That makes more sense. Still, the three keep staring, smiling with that same expectation.

Terry squeaks. “…And I checked the prosecutor in question’s credentials. She’s really good. Umbridge’s confession is more likely than not.”

“Thorough as ever, Terry,” Michael chuckles.

Terry scowls. “I hate when you do that.”

“Love you, too.” Michael grins at him, then turns to Harry. “So. Not to count our chickens, but what’re you going to do once the Ministry is off your back?”

Oof. Good question. However Harry makes his reappearance, he can bet there’s going to be a big hullabaloo about it. If Harry has his way, he’ll just quietly slide back into life like he never leaves. It’s too bad no one will let that happen.

Hermione and Ron will grill him on where he’s been, all worried over him. Dumbledore will do the same, but he’ll intimate disappointment. “I guess… the easiest way would be to just go back to the Dursleys once school ends.” And pray no one bothers looking there until the next school year starts and Harry is back at Hogwarts. Or, at least, until he makes it to the Ministry on his own time and gets his readmission sorted.

Michael’s smile immediately turns to a scowl. Terry and Anthony are more contemplative.

“You could stay with me,” Michael says softly. “If we tell Mom and Dad about you being Tiger, they’ll be fine with it.”

Harry reluctantly peels away from him. “Michael… I’d love to, but…” Hope surges in Michael’s eyes, then crashes. “There’s a reason Hermione and the Weasleys were in hiding last summer, you know. It’s one thing when no one at all knows who I am, but if anyone finds out you’re harboring me…”

“I don’t care. I already told you I’d fight with you. But come on, your relatives-”

“That’s fine if you’re ready for it,” Harry says sharply. “What about your parents? What about Rosie? Voldemort won’t hesitate.”

Michael flinches as if struck.

“What if we weren’t in Britain?”

Everyone turns, surprised, to Anthony. Terry’s eyes go wide as he realizes what Anthony is saying. “Yeah… that could work.”

“What can?” asks Harry. “What do you mean?”

“I have family in America,” Anthony explains. “Officially, my great-grandfather’s brother’s side of the family, but we’re all quite close so I mostly just call them my grandmothers and grandfathers, or aunts, uncles, and cousins for the younger ones. It wouldn’t raise any eyebrows if my friends and I went to America to intern at my grandfather Newt’s creature reserve for the summer.”

Harry, who knows before this but still is a bit boggled by the fact that Anthony is related to Newt Scamander, the author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, tries to wrap his head around not just travelling to America, but meeting the man. Working for him.

Is this how people feel when they meet him, the Boy-Who-Lived?

Terry grins. He bounces on his toes a little, gaining momentum with the idea. “If your grandfather is warned and agrees, we can even play it off as if Harry left the country way earlier and was with your grandfather in America for sanctuary. That would let Harry answer Dumbledore and his friends’ questions without revealing anything.”

“My grandfather will be fine with that,” Anthony says confidently. “If Harry had gone to America, I’m sure he would’ve been happy to take him in.”

“We’d all be safe from You-Know-Who,” Terry says, “Harry will have some distance from his reappearance, and we can spend the summer together and get some work experience on top of that. Anthony, this is a brilliant idea!”

It does sound perfect. Harry thinks it almost sounds too perfect. “What about your families?” he asks. “Won’t they want you home for the summer?”

“Of course,” Terry answers. “But we’re all fifteen or sixteen. It’s time for us to look for employment, anyway. America is a bit far, but they’ll understand it’s a great opportunity for us. Even if we’re not interested in working with creatures, having connections to Newt Scamander is an impressive thing. Plus, it’s not like we won’t be able to visit each other. It’s actually quite easy these days to move between Magical Britain and America.”

“Terry’s right,” Michael says. “We’ll miss each other, but we’ll visit, and our families will be happy for us for going after such a good opportunity. I bet we can even get Anthony’s other grandad to train us to protect ourselves.”

Anthony snorts. “Oh, Grandpa Thee will. Gladly. You just have to be careful around him. He’s a hugger.” He shakes his head as Michael laughs. “So, is everyone okay with working with creatures? If not, we can figure something else out.”

This question, Harry can tell, is mostly directed at him. Anthony knows Terry and Michael well enough to know they’ll have no objections to working on the reserve, but though he knows Harry takes Care of Magical Creatures class, he still wants to be sure that Harry is okay doing that kind of job all summer.

“It’ll be nice to make a bit of extra cash, too,” Michael muses. “Most of my allowance is budgeted for Tiger.”

Harry blushes deeply at the reminder that Michael pays for all his needs out of his own pocket. “Sorry… I’ll pay you back.”

Michael just laughs and slaps him on the back. “Don’t worry about it. I like to spoil you.”

Right. Sure. That’s a normal thing to say that doesn’t make Harry’s heart funny. Harry quickly turns back to Anthony. “But, er, no, I wouldn’t mind. I like working with creatures. Not really my passion, I don’t think, but I enjoy it well enough.”

“Excellent,” says Anthony. “All we need to do, then, is make sure we get our Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L.s. Harry, I’ll ask my grandfather to organize for you to take them once we arrive in America. We’ll just say the truth: that your education was delayed because the Ministry attacked, framed, and expelled you, but we’ll say that my grandfather started catching you up once he found you instead of us, so it looks like you’ve been in America longer.”

“And since you were in America all this time,” says Terry, “and only came back to come pick up the things you had to leave behind, and us since we’re the same age, no one will know that we’re already friends and You-Know-Who will have no reason to target any of our families.”

“A sound plan, and we’ve got an alibi for Harry. Great.” Michael grins. “Go ahead and ask your family, Anthony. Let us know soon if we have to think of another idea.”

“Anything else we need to get our story straight?” asks Harry.

Terry rubs his hands together. “Ah, just why you ran in the first place.”

Harry gives him a quizzical look. “Because if they snapped my wand, I’d be a sitting duck for Voldemort?”

“No, no, no, exactly the wrong answer!” Terry sighs. “You have to play up the Ministry angle, Harry. If you talk about being afraid of You-Know-Who, you’ll get caught up in Fudge’s ‘he’s not back!’ propaganda. You left because you’d just been attacked by dementors, and the Ministry was trying to take away your only defense against them. You were terrified that if you let them snap your wand, then Umbridge would just try again, send another set of dementors, and this time you’d be helpless.

“It’d actually be best if you avoid blaming anyone and act as if the dementors really were just a random happenstance that you believed could happen again. That way, those in the Ministry that don’t want the public believing the truth about You-Know-Who won’t be fighting you tooth and nail. They’ll be able to just point at Umbridge as a scapegoat. Once you’re legally cleared, then you can start going off about it.”

Harry bristles at the thought of avoiding the topic of Voldemort for the people clutching their pearls at the Ministry, but he knows Terry is right about that. Once those people don’t have the power to quite easily just not rescind the hunt for him, then he can piss them off.

He’s got to be wise about some things.

He still sounds petulant when he says, “Fine. I won’t mention Voldemort unless I’m asked.”

“Good,” says Terry. “And how did you get to America?”

Harry screws up his face, trying to think of something believable. Well… it is sort of his plan to get out of the country from the start. “I left when I got the first notice, not when the Ministry actually tried me, so when I went to Gringotts to get money, there was nothing stopping me. Then I hopped on a muggle boat.”

“Good story, but don’t make that face when it’s the Ministry asking. You just told me without saying that you came up with it on the spot.”

Harry grumbles, “You should’ve been in Slytherin.”

Terry grins cheekily. “Almost was. Hat went back and forth a few times. I agree with its final decision, though. I’m definitely more Ravenclaw. The Slytherins would’ve driven me batty.”

Huh. That’s not what Harry expects, for some reason. “Me too,” he says. “Hat wanted me there at first as well. But yeah, I would’ve smothered Malfoy in his sleep in year one.”

Nodding sagely, Terry adds, “First time any one of those jumped-up purebloods tries tells me something’s right because ‘that’s how it’s always been done’ I would’ve just lost it.” Everyone snickers. “I mean, they might be right, but an appeal to tradition is not a valid argument.”

Anthony coughs to get them back on track. “Anyway, the last complication I can think of is just how and when you met my grandfather. Someone is going to ask.”

Harry furrows his brow. “Well, er- after a while of getting by on my own, I decided that I wasn’t going to accomplish anything that way – least of all continuing my education; should I appeal to that? – and decided to look for the only name I know in America who by reputation I assume at least isn’t sympathetic to the Death Eaters.”

“And you showed up at their door looking like a neglected puppy,” concludes Anthony.

Terry says, “Yes, absolutely make a point about wanting to continue your education but being unable to.”

Anthony continues as if Terry doesn’t interject. “And so, they took you in, made sure you’re healthy, and educated you.” He fondly rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s consistent with the Scamanders. It’ll do. We’ll figure out the exact date along with them so we’re all on the same page.”

And just like that, everything is sorted. Harry leans back against the wall and breathes. “Hey guys?” Everyone looks to him. “Thank you.”

Terry and Anthony just smile fondly. Michael pinks and saddles back up to him so they’re shoulder to shoulder. He says, “Well, your Gryffindor nonsense might make the whole situation bigger than we’re used to dealing with, but this is just what we do. You’re our friend. We’re on your side, no matter what.”

Harry ducks his head. He feels warm and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, but it’s good. Finding these guys is the last thing Harry expects when he’s kidnapped and put in a pet shop, but now he shudders to think about his life going any other way.

He might even have to thank Umbridge for trying to kill him and getting him expelled.

…Okay, maybe not that far. He’ll thank Umbridge as soon as Professor Snape gives him a genuine smile – which is significantly less likely than Hell freezing over.

“Alright!” Michael claps his hands together suddenly. “Let’s go do something fun! We’re all too tense with everything going on.”

Terry, Anthony, and Harry all share an amused look. “Sure,” says Terry. “What do you have in mind?”

Michael clearly has nothing in mind because he frowns and tilts his head to think about it. “Want to go flying? We haven’t done this year because of Umbridge’s stupid rules and I just realized I’ve never really shown Harry my broom.”

Harry perks up. “Oh, yeah, it looked like you modified it.”

“I did.” Michael beams proudly. “Actually, my parents were really hesitant to get me my own broom when I was younger because they knew I’d take it apart and modify it. There was never any chance I wouldn’t void the warranty.”

Terry asks, “Will you be alright, Harry? I guess you’d have to be on Michael’s broom with him if you wanted to fly.”

Harry is too excited at the prospect of flying again to care that he won’t be in control of the broom. “That’s fine, I trust him,” he says immediately.

“I’m a good flier,” Michael says, patting Harry on the back. “He’ll be fine. Besides, I’m still too weak to be doing stunts again, so it’ll be an easy ride.”

Anthony chuckles and shakes his head. “Well, you all have fun with that. I’ll write that letter to my grandfather. I want to check on Susan, too. We might join you later.” For Harry’s sake, he adds, “but don’t expect me to get up in the air with you all.”

“Not much of a flier?” Harry asks.

Anthony makes a face. “I can fly. I just prefer solid ground, thanks.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Maturely, Anthony sticks his tongue out at Harry. They laugh together as Anthony peeks out the door for his rabid fans, then slips out to go write his letter.

Harry turns back to Michael, who stands with his head tilted, staring contemplatively off into the distance. “Michael? What’s up?”

Michael blinks, shakes his head. “Oh, I was just thinking… I might go talk to Professor Flitwick about the qualifications I need to be a broom maker. I hadn’t really decided on anything when we had the career consultations, but I think I’d really enjoy making and tinkering with brooms.”

“From what I know of the whole tree-to-shelf process,” Terry says, “it does sound like your kind of thing.”

“You think?”

“It really does,” Harry adds. Michael says he’s more of a tinkerer than an inventor. He means that as in he’s not great at coming up with original ideas like many of the twins’ prank items. But he is really good at taking something and modifying it, making it better or changing it to suit his needs. He doesn’t need to be creative in the grand ideas with brooms. The idea is to fly. But everything else… that’s Michael’s strength.

Plus, Michael really likes quidditch.

“Tell me about your broom?” says Harry. He shares a look with Terry soon after, as Michael lights up and starts animatedly describing all the different things he’s done to his old Comet.

-----

“You ready, Tiger?”

Harry squirms in place. He’s beyond ready. He just wants to be in the air again!

Michael chuckles, presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s furry head, and kicks off the ground.

The truth is, as a quidditch player himself and an avid fan of flying, under any other circumstances Harry wouldn’t get on this broom if it’s the last thing he does. People with sense don’t just jump onto modified brooms. That’s a good way to experience a horrible, painful death.

That’s the very good reason why Michael says his parents are so reluctant to get him one. But Harry is just coming off of watching Michael reverse-engineer and modify several of Fred and George’s original prank products, quite a few established products, and assist in creating a curse reversal spell that works with aplomb on Umbridge’s Ministry-Approved cursed quill. If there’s anyone Harry knows that he trusts to modify a broom’s enchantments, it’s Michael.

And that’s beside the fact that it’s Michael. He’d never let Harry onto the broom if he doesn’t know it’s safe.

Because while the broom is still recognizable as a Comet, it’s changed enough that the exact model isn’t even distinguishable. And probably doesn’t matter, since it’s surely changed functionality enough that it can’t be compared.

By Michael’s own admission, it still has nothing on a Firebolt, but Harry is still excited to see how this thing flies. Even if he’s not the one driving.

As Michael is still not fully recovered from the Cruciatus Curse and doesn’t fully trust his strength or fine motor control, once they’re in the air all they really do is big, (relatively) slow loops around the open field where recreational flying is endorsed for the upper years.

But it’s still just nice to be flying again. And even though he feels significantly less steady when he’s not the one controlling the broom, the advantage is that he can just close his eyes and luxuriate in the wind coursing through his fur.

It… finally sets Harry’s heart at ease. All the trouble that starts… really, it starts with his name coming out of the Goblet of Fire. All the stress of the tournament, the horror of that graveyard and Cedric’s murder, being abandoned at the Dursleys over the summer, being on the run from the Ministry, and then later worrying about Michael and what Umbridge does to him, working on their plan to get Umbridge caught and removed, and then just figuring out his own cover story for all this time he’s been missing… It’s a lot, and it doesn’t stop. It’s still not over – he’s still not technically free, and he’s going to have to talk to Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, and probably a lot more people as well and feed them his cover – but this moment, in the air, is his first, best opportunity to let it go.

If Michael flies the broom, if he trusts his friends to guide him… He can relax, just for a little while. For long enough, he hopes.

His breast overflows with warmth for the boy behind him, who leans over him, arms on either side, controlling the broom but ready to catch Harry and steady him if he loses balance. (Not really a worry when he’s a human, but unfortunately a wise precaution with him as a cat. He has no trouble staying on the broom, but with it moving it is dangerous.) Michael shouts joyously to the wind, and Harry’s heart sings with him.

Michael brings the broom to a stop in the air, grins down at Harry who looks up at him, and says, “Want to see something really cool?”

Harry makes a hesitant sort of mewl. He does, but he doesn’t want Michael to push himself.

Michael just chuckles. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing like that. I know perfectly well that I’m not to be doing stunts yet. Besides, I doubt anything I can pull off would hold a candle to what you do all the time on your Firebolt. No, this is something that, far as I know, currently only my broom can do.”

Harry tilts his head. He knows his eyes shine with eager curiosity.

And Michael tilts just slightly to the side, and unlike every broom Harry ever rides, this one doesn’t turn, but begins to strafe sideways. Then Michael guides it backwards, then the other way, and then he mixes it up going up at a backwards diagonal, or dropping as he drifts sideways.

Harry fixes him with wide eyes. Michael flashes a cheshire grin. “Omni-directional movement,” he says proudly. “Even professional brooms can only change direction on the spot, not truly move any way but forward. Good fliers, like you, will drift sometimes, using momentum and a sharp turn, but brooms only really have one direction of movement. Forward.

“But you know how people complain all the time that the school brooms will drift one way or another? It’s due to failing enchantments ‘cause they’re so old and worn out, but I was inspired and wanted to know why that was happening. Ended up stabilizing the problem, improving on it, and now my broom does this:” He jets suddenly, like he spots the snitch and takes off after it, but entirely backwards.

He laughs. Harry looks up at him in awe. This is amazing! Harry can’t see it being allowed in quidditch, or else the people in charge will need to think up funny names for about a hundred more new kinds of fouls, but he definitely wants a broom like this for recreational flight.

“Personally,” continues Michael, “while I know that the drift problem is always going to happen with aging enchantments, I still like to think that broom manufacturers just don’t take more measures to fix it due to planned obsolescence. Since most wizards aren’t comfortable doing more than basic maintenance on their brooms, the moment the enchantments start to fail they’ve got to buy a new one. Well, they can pry my broom from my cold, dead hands.” He giggles and lovingly strokes the handle. “This thing is my baby.”

His hand falls atop Harry’s head, petting him gently. “Really, though, the drift will always happen, but it’s actually super simple to stabilize it once you figure out what you’re doing. It could easily be added to regular maintenance if people weren’t so scared to touch their broom’s enchantments. Madam Hooch won’t let me near the school brooms anymore, or I would’ve fixed at least that much for the little firsties.

“I, er, wouldn’t recommend doing it on your Firebolt, though. Mostly just because I’m like, eighty percent sure it’d void the warranty and frankly, you want to be able to send that off to the experts to fix if you need to.”

Oh, Harry definitely agrees on that. He’s eager to learn this stabilizing spell Michael has, but his top-of-the-line professional quidditch broom worth more galleons than probably fits in both their trunks put together is definitely not the broom to test it on.

At least, not while the thing is insured and reasonable repairs, like drift from aging enchantments, are free. If he has to pay an arm and a leg to get the thing tuned up, then he’ll consider doing it himself.

(The broom company, Ellerby and Spudmore, already aren’t happy when the teachers strip the thing in third year when Harry gets it and Hermione reports it as potentially sent to harm him. Thankfully, they’re understanding about the situation and give him a pass, but Harry has a distinct feeling that they will not be as forgiving about him purposefully tampering with the broom’s enchantments out of curiosity.)

They fly around a little more. They still don’t do anything crazy, since Michael is recovering and Harry does not have opposable thumbs, but they fly nice and easy and Michael babbles about his broom.

It’s easy to see how passionate he is about it. Harry just likes listening to him talk about something he loves. He’s so vibrant and that smile on his face fits like it belongs, like Michael should never lose it. Harry can happily stay here with the wind in his fur and Michael beaming around him for days. Maybe forever.

It’s a good place to be. Harry can’t think of anywhere he’d rather be. He just loves being here, right now, and he loves being with Michael.

Harry is so contented and relaxed where he is that he almost misses Anthony and Susan running out onto the field, calling up for Michael and Terry. Harry startles for a moment when he hears them, but when he looks they have wide, vicious grins on their faces and Harry knows it’s a good thing.

They land, approach the two, and Susan shoves a special edition of the Evening Prophet into Michael’s hands.

In good company and deciding that it won’t be too obvious, Harry perches himself on Michael’s shoulder to read the headline along with him.

Umbridge Found Guilty of Attempted Murder, Torture. Potter Innocent?

“Ha!” Michael shouts to the heavens. “Take that, you no good, dirty, rotten, bitc-!”

Anthony claps a hand over Michael’s mouth. “Oi! Mind the first-years!”

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 11

Tongues and Teeth

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Harry bounds along at Anthony and Susan’s heels. Their robes billow behind them and Susan’s long red plait bounces with the speed they glide through the corridors.

When they hear the scream, they break into a run.

Harry’s stomach sinks down to the floor. Michael wouldn’t scream like that. He’d refuse to give Umbridge the satisfaction. She must do something truly beyond the pale. Which means they need to be in that room ten minutes ago.

They reach the door to the Defense office. For the moment, all they hear is Umbridge’s muffled voice.

And then, “Crucio!”

Anthony and Susan both recoil in shock. They imagine all manner of horrors that Umbridge is willing and able to inflict, but an unforgivable curse? Michael’s scream tears a bloody path through Harry’s heart far worse than Voldemort’s Cruciatus Curse ever hurts him.

Anthony’s face turns incandescent as he surges for the door. Susan’s quick hands pull him back.

“What’re you doing?” Anthony hisses. “Let go! We have to get in there; we have to stop her!”

“You need to think,” Susan growls darkly. “Use that Ravenclaw wisdom of yours. We can go in throwing hexes, but what’ll happen if she overpowers us? We’re students, and she’s still an adult, fully-trained witch!”

“So, we just sit out here like cowards while Michael-”

Susan smacks Anthony on the back of the head. “Of course not! We’ll run in and protect him as soon as we’ve contacted my aunt.”

Anthony’s eyes widen. He glowers at her for a moment but concedes her point. He flicks his wand. “Expecto Patronum.”

Susan gasps as the silvery light produced by Anthony’s wand forms into a porcupine.

“So,” says Anthony shortly. “What do I say to make her listen?”

“Tell her Umbridge is using an unforgivable. But very important: say, alpha, vermillion, wolf. She’ll know it’s from me.”

Anthony doesn’t spare a second to attempt to decipher the code Susan has with her aunt. He sends off the message with his patronus and, the moment Susan allows him to, blasts through the door.

“Expelliarmus!”

Susan is right behind him. “Stupefy!”

Harry darts inside as well, making directly for Michael, who is curled up, twitching, on the floor, and does not appear to even notice his friends jumping in to his rescue.

Umbridge, though plainly surprised, shields from Anthony and Susan’s spells with a flick of her wand. She smacks her wand against her open palm. Harry notices with satisfaction that she’s bleeding from the back of her hand – so their gambit with the quill works, at least.

As she’s not actively pointing her wand at them, Anthony and Susan move in tandem almost as if they agree beforehand. Anthony steps up, between Umbridge and the others, while Susan grabs onto Michael and drags him back towards the wall, out of the way. Harry stays glued to Michael’s side, nuzzling insistently into his face, purring, anything soft he can think of to get Michael to respond. But Michael’s eyes are screwed tight and he does not notice.

“Mr. Goldstein…” Umbridge says, shock clear in her voice nestled alongside something harder, darker, sharper. “I expect better from a school prefect than to raise your wand at a teacher.”

“Shut up, you great, ugly bint,” Anthony growls viciously. It’s a tone, an entire demeanor, that Harry never sees on him before and would not imagine him capable of before now. “As a prefect, it is my duty to watch over and protect the students of this school.”

He lifts his chin, glares daggers into her eyes. “If I’ve let you believe that you can get away with harming a hair on the head of anyone here… I’ve been neglecting that responsibility. No more.”

Susan dances on her toes. She stands shoulder to shoulder with Anthony. “The Cruciatus Curse is illegal. Not even your precious Fudge can protect you from that. My aunt is already on her way; you’re through.”

Umbridge twitches. Her eyes dart between the pair of them and the door, the fireplace, calculating.

Anthony catches the flick of her eyes. His face screws up in rage. “You think I’ll let you escape? Bombarda!”

The fireplace, the only one in the entire castle still connected to the floo network after Umbridge closes the rest of them in her paranoia, explodes, breaking well beyond use for the floo.

Umbridge is all tight frustration. “I see,” she croaks. “I see how it is. Very well. Minister Fudge will understand I had to defend myself… yes, from Dumbledore’s mad followers…”

“Surrender quietly and you won’t be harmed,” Susan demands coldly. Anthony doesn’t at all look like he agrees, but Susan says it for a reason. Partly she means it, and partly it’s to ensure that no one reviewing their memories of this confrontation can say that Anthony and Susan were actually trying to cause harm. She takes away Umbridge’s self-defense case.

Umbridge realizes this as well. She raises her wand and shrieks, “Incarcerous!”

“Diffindo!” Susan is quickest on the draw, firing off the spell before the ropes Umbridge conjures even reaches them. It slices the ropes through, forcing them to fly off to either side of her and Anthony without actually catching them.

“Stupefy!” Anthony roars.

“Flagrante!” Susan follows.

Umbridge shields without batting an eye and counters with a disarming charm. Susan shields, then with a twirl sends off another stunner.

“Enough!” Umbridge shouts. “Crucio!”

“Everte Statum!”

Susan’s spell sends Anthony flying head over heels into the wall, but it’s the only reason that Umbridge’s curse soars harmlessly past without landing.

“Confringo!”

Susan’s use of the blasting curse will probably raise an eyebrow or two once they’re not in the middle of a dangerous situation, but no one can argue it isn’t effective. Umbridge’s desk is blown to bits in a fiery explosion, throwing up a cloud of dust and debris that Umbridge must cover her face to shield from.

Anthony, recovering from landing in a heap on the floor, takes the opportunity. “Levioso!”

It catches her. The first spell to do so. Umbridge is lifted, flailing, into the air by her clothes.

“Accio!” Susan pulls Umbridge close.

Anthony jumps back up to his feet, right by Susan’s side. A cruel glint mars his eyes. “Incendio.”

The fire-making spell is ostensibly pointed at her wand hand, but she struggles so much in the air that he ends up just catching her across her shoulder and most of her arm. Her pink robe catches and she shrieks with pain from the severe burn.

If Anthony’s choice of spell bothers Susan, she doesn’t show it. “Depulso!” she shouts. Umbridge is sent crashing into the opposite wall, only narrowly hitting the beam of stone and not the window. A fall from this floor might actually kill her.

Struggling to her feet, Umbridge’s expression is like never before. Working together, Anthony and Susan get the better of her and she knows it, but now she is fueled by righteous outrage. She will not be beaten by children!

Michael stirs. Weakly, so even Harry with his cat ears can barely hear him, he murmurs, “Tiger…?”

Harry meows into him, nuzzles against his face. Michael doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t appear to be able to move his limbs, but he smiles. “…Knew you’d come. Catch her.”

They do. They will. Umbridge isn’t escaping from this. Harry will ensure it personally even if it means walking into the Ministry himself and damn the consequences.

Anthony and Susan barrage Umbridge with spells, but she just shields and slowly, intimidatingly, marches closer. Through the splinters of her desk, atop smoldering parchment, she steps closer with a look that promises pain.

Harry longs for nothing more than to change back into his human form and join in the duel, but he knows he can’t. Not except as a very last resort. If she takes down Anthony and Susan and is about to escape before Madam Bones can arrive, only then can he risk revealing himself. That’s what they agree on. Harry can’t betray Michael’s trust by acting rashly.

Michael’s hand twitches. It jerks down, but it’s not just a remnant of the Cruciatus Curse. It’s purposeful in a way the rest of the twitches aren’t. Harry follows the path, sees a lump in Michael’s pocket.

“You ungrateful,” Umbridge growls, her advance unfaltering, “revolting, wild children… Why won’t you fall in line?”

Anthony rumbles in turn. “Why won’t you break?”

“Just give up, Umbridge,” Susan says. “It’s over.”

Umbridge laughs. It’s manic and high, sweet like her usual façade but sticky and clingy in a way that makes Harry feel like he needs a shower. “Children,” she says, “should be seen and not. heard.”

She flicks her wand. This time, she’s too close for Susan to block the rope that lashes around her neck. Susan gasps, grabs and pulls at the rope, and crumples to the ground, slowly turning purple.

Anthony sets his jaw bravely, now facing down Umbridge’s wand alone.

(Terry paces at the castle gates, back and forth like a lion in a pen. Every part of him itches. He crawls with the knowledge that something horrible is happening to one of his best friends – to all of his best friends– and he’s the only one not there to defend them.

He knows why he’s necessary here. He does. Anthony’s patronus is the only way to contact Madam Bones with Umbridge locking down all the floos. The mail, if it gets past her checks, is too slow. And they can’t know who else will be around Madam Bones in the Ministry when she does get the patronus message. If Fudge is there and has forewarning, he can muck everything up.

Fudge can and will interfere with this. Everyone knows it. But if he interferes now, he can prevent Madam Bones from acting. If he’s delayed just long enough for Umbridge to be taken into custody, he’ll have to go through all the red tape that comes along with that.

But Terry really hates not knowing what’s happening to Michael right now.

The crack of apparition halts his impatient feet. He turns to see Madam Bones, a dark-skinned auror, and unfortunately Minister Fudge himself all arrive at the gate. Terry immediately clears his face and posture of all of the anxiety buzzing through him. If he’s going to get Fudge away and give Madam Bones the opening she needs to do her job, he has to play this right.

This is what Michael and the others trust him to do. This is how he will protect them.

Terry lets his concern bleed into his features and jumps forward to open the gates for the visitors. “Madam Bones! Thank goodness you’re here. Please, you have to get to the Defense office immediately!”

Terry glances to the auror at her side, and then to Fudge, and silently prays that Bones is smart enough to know that she has to work around Fudge’s presence here.

She is, thank goodness. “Shacklebolt,” Bones barks, “go on ahead. You. Mr…”

“Boot. Terry Boot.” Terry bites his lip and pulls at his robes. “My best friend, Michael, well, Umbridge has been torturing him for months now and today he pranked her, so I just know she’s going to be more awful than usual,” he whines. “Please, if someone doesn’t stop her, I’m not sure he’ll make it back to the common room!”

“Now what’s this rubbish?” Fudge asks. “Madam Umbridge is a respected member of the Ministry of Magic, hand-picked to provide you a quality education. I would expect the students of Hogwarts to treat her with more respect.”

Madam Bones ignores him. Her eyes flash dangerously. “Elaborate, Mr. Boot,” she demands. “What do you mean by torture?”

Terry sucks in a shaking breath. He stops to sniff and press his sleeve to his eyes to wick away the tears. “E-every day Michael has de- he has detention,” he stammers. “It’s three or four time- times a week these days…”

“Now, see,” says Fudge confidently. “It’s natural for students to exaggerate. But detentions are hardly-”

“He- he comes back with his hand all bloody! She- she makes him write lines with a cursed quill. It carves the words into the back of his hand!”

Madam Bones rears back. Fudge seems as if he’s struck in the face. “Now, boy-”

“She what?” Bones hisses. “Why wasn’t this reported sooner?”

Terry takes a step away from Fudge, directing all the fear in his eyes at the man. “Because- because she has permission…” he cries. “She showed us the form signed by the Minister allowing her to use it as a punishment…”

Madam Bones stills. Terry counts silently in his head. Three. Two. One.

“You signed off on this?” she roars.

Fudge has a very pale look which suggests that he doesn’t sign off on it. While Terry does lie about Umbridge showing them all the proof, he checks his sources a long time ago and confirms that she does have the permission. The form, which is public record as all Ministry decrees about policy are, is indeed signed by Minister Fudge. “W-well, Dolores insisted it was necessary-”

Does she? Or does she just give him the form and he signs it without even looking?

“Necessary?” Bones asks. “To inflict bodily harm on children for misbehaving in school? Are you quite mad?”

Terry continues to scrub at his face, using the action to hide the discreet changes to his expression that he knows he can’t quite control. “We tried to tell our parents,” Terry says, “but no one ever heard back on account of Professor Umbridge closing down all communication from outside the school. I- I think our messages got out, but- but… we were never able to hear back.”

Fudge whimpers. The possibility that this gets out, that the community at large knows that he endorses and legalizes what is being done to their children… Well, Fudge isn’t that stupid.

“I…” Fudge stammers. “I need to get on top of this. I must return to the Ministry immediately. Merlin, if the press gets wind of this…”

And just like that, the coward turns tail and runs. He apparates away, back to the Ministry to try to start on damage control. That’s fine, as no matter how successful he is, it means that Madam Bones is free in this moment to do her job.

Terry scoffs, clears his face, and pulls out a handkerchief to wipe away the remnants of his tears. Terry is disappointingly surprised by how easy it is to manipulate that fool. Madam Bones raises her brow at him.

Terry shrugs. “He wouldn’t have let you do your job,” he answers simply.

“How bad is it, really?” she asks.

“Exactly what I said,” Terry says stiffly. “Please, save my friend.”

Madam Bones simply nods and gestures with her head towards the castle. “Walk with me, Mr. Boot. Tell me exactly what has been going on in this school.”)

Harry shoves his head into Michael’s pocket, finding what Michael brings for them. Above them, it’s all Anthony can do to defend from the spell fire of an adult more powerful than him.

Just when Harry manages to dig his tools out of Michael’s pocket, Umbridge decides she has enough of the skillful shielding that Harry drills all of the Ravenclaw boys on in their Defense lessons.

She shouts, “Crucio!”

Harry drops the black horn in his mouth – he doesn’t actually know what it is, only that it’s shaped like a horn to produce noise and has stumpy little feet and so presumably moves – and turns back to watch Anthony collapse, screaming and jerking madly in pain.

But the thing Harry pulls from Michael’s pocket, what he’ll later learn is a Fred and George prototype Decoy Detonator (one of the rare items Michael steals from the twins and is not given to help with testing), scuttles off to the far corner of the room.

There’s a loud bang. Umbridge and Harry both jump, Umbridge turns to the noise and the cloud of acrid smoke billowing from the corner.

Anthony gasps, but since he’s only under the Cruciatus for a second is already pulling in on himself, trying to get his wand back up, pointed at Umbridge. Harry needs to give him the time to recover before Umbridge sees him and can block his attack. The Decoy Detonator is utterly mangled – the thing actually explodes rather than just release its distraction – so it’s up to Harry.

So, Harry pounces. He darts forward, leaps with claws extended, and buries his fangs deep in Umbridge’s flabby calf. She howls with pain. Harry pulls his paws in under him and kicks, claws out, trying to tear up her flesh as thoroughly as her cursed quill destroys Michael’s hand.

Her unintelligible shriek pierces Harry’s ears, then he’s hit in the side and thrown so hard he collides painfully with the wall. It’s like he’s hit by a bludger. Who’d guess Umbridge can kick that hard?

As she pants, glaring at him, Anthony finally raises his trembling wand arm. “Expelliarmus!”

The jet of red light hits Umbridge square in the back. Her wand is ripped from her hand and sails through the air to Anthony. He doesn’t bother catching it – probably can’t after the Cruciatus – so it clatters to the floor and rolls up against the wall, but he follows up quickly with, “Incarcerous.”

No longer armed, there is nothing Umbridge can do to stop the ropes from binding her tightly. She hits the ground, writing and struggling, but Anthony’s incarcerous spell is too much for her.

Anthony turns, cuts the ropes off of Susan, checks her neck, then leaves her to recover her breath as he goes to check Harry over as well.

Harry might have a cracked rib or two but frankly, it’s not the worst he ever has. It’s nothing compared to even a second under the Cruciatus Curse, much less however long she has Michael under it before they get there.

So, conceding to Harry’s glare and lashing tail, Anthony turns lastly to Michael.

Not that there’s much he can do. Treating the effects of a curse like that is beyond him at the best of times, and he’s exhausted and in pain himself. Once he’s satisfied that there’s nothing in his power he can do left, and he’s sure that no one is in any immediate danger, he sinks down against the wall, drops his wand, and covers his face.

Susan, bless her, utters a rough incantation to silence Umbridge’s useless shrieking. Harry struggles to his feet, fighting the pain in his side, and limps back to Michael’s side where he curls up purring into Michael’s neck.

A minute later, an auror walks through the door. He stops to survey the scene, Umbridge struggling in her binds on the floor, shouting voiceless demands at him, Anthony with his face in his knees just trying to breathe, Michael and Harry curled up together – especially the tremors that continue to seize Michael’s body, the state of the room with its clear signs of violent struggle.

Susan sniffs imperiously, rubs at her bruised neck, and croaks, “Auror. Please help us all to the hospital wing. Do not let Umbridge-” she doubles over, coughing, wincing and grasping her injured throat.

The auror nods gently to her. “I’ll keep her detained. Let’s get you all to the matron, and then you can tell us what happened here.”

But Susan powers through. “Those two,” she gestures to Michael and Anthony, “were under the Cruciatus. Mich-” she coughs, wheezes painfully. “Levitate him.” She points firmly to Michael, enough to tell the auror that Michael is the only one unable to walk with his own power and thus the most in need of help.

Harry doesn’t know if Susan often orders aurors around; he can’t imagine her aunt lets her get away with that even if she tries. But the auror follows her lead like she’s Madam Bones herself. He obediently levitates Michael (Harry stays atop him, not feeling up to walking all the way to the hospital wing himself. He hopes they don’t forget to treat his injuries. It won’t be the worst thing he’s left untreated, but he’d like to not suffer just how long it will hurt to let it heal naturally.) and Umbridge without undoing her binds and leads the way out the door towards the Hospital Wing.

The last thing Harry sees as they’re brought away is Susan kneeling down, putting a hand on Anthony’s shoulder, slowly coaxing him back out so that he can get up to the Hospital Wing for treatment himself.

-----

After Harry hisses and scratches when Madam Pomfrey tries to put him in a separate bed from Michael, they reach a compromise of him laying splayed out on the bedside table, giving Madam Pomfrey her space to work with the one worst off here while letting him stay close.

Harry closes his eyes. It hurts to breathe. He tries stretching out, hoping that opening up his body will ease the pain in his ribs, but it doesn’t do much at all. Still, he’s more concerned about Michael. Even when Harry is under the Cruciatus Curse, Harry doesn’t think it’s as long as Umbridge keeps Michael in it.

He shudders to think of what will happen if they take much longer to reach the Defense office. If only Hogwarts isn’t so damn big. They leave at the same time, but Anthony and Harry have to go all the way down to the library to pick up Susan and then double back to Defense to get to Michael. It only takes a second for her to realize that the quill is tampered with, which means she has several minutes alone with Michael before the rest of them even make it to the door. The only question is how long it takes her to resort to the Cruciatus, once she realizes her quill backfires.

From the sound of Madam Pomfrey’s frustrated muttering as she works over Michael, the answer is that it doesn’t take long at all.

Umbridge is bound to another bed further away, and Madam Pomfrey only does the bare minimum on her wounds so far, deciding Michael to be in a worse state or perhaps just letting her suffer for a bit before she gets around to her.

A minute after they all get settled, Susan, Anthony, Terry, and Madam Bones all walk in together. Madam Bones manhandles Susan into the bed next to Michael, and Anthony next to her, and with a warning that she’ll get statements from each of them as soon as Madam Pomfrey clears them for it, she stalks over to Umbridge and snaps the curtains around the bed shut.

Harry… kind of doesn’t want to know what Madam Bones might have to say to Umbridge right now. (He’s a little too focused on trying to breathe.)

Mercifully, after several more minutes of Pomfrey worriedly casting over Michael, she steps back with a sigh. Five pairs of eyes (including Harry, the cat, and the auror, Shacklebolt) stare at her anxiously, awaiting her verdict.

Madam Pomfrey smiles at the other children. “He’ll be just fine,” she says. The entire room slackens as they let out a collective breath. “That wound on his hand will scar. There’s nothing for it,” she explains slowly, “but I’ve repaired what damage was done by the Cruciatus. He just needs rest, now. I’ve put him to sleep to get a head start on it.”

“You can confirm the Cruciatus Curse?” Auror Shacklebolt asks.

“I can,” Madam Pomfrey says, already moving on to Susan to look closely at her bruised neck. “The muscle and nerve damage is consistent with exposure to the curse. I’d guess he was under for somewhere between three to five minutes in total.”

That sounds bad. That’s bad, right? Harry looks to Anthony, who shares a look with Terry and Susan.

Madam Pomfrey smiles at them. “Not to worry, dears. He will be sore and in pain for a few days and may struggle with fine motor control for a while longer, but he will recover.” She scowls, looking again to Shacklebolt. “The real concern is his hand. It will take a long time and a lot of regular physical therapy for him to regain full dexterity in his fingers. I’m not sure he’ll ever get full feeling back.”

She shakes her head and summons a jar of paste. “Rub this, gently, onto the bruise, dear.” She hands the jar to Susan. “And I’ll make you some tea with a soother in it once I’m done with the others. I’m afraid your aunt will have to take your statement another time, though. Perhaps with Mister Corner. You are not to speak until I check the state of your throat in two hours once that balm has a chance to work.”

Susan grimaces, but nods.

Moving on, Anthony says as she approaches him, “She got me with the Cruciatus, but only for a few seconds before Tiger distracted her. No other injuries. Can you do anything for Tiger, first? She kicked him, hard. Might’ve hurt his ribs.”

Madam Pomfrey purses her lips, but looking over him she finds Anthony tells her the truth, so she turns back to Harry on Michael’s bedside table.

Harry slowly sucks breath in and out. It’s surprisingly difficult to do without moving his ribs.

“It appears you’re right, Mr. Goldstein. Bruising, and a couple of fractured ribs. I’m afraid I’ll have to consult the books on how to properly dilute the Skele-Grow to mend them in order to treat a cat. I am not a veterinarian, alas.”

“Skele-Grow is already safe for cats,” Anthony murmurs. “One part potion to two parts water should be fine. About a thimble, I think. But double-check the maths on that. My head’s foggy.”

Pomfrey raises a brow.

Anthony shrugs. “You’re not a veterinarian,” he says simply. “I like to be prepared.”

With a proud smirk, Madam Pomfrey summons a book, some parchment, and a self-inking quill and after the book opens itself before her, allowing her to glance inside, she scribbles something down quickly. After a few seconds and a firm nod she says, “Five points to Ravenclaw, Mr. Goldstein. You’re exactly correct.”

She bustles off, then comes back with the Skele-Grow, a potion that she hands to Anthony which he drinks without hesitation or complaint, and a thimble that she carefully measures Harry’s potion into.

When she gets it diluted and offers it to Harry, he obediently laps at it. (Even as a cat, it tastes disgusting.)

“So, Terry,” says Anthony. “What’s the situation?”

Terry straightens up to attention. “Like we feared, Fudge tagged along when Madam Bones came here.”

Harry suppresses the too-human instinct to laugh at the raised brow Shacklebolt fixes the boys with.

Terry doesn’t acknowledge the auror at all. “I convinced him that there’s already hearsay in the public that he endorsed what Umbridge was doing here, so he’s back at the Ministry trying to cover up his involvement to make it look like Umbridge just went rogue. He’s cutting her loose as we speak.”

“Which means Madam Bones should be able to lock her up without too much fuss if Fudge thinks he can still protect himself.” Anthony nods. “Good job. But what about him?”

Terry grins and pulls out a scroll of parchment from his robes. “See for yourself.”

Anthony takes it in shaky hands and unrolls it. His eyes widen as they take in the contents. “If we can find the right way to spread this…”

Auror Shacklebolt steps up, then. “What is it?” he asks. “Is this evidence?”

Anthony just turns his shark-like grin to the auror and hands him the parchment.

Shacklebolt’s eyes bulge from his head. “Approval for Whipping?” he gasps.

“Signed by Head of Hogwarts, High Inquisitor Dolores Jane Umbridge, and…” says Terry, “Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge himself. That leaks, and Fudge is damned. Either he’s a monster who wants to whip children for misbehaving, or he’s a blundering fool who doesn’t read what he signs. Either way, he’s incompetent for office.”

“We got ‘em,” Anthony declares.

“I’ll take that.” Madam Bones marches up, an awesome scowl frozen on her lips. She barely even growls at reading the heading of the parchment that Shacklebolt hands to her. “Where did you get this?”

“It was on her desk,” Terry says.

Amelia Bones narrows her eyes. “As I recall, her desk was a pile of flaming splinters.” Susan pinks and deliberately refuses to look directly at her aunt’s face.

Terry rolls his eyes. “Not when we just stopped by. When I snuck in to fix her awful quill.”

Bones’ brow shoots through the ceiling. “You did that? I examined the quill briefly, that’s a nasty curse reversal.”

“It’s a nasty curse,” says Terry nonchalantly. “It’s not illegal. I checked.”

Madam Bones snorts. “No, it’s not. I was actually thinking that that’s very impressive skill for a fifth-year student. I would have said impossible if I didn’t have the evidence in front of me.” She shakes her head. “No matter. I’ll make sure this,” she holds up the Approval for Whipping form, “is put into evidence. I’ll present it at Umbridge’s trial; trust me, the public will be watching.”

“One other thing,” says Anthony. He looks pointedly to Terry, telling him to elaborate, and says simply, “Harry.”

“Harry?” Madam Bones echoes. “Do you mean Harry Potter? What about him? He’s been missing since Fudge decided to expel him and snap his wand.”

“Right,” Terry says. “But Umbridge was the one to send the dementors after him in his muggle neighborhood in the first place.”

“Oh? And how do you know that?”

“Deductive reasoning.” Terry shrugs. “How many people, even in the Ministry, actually know where Harry lives? His location was always kept secret for his ‘safety.’ Plus, the Ministry controls the dementors, but that definitely wasn’t Fudge’s plan – he’s way too spineless to pull something like that. Doesn’t mean he isn’t happy to take advantage of it, though.

“Harry was set up,” Terry says firmly. “And if you recall, the Ministry didn’t even dispatch obliviators, so clearly there wasn’t any breach of the Statute of Secrecy. That means the only law Harry broke was the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic, which has clauses in place for underage wizards to use magic if their life is at risk, as his would be with the dementors after him.”

Madam Bones sighs. She’s obviously on their side in this, but she has to break it to them, “The Wizengamot already decided that there were no dementors present. There’s nothing I can do for your friend.”

“Not true,” Terry says. “Umbridge is the one who sent them. If she admits to it in her own trial, that would qualify as new evidence enough to reexamine the case. You can help Harry if you’re clever about what you ask her.”

Madam Bones purses her lips. Shacklebolt seems to hold his breath, eyeing his boss with wariness and some strange well of hope. Even Susan turns on puppy eyes, despite not knowing Harry very well.

Finally, she sighs. “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to get her to talk about that. It’s not relevant to the investigation into her conduct at Hogwarts, so I can’t responsibly bring it up. But if it’s true that she sent dementors after Harry Potter, then that needs to be brought to light. I’ll try.”

“That’s all we ask. Thank you, Madam Bones.”

She nods. “Now,” she turns to Anthony, “Mr. Goldstein. I’ve already heard from your friend Mr. Boot, but are you up for telling me in your own words just what’s been going on, and especially what happened in Umbridge’s office today?”

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 10

With Malice, Beasts Will Show Their Fangs

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

“Your Incarcerous Spell is really coming along,” Harry says sincerely.

Michael bites his lip, flushes red, then starts actually trembling.

Anthony rolls his eyes. “Oh, just say it.”

“I’ve got a great motivation,” Michael blurts. He winks at Harry. “I love seeing you tied up.”

“There it is,” Terry sighs. He turns away to mutter, “How he hasn’t figured out by now…”

Harry, apparently the only one not to see the comment coming from a mile away, fights the warming of his cheeks. “Ha ha,” he says drily. “Now is one of you going to let me go or am I going to have to do it myself?”

“I mean-” starts Michael.

Anthony groans. “I’ve got you, Harry. Diffindo.” The measured Severing Charm cuts through the ropes binding Harry, allowing him back up.

Michael pouts. “Aw. Spoilsport.”

“What you do on your own time is your own business,” Anthony says. “But not in front of me, please.”

“It’s just teasing!” Michael protests. “It’s not as if I’m snogging him.”

Harry ducks his head. His face feels glowing hot in his hands as he hides it.

“Yes, but this is you. Give an inch…”

Michael narrows his eyes. “Rude. Fair, but rude.”

“Anyway,” Terry says, “I want to practice the Patronus Charm a little more. I suspect it’ll be useful come Saturday.”

“Sure,” says Harry, trying to get past Michael flirting(?) with him and how that makes him feel.

As the two go off to work on Terry’s patronus, Michael asks Anthony, “So, was it really Ginny who mucked up so bad that Dumbledore had to flee the school?”

“My understanding is that it’s really more Hermione and Ron,” answers Anthony. “Although rumor has it that Ginny is the one who came up with the name for their little club.”

“Dumbledore’s Army,” Michael snorts. “So pretentious.”

Harry chuckles. “I’m glad I don’t have to go to class with the Defense teacher that inspired two secret Defense clubs just to get around her teaching.”

“No surprise who got caught, innit?” says Michael.

“Oh, don’t blame them,” Terry says. “From what I gathered, Umbridge used Veritaserum on Edgecombe. It’s not like they were reckless about it.”

“Reckless enough for Umbridge to use Veritaserum, though,” counters Michael. “If they really wanted it to be a secret, they shouldn’t have let her suspect anything.”

“Their first meeting was in the Hog’s Head,” Anthony says with a roll of his eyes. “I was invited, but I wasn’t stupid enough to go. Padma went, though, because Parvati asked her to. She didn’t join because they thought the Hog’s Head was a secure meeting place. Neither of us knew they actually continued to meet after Umbridge banned clubs, though.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Such Gryffindors.”

“Oi!” Harry protests weakly. He has to defend his house even if he can see their point.

Michael just grins and tosses an arm over his shoulder pressing their cheeks close together. “Don’t worry, Harry! You’re an honorary eagle.”

Harry lets out a vaguely offended squeak. “I like being a Gryffindor!”

“But if you’re in Ravenclaw, we get to sleep together.” Michael winks. Harry’s face burns and he finds he can no longer meet Michael’s eye.

“I’ve got a question,” Anthony says, saving Harry from having to respond to that. “When Harry is readmitted, will he be resorted? Technically, he’ll be entering as a new student again.”

“Oh, God.” Harry balks at the thought of having to go through the sorting again next year. “What if the hat puts me in Slytherin like it wanted to the first time?”

“That would be very funny. I’d put bets on you killing Malfoy before Christmas.” Michael giggles. “But I’m still rooting for Ravenclaw.” He ruffles Harry’s hair. “I’ll miss my Tiger if you’re in a different dorm.”

Harry, flustered but shaking off Michael’s hand, frowns. “No offense, but I really don’t fancy my chances getting past that door knocker every day. Half the time you guys give your answers and I still don’t get it.”

“Oh, it’s easy once you get the hang of it,” Terry says. “First years are always like that. You just got to remember that your answer doesn’t have to be ‘right’ as such. It just has to be well reasoned.”

Harry hums, unconvinced. “Hufflepuff might be okay, though.”

“I can see it,” Anthony says. “You’d be a good puff.”

“Although if you do get in Slytherin,” adds Michael. “I could make sure the door still recognizes you and you could just sleep in our dorm, anyway. Get away from Malfoy that way.”

That can work. If Harry does end up in Slytherin, he’ll probably have to take advantage of it. “Can you really hoodwink the door into thinking I’m still a pet?”

“Well, no, not at the moment, but I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“Or you can just learn to answer the riddles,” Terry teases. “Then you can get in anyway.”

“Or I can just get in Gryffindor again.” Harry sticks out his tongue at the boys. “Though,” he adds, glancing at Michael with a secret smile tugging at his lips, “if we can trick the door into thinking I’m still a pet… I might still sneak by sometimes.”

Michael beams brilliantly. (Terry rolls his eyes and Anthony pretends to gag. Harry pretends not to notice them.)

-----

Saturday evening is Michael’s detention with Umbridge, and their time limit. On Thursday, Terry comes to them, beaming wide, with news of his breakthrough. That leaves them all of Friday to go over the details of their plan and ensure everyone is ready to go.

The first step, the public part, is set for lunch. With help from Fred and George, who need only be told that there’s a prank ready for Umbridge to be on board, Michael sets the stage earlier that morning.

Their group enters the Great Hall in pairs and sit far apart at the table. At the staff table, Umbridge sits in Dumbledore’s regal chair, smiling demurely out over her tea at the students trying to enjoy their lunch.

McGonagall is also present, as well as Flitwick and the Astronomy teacher Professor Sinistra, but Harry doesn’t think any of them will say anything even if they do notice.

They all eat, casing the place as they do, clocking where everyone is, what might get in their way… and then Terry further down the table rises, makes an excuse to Padma, and leaves the Great Hall.

Showtime.

(Terry strides purposefully across the viaduct bridge towards the Central Hall. He debates for a long time whether to make his way to the Defense Tower through this path or via the Grand Staircase, but ultimately this way bypasses the common rooms, especially Gryffindor. While it isn’t likely that Ron or Hermione on their way to or from their common room during the lunch period will catch Terry with the Marauder’s Map, they’re the only ones who will recognize it without him activating it. Which he refuses to do until he’s significantly closer to his destination and in a much less crowded part of the castle.

He palms at the parchment in his pocket, but his face and stride give nothing away. He looks as if he is merely heading to the library.

Once he reaches the Transfiguration Courtyard, which borders the Defense Tower, he ducks into a locked side door near where he enters and takes the opportunity to check the map.

He walks quickly, but the castle isn’t small. He won’t have much more grace before all those names in the Great Hall start going wild.

Terry closes his eyes and takes a breath. If he wants to look like he belongs, he just needs to act like it. He takes one last look at the map, at the path before him, then squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, and glides right back into the Transfiguration Courtyard, turning towards the Defense Tower.

A group of sixth-years move out of his way as he enters the building. His determination and confidence all but forcing them to step aside. Because he is driven, consumed, by one thought and one thought alone. The only appropriate response, in his mind, to the torture Umbridge puts Michael through regularly for months now.

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.)

Harry snakes between and around the legs of the Ravenclaw students at their table, working towards the staff table. Michael stands and walks brazenly in the same direction. With everyone’s eyes on him, Harry slips between the tables. The students can see him here beneath the staff table, at least some of them, but they’re all watching, transfixed, on Michael walking straight up to Umbridge.

“Good day, Professor,” Michael greets plainly.

“Mr. Corner,” simpers Umbridge. “I trust you are well?”

Michael subtly thumbs the back of his hand, where the bandages remain. Umbridge’s eyes dart down to the covered wound and flash with vicious satisfaction. “Could be better,” he says. “Fudge Flies?”

Umbridge blinks, quite taken aback by the sudden question. Even the other professors at the table, sitting as far from Umbridge as is polite, share dumbfounded looks. Michael just casually digs into his bag and pulls out a bag of Fudge Flies from Honeydukes to hold out to her.

Harry fights to contain himself. The silence is so awkward. Only Michael can just stand there nonchalantly as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

But Harry has to get into position. He moves closer to Professor Flitwick, finding the tool that Michael sticks to the bottom of the staff table. Very carefully, he grabs it in his teeth.

“I thought they’d be your favorite,” Michael says innocently. “Might be wrong. Not sure where I got that from, honestly.”

There are a few muffled snickers from students picking up on him mocking Umbridge’s squat, fat, toad-ish appearance, though no one dares laugh loudly enough to break the tense hush that blankets the hall.

Sweetly, Umbridge says, “No, thank you.” Ugh. Her whole schtick makes Harry want to gag. He doesn’t know how any of the students of Hogwarts, but especially Michael, puts up with it for more than a day. “Did you need to speak with me about something?”

Michael shrugs. “Not really?” He tosses the bag of Fudge Flies in his hand like a baseball. “I just thought it time I made a… peace offering. You sure you don’t like Fudge Flies?”

“A peace offering?” Umbridge repeats. She lets out a single, pitchy little puff of a laugh. “Do you think me a fool, Mr. Corner? We will need to speak in your detention this evening about lying to your professors. It’s clear the message hasn’t… sunken in.”

Michael blinks dumbly. “What? No, really, I was just offering you some Fudge Flies. Don’t know why you’re so paranoid. I mean- no, I know why. It’s because you suck, no one likes you, and every soul in this castle rightly wants to see you humiliated, maimed, and thrown out.”

Flitwick chokes on his pumpkin juice. McGonagall has to pat his back to help him recover. Harry uses the opportunity to leave the safety of the underside of the table, carrying his chosen weapon out to sit patiently behind the staff table, behind Umbridge’s tall chair, so that only the students on the very far corners can really see him, and the staff can’t at all unless they turn around.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m not being sincere right now,” Michael finishes with another shrug.

“Twenty points from Ravenclaw,” Umbridge says tightly. “You will show respect to your teachers.”

“I do respect my teachers!” Michael protests. “Professor Flitwick loves me! Isn’t that right, Professor?”

Flitwick, still trying to clear his lungs of pumpkin juice, is saved from involving himself in this by Umbridge coughing pointedly. “All of your teachers, Mr. Corner. You seem incapable of showing respect to myself.”

“Well teach me something, then, and I’ll respect you as a teacher,” Michael responds. He doesn’t raise voice, doesn’t even sound petulant. The students at the far end of the hall, which is many as they all desire to be as far from Umbridge as possible for their meals, lean in to try to hear the conversation. “Until then, I’ll respect you as what you’re acting like.”

Umbridge smiles indulgently. “And what might that be?”

“A fraud, obviously.”

���Another twenty points,” says Umbridge demurely, “and I suppose I’ll have to extend tonight’s detention. Another smart remark and you’ll be having detention for the next week.”

“I can’t help being smarter than you,” Michael says, and now he does sound petulant. “I’m trying, but you set the bar so low-”

“That is quite enough!” Umbridge barks suddenly. She rises from her chair, which once more does nothing for her because she is so short. She places each of her stubby hands on the table and leans over it, getting closer to Michael, and hisses, “If you do not have a legitimate reason to be bothering the staff at lunch, I would recommend returning to your own table.”

Michael pauses, blinks as if he’s just remembering his actual reason for being there, and then says, “Oh, yeah, I did have a real reason.”

Everyone in the entire hall leans in with bated breath.

“Tiger got hold of a Fanged Frisbee,” Michael says. His lips curl into a smug smirk at the baffled look on Umbridge’s face. “I thought I’d be a responsible pet owner and warn you to duck.”

“Excuse me?”

Harry heaves the Fanged Frisbee in his mouth with all the might in his feline body and lets it fly. The enchantments on the thing to ensure it doesn’t stop flying means the moment Harry lets go, it’s off like a comet. It zooms to one side of the staff table as if to line them up and, in one graceful, deadly line, flies straight for the professors’ heads.

Little Professor Flitwick needn’t even duck, but Professors McGonagall and Sinistra both hit the deck. The frisbee takes off the pointed end of McGonagall’s tall witch’s hat.

Umbridge shrieks and throws herself to the side, narrowly avoiding the fanged projectile.

Michael, cool as a cucumber, uses the moment of panic to slip a small vial from his sleeve and empty the contents into Umbridge’s tea. Harry steals off back into the crowd of students at the tables, finding Anthony, to watch the rest of the proceedings.

Unfortunately, but predictably, the Fanged Frisbee is a short-lived prank. Umbridge recovers from the surprise, then draws her wand and stops the thing short before it can jump into the crowd of students.

She sniffs, adjusts her pink blouse, and floats the frisbee back to the table, where she sets it down. Retaking her seat and her composure, Umbridge levels her best disappointed teacher look at Michael. “Fanged Frisbees are banned items at Hogwarts,” she says. “Fifty points, and detention next week. The usual time will do.”

Michael sighs. “After I went out of my way to warn you and everything. I am responsible for Tiger, so I’ll take the detentions, but you got to admit fifty points is extreme.”

“Don’t keep digging, Mr. Corner,” Umbridge says. “For your own sake.”

“Fine, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Take the Fudge Flies, though. As an apology for my cat. He does like to do things like that.”

When Umbridge merely stares at him, Michael just tosses the bag of Fudge Flies onto the staff table in front of her and turns to go back to his seat.

The tense atmosphere in the room slowly starts to abate. The confrontation is past, Michael is walking away. It will be okay. Nothing more to gossip about.

Umbridge glares at his back for a few seconds, then hums and takes a sip of her tea.

Michael, who watches Anthony and Harry to get his timing just right, catches Anthony’s smirk and the new wagging of Harry’s tail and glances back over his shoulder.

There’s a hush. Everyone wonders if Michael will add one more thing – lose some more points in parting. But Michael just grins widely at Umbridge, winks, and turns back to the doors.

(Terry slides up to the Defense office undetected. With a glance to the map to ensure no wandering students will catch him, he draws his wand. “Alohomora.”

There’s no clunk of the lock coming undone. The spell doesn’t work. The door is warded against the unlocking charm, then. Not surprising, but there’s no sense putting in so much more effort if the simple answer works.

Terry kneels so that the lock is at eye level. An interesting side effect, Terry deduces, from wizards using magic to enhance their locks, is that they never bother upgrading their locks to the more complicated mechanical ones that muggles have nowadays.

Typically, this isn’t a problem, because wizards also don’t have an ounce of logic and don’t realize that it’s possible to get around a lock with anything but a key or an unlocking spell, which can, like Umbridge’s door, be protected against.

“Single lever,” Terry murmurs. “Revelio. Hm. Magic is on the lever, not the bolt.” And that’s the trick. Because the Unlocking Spell targets the lever, the standard Alohomora ward is also placed on the lever of locks like these, preventing it from lifting regardless of magical or mechanical influence. That means that if Terry is to bypass it, he needs merely to target the bolt, and ignore the lever entirely.

He considers shrinking it, but on something already so small he doesn’t want to risk shrinking it too much and not being able to accurately target it to enlarge it again when he’s ready to leave. It’s already difficult to target his spells at something so precise and mostly obscured from view, anyway. “Spongify.”

And this works just as well. The bolt softens with his spell, turning rubbery and malleable, and Terry can simply pull the door open without undoing the lock at all, as the bolt bends then springs back into place once it passes through the doorframe.

Terry disillusions himself, wary of the kitten plates hung up in Umbridge’s office. He sees her with a brooch often, that sometimes has a kitten on it, and he suspects it lets her know if anything is happening here. She should be effectively distracted at the moment, but a little extra caution doesn’t hurt.

“Vermillious,” Terry breathes, and then he uses a first-year charm they’re taught to make a pineapple tap dance across their desk in order to make the red sparks dance around the room like little fairy lights.

That should keep the cats busy.

Still disillusioned so he’s not quite as obvious, he slips inside the Defense office. He makes straight for the desk drawer that Michael tells him about, where she always pulls that quill from, but when he reaches her desk, his eyes catch a form laid on top.

Approval for Whipping.

Terry’s stomach drops. He has to shut his eyes to fight the nausea. Filch threatens them and waxes poetic all the time about how much he wishes he were allowed to whip students as a punishment, but to actually allow it…

He swallows thickly, hardens his heart. No. It won’t get to that. It ends tonight. Terry turns urgently to the drawer that should have the quill and has to finesse his way through yet another lock before it opens for him.

But when he opens the drawer, it’s sitting right there. His target.

The nicer, more cautious part of Terry wants to just swipe it, maybe throw it in a fire. The more devious side of him reminds him that it’s evidence that she has it at all, regardless of how he’s about to tamper with it, and getting rid of it entirely will be counter-productive to their endgame, even if it will ensure Michael is safe from it at least for tonight.

He has to be wise about this. Besides, the third, roaring part of him rumbles sinister whispers that Umbridge deserves this and more, and if he gets rid of the quill, she won’t get her comeuppance.

Even if they do manage to force the Ministry’s hand to actually do something about her, there’s no way she’ll be punished like she should. Umbridge should learn that just because they’re children, that doesn’t mean they don’t have fangs.

So, Terry sticks to the plan. He doesn’t pick up the quill; he doesn’t even touch it. He just looks at it, examines it closely where it rests in the desk drawer, and starts casting a long and complicated spell to get rid of the threat.

When he finally sits back, wiping sweat from his invisible brow, he checks one last time to ensure that Umbridge won’t notice the curse on it is changed until it is too late, and then he shuts the drawer, cancels his spells to bypass the lock, slips out the door and lets his dancing red sparks fizzle out, then hardens the bolt on the lock behind him.

Finally cancelling the disillusionment charm, Terry checks the map. He’s got a clear shot if he leaves now. Once he’s out in the hall, he just needs to act like he belongs and no one will be the wiser.

Gliding along towards the Astronomy Tower and the Room of Requirement, where he plans to stash the map once more now that its purpose is served, Terry smirks.

That’s his job done. The rest is up to Anthony. Though Terry will soon have to find a way to watch one of the others’ memories of just what is happening in the Great Hall right now. That promises to be entertaining.)

Umbridge coughs. There’s an odd moment in the Great Hall where everyone wonders if she’s doing that thing where she’s trying to get their attention without saying so, despite every eye present but Michael’s being fixated on her in fear and morbid curiosity.

Then she sets her tea down, furrows her brow, presses a stumpy hand to her chest, and coughs again, a little rougher this time.

A Gryffindor quietly wonders if Michael finally just poisons her.

And then Umbridge croaks. A loud, ringing ribbit that might make the frog choir shed a tear. The obvious sign that it’s magically influenced is just how beautiful the note is.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Umbridge’s slow ribbits gain in momentum. She is utterly incapable of holding them back thanks to the modified mixture of the same Babbling Beverage they get Ron, Hermione, and Ginny with, and a classic, also modified, Honeydukes’ Elephant on a Bicycle, which is a sweet that enables the consumer to make animal noises.

Michael adds that brilliantly clever solution with an even more refined version of his own modified Ton-Tongue Toffee, and it isn’t long at all after Umbridge descends into uncontrollable croaking that her tongue engorges and extends in a slimy, pink, disgusting imitation of a frog.

The bag of Fudge Flies on the table in front of her begins to vibrate fiercely, then bursts open, releasing the Fudge Flies, which Michael charms like Chocolate Frogs, to zoom around Umbridge as if she’s a particularly tasty pile of dung. More than one flings itself onto the end of her disturbingly large tongue.

Scattered laughter begins to break out in the hall, but only for a second, because that’s the moment that Fred kicks the underside of the Gryffindor Table, hard. The echoing bang makes everyone jump, but the clatter just after forebodes what will happen in the next moment.

The smarter students pull their feet up onto their benches, and some even remember to rescue their bags. The sticking charms underneath all five tables give way, and the prank that they set up this morning hits the floor and bursts.

From all sides of the room, Portable Swamps spread, changing the entire Great Hall into a large bog. Students shout and clamber up onto their tables above the water that floods the whole hall. The putrid stench of swamp only makes Umbridge seem more toadish than ever as she’s caught in the murky water with her tongue out flailing at the Fudge Flies flitting around her head.

And then the bars of Frog-Spawn Soap, which are also stuck to the bottom of the tables, begin to work their magic.

One frog bursts from the water with a graceful ribbit. Then another, and then there’s an unholy splash as hundreds of the things begin jumping around all at once. Umbridge tries to shriek over the screaming of the students, but only manages more croaking and a furiously red face.

Michael, nearly at the door and perched smugly atop a mossy log, unbothered by the cacophony of frogs flooding his feet, flashes her one last grin and walks calmly out the door.

Fred and George make a spectacle of themselves, of course. They stand atop the Gryffindor table proudly, bowing dramatically, shouting things over the croaking frogs (including Umbridge) like, “If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated here today, come up to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley – Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Our new premises!”

Harry, thoroughly caught up in enjoying the sight of Umbridge’s fury, spares the thought that he’s happy for the twins. They want that shop for ages. They definitely deserve it.

Just like Umbridge deserves the entire hall laughing at her.

-----

Michael’s detention is upon them. All of them know that Umbridge wants to make this worse than any other. After Michael talks back to her, openly mocks her, and then so brazenly sets off that prank in the Great Hall, she has a lot to punish him for.

This is what they’re counting on, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t nervous about it. Especially after Terry tells them of the Approval for Whipping form he sees on Umbridge’s desk.

“Michael,” Terry warns. “You have to be very careful. We have to catch her with something she can’t get away with. If she’s even managed to get approval for corporal punishment, the bar is a lot higher than we thought it would be.”

“Than you thought it would be,” Michael responds. “Did you actually doubt that Fudge approved of her using that quill?” He scoffs. “No, he knows. Of course, he knows. This changes nothing. She was always going to try to hurt me.”

His voice is steady and confident, but he can’t hide the way his hands shake.

“Besides,” Anthony says, looking much closer to being as calm as his voice sounds. “Fudge might know, but Amelia Bones definitely doesn’t. She might not have the power to incarcerate them on that alone given Fudge’s approval and Umbridge’s position, but she can put a stop to it and force a review. All we need is to make sure her hands are tied until the end of the school year, then Dumbledore can hire a real teacher and the Ministry won’t be able to put her back in the position. Madam Bones can do that much easily.”

Terry growls. “And if, after today, she decides that whipping is a better punishment than that quill of hers? What’re you going to do, Michael? We’re counting on her using the quill!”

“She’ll use the quill,” says Michael. “You haven’t been in close contact with her as much as I have. Trust me, she’ll use the quill. The whipping is just for Filch; she wouldn’t get her hands dirty. She uses the quill because it makes me do it to myself.”

Anthony whimpers. “That’s barbaric.”

“That’s what people like her are like,” Harry says simply. “I trust Michael. She’ll use the quill. We should carry on with the plan.”

“I still think it’s too dangerous.” Terry runs a hand through his hair. “Michael, she’s out for your blood. Who knows how far she’ll take it?”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” says Michael. “You got to the quill; it won’t hurt me. And Anthony will be there for whatever she decides to do afterwards.”

Terry still worries his lip. “Are you sure I shouldn’t be there, too?”

“No. Anthony’s a prefect; it has to be him. And you’re the only one of us clever enough to run interference if Fudge comes along with Madam Bones. I need you at the gates.”

Terry curls his fingers into white-knuckled fists. “…Fine. Just be careful.”

Michael flashes a grin. “I’m always careful.”

That blatant lie is the furthest thing from comforting he can possibly say, but Terry only glares and heads off to his position, not wanting to argue further about it. Despite his misgivings, he does trust everyone to do their parts. He’s just worried about Michael being in the line of fire.

Michael sighs after him, shakes his head, then says, “I’ve got to go. Don’t wait too long, Anthony. I… don’t expect it’ll take long for her to recover.”

Michael turns to leave. Harry’s heart leaps to his throat. He can’t stop imagining all the horrible things Umbridge might do to him. “Michael!” he calls. Michael turns back to look at him. Harry doesn’t even really know what he stops him for, except maybe to delay the inevitable.

So, Harry gapes like a fish for a moment. His tongue is thick and stuck to the roof of his mouth. But eventually, he manages to say, “She’s going to regret it. We’ll make sure of it.”

Michael stares into Harry’s face. Something heavy settles between them. Then he nods. Michael leaves for his detention.

Anthony waits only just long enough for Michael to clear out of the corridor outside. “You heard him,” he says. “We don’t have much time. Let’s go.”

Harry shares a determined look with Anthony and shifts back into his cat form to follow at the prefect’s heels out of the Room of Requirement down to the library, where Terry informs them Susan Bones is engaging in a regular Saturday study session with some of her fellow Hufflepuffs.

Anthony marches up to the table where the Hufflepuffs lean over their books, whispering quietly about not the material, but the prank in the Great Hall earlier in the day that leaves the Great Hall still one large fetid swamp and forces dinner to be held elsewhere.

“Susan,” he says, tone sharp to convey urgency and importance, “can I talk with you?”

Susan sits up at attention, narrows her eyes just slightly, wondering why a prefect is taking that tone with her, but nods, whispers a parting to her friends, and follows Anthony out into Central Hall.

She allows Anthony to lead her in silence out to the Transfiguration Courtyard before she speaks up. “What’s this about?”

Anthony doesn’t break stride, too worried about taking too long to get to Michael to dare slowing, but he licks his lips and scowls, thinking over how to answer. “I’m worried about Michael,” he admits.

“He has detention with Umbridge right now, right?” Susan asks.

“Yes.” Anthony swallows thickly. “Which he earned, but… Susan, do you know what Umbridge does in her detentions? What she makes Michael do?”

Susan’s eyes are sharp as daggers. They narrow to a point. “I don’t,” she says. “Nothing I can prove.”

A deep breath. “For the past few months, every day he has detention he comes back to the dorm and we have to treat and wrap the wound he comes out with.”

Susan sucks in a breath through her teeth.

“She makes him write lines,” Anthony says carefully. “Carve them into the back of his own hand.” Susan loses all color as her eyes widen. “There have been times that I worried whether he’d make it back at all. I took to patrolling the path between Umbridge’s office and the common room just in case. And after what he pulled today…”

“You’re right to come to me,” Susan says firmly. “We’ll check on him.” She growls low in her chest, a fury in her eyes. “Umbridge has approval for things I know she shouldn’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s nothing we can do about her punishment. But we can be nearby, and if she takes it too far, then we can call my aunt. She can start an investigation if we have anything to work with. Might not pin her with anything, but it’ll stop her from doing it any more at least until the end of term.”

Anthony nods in agreement. “That’s my hope.”

-----

“Please, come in.” Umbridge is all saccharine with him, employing the calm superiority of someone who knows they have nothing to fear.

Michael barely suppresses the instinct to just go up to her and punch her in her stupid face.

“You’ve had quite a day, Mr. Corner,” she says, holding out her hand expectantly. Michael grits his teeth, but unwraps his hand and gives it to her to examine.

Her pudgy fingers press hard into the cuts on the back of his hand. The mess of flesh, once neat, straight lines spelling out a simple phrase, I must not tell lies, is now a parchment written over so many times that no individual line is legible anymore. It appears as though he simply takes that quill nib and violently gouges out the back of his hand rather than writes with it.

Michael winces as she presses on it, but Umbridge only hums, disappointment written across her face. “It appears you need reminding of what I have taught you in all these detentions.”

The second he’s released, he yanks his hand back into his own space. Uncharacteristically for him, even in these detentions, he says not a word. He just takes his seat, pulls out a piece of parchment that Tiger steals from some poor sod, and glares silently.

Umbridge giggles at him. “Oh? Nothing to say, Mr. Corner? Did you get it all out of your system in the Great Hall?”

Michael narrows his eyes. He follows her movements as she opens the desk drawer and pulls out the quill for him. Mostly, he watches her face. She’s focused on him, on savoring every micro-expression of fear from him. She doesn’t notice that anything has been tampered with.

“As a matter of fact,” Michael says, leading, “no, I didn’t. Did you like the Fudge Flies?”

The sharp click of the quill meeting his desk is, perhaps, a bit sharper than usual. Her slack face tightens. Michael hides his smirk. Oh, she intends to punish him worse than ever, that’s true. But that only means that he gets to her.

It means he wins.

“An old favorite today,” says Umbridge in her most dangerously sweet voice. “I want you to write, ‘I must respect my teachers’ and we’ll see how long it takes for it to sink in this time.”

Michael puts on his own sweetest voice, and it sounds about as sincere as Umbridge’s. “Of course, Professor Umbridge.”

He picks up the quill. He stares at it for a moment. He trusts Terry, but… this thing causes him so much pain. For so long… It’s hard just to get his fingers to wrap around it. Michael has trouble holding a normal quill these days – he teaches himself to be ambidextrous to get around it out of determination and a lot of spite – but this one is especially difficult.

He needs to close his eyes and take a breath. He knows that audible breath shudders, and he loathes the satisfaction on Umbridge’s face upon noticing it. He hates that he gives her anything, but he can’t stop himself from reacting entirely. He still flinches, still cries when the pain gets too much. It’s only worse every new detention as the quill carves into the open wound that still hasn’t healed.

But this time… this time he forgives himself for that moment of weakness. It’s the last one Umbridge will ever get from him.

He opens his eyes. He trusts Terry entirely. Terry says it’s done, so it’s done. Malice and determination fill Michael’s heart. They shove down the fear and toss it into a broom cupboard. All that work, all that pain… He lowers the quill, presses the nib to the parchment.

And scratches a long, quick line to the opposite corner of the page.

There’s a gross sort of splurting sound, and then Umbridge shrieks. Michael closes his eyes again, takes a breath to relish the sound.

He smells blood.

“What have you done?” Umbridge cries. “Impossible-! There’s no way you could have-!”

Michael looks up at her. He pretends not to notice the violent slash across the back of her hand, pretends not to appreciate that Terry must somehow actually superpower the curse on this thing because that looks more like a severing charm tries to take off her hand than the scratch a single line from the quill should cause. It’s effective on Michael because of repetition, not because the curse is particularly strong.

He pretends not to see any of it, doesn’t react at all except to smile at her, to bare his fangs at her, and say, “I’m sorry, Professor Umbridge. My hand slipped. But don’t worry, I’m writing.”

He touches the quill nib to the parchment once more. Umbridge lunges for him, snatches the thing out of his grasp. Her sliced-open hand comes closer. Michael catches a glimpse of the white of bone and can’t convince himself to feel the slightest bit guilty about it. He can’t even convince himself not to savor it as she savors every second of his pain. Plus, he’s used to seeing his own at this point. Any squeamishness is carved out of him long ago.

She deserves what she gets. Michael only regrets that it’s not worse.

Umbridge pants heavily. “You… you a crossed a line, boy. You think you can take me for a fool, do you?” She sniffs imperiously. Her wand is in her hand. She taps it against her other palm jerkily. But for Michael, the slow drip drip of her blood hitting the stone floor rings loud as a funeral bell, high over everything else.

“You know,” Umbridge whispers. “I really hate children.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Michael hisses. He drops all pretention, settling for a venomous glare.

“How did you do it?” Umbridge asks. “Tampering with a Ministry artefact-”

Michael just chuckles. “I’m smarter than you. Remember?”

Umbridge trembles fiercely, incandescent, and begins to pace. Her chest heaves with rage and frustration and pain. “There’s no way a fifth-year child can alter the enchantments on an artefact like this,” she mutters, then demands once again, “How did you do it? Who helped you? It had to have been one of the staff – sneaking around in my office – hm! Well? Which is it? Was it Minerva McGonagall? So annoyingly loyal to that crackpot Albus Dumbledore…”

“Of course, not,” Michael answers. “I did it myself.” It takes a lot of planning and a lot of research and a lot of trial and error to achieve what Umbridge says is impossible, but Michael and his friends are clever and stubborn and they do it. “It wasn’t even that hard.”

“Liar!” shouts Umbridge. Her face tightens as she takes a breath to control her rage. “You, Mr. Corner, have been a continuous thorn in my side… you refuse to learn… I have- tried- to help you. But it seems as if I am left with no other choice. I will. Have. Order!”

“You will have,” says Michael lowly, “everything that you deserve.”

Umbridge straightens up, levels her wand at him. Michael’s breath catches. He prays silently.

“Tell me which of the staff is trying to undermine me in my school,” Umbridge growls, “and I will consider being lenient just this once.”

Michael snorts. “Didn’t I already tell you professor? All of them. Not a soul likes you, and not a soul wants you here. Even your pet Slytherins don’t really like you, they just enjoy the power you give them, so they tolerate you. Given half a chance, even Binns would toss you out like the washed-up old refuse you are.”

“Which one of them did it?” shrieks Umbridge.

“I did.”

“Do not lie to me!”

“What’re you going to do?” Michael asks, knowing the answer isn’t one he wants to hear. “Make me write lines?”

Umbridge stills very suddenly. “Very well…” she mutters. “Very well. I am left with no alternative. You are forcing me, Corner… I do not want to.” She moves again, restlessly shifting on the spot. “But sometimes the circumstances justify the use… I am sure the Minister will understand that I had no choice…”

Michael gulps thickly. It’s all he can do to hold his ground and not flee in terror.

“But you are falling down a revolting path, Mr. Corner,” she says softly. “And the teacher that tampered with my quill could yet be an ally of the dangerous criminal Albus Dumbledore. It is – necessary – that I discover their identity at all costs.”

There’s a nasty, eager look on her face that Michael never sees before. She raises her wand again, pointing it at different parts of Michael’s body in turn, as if deciding where will hurt the most.

“The Cruciatus Curse ought to loosen your tongue, and perhaps finally teach you some discipline.”

Even though Michael swears not to give her a single reaction more out of him, this throws that out the window. He pales, his chest tightens painfully as if he’s already under the curse. He’s paralyzed in horror, seeing the gleeful, eager glint in her eyes.

The Cruciatus Curse. Michael knows Harry suffers under it before. He knows allying himself with Harry will put him in the path of Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and there’s a possibility he will be subject to it eventually. He just never expects it here. Despite everything Umbridge does, he never expects her to be willing to do something so blatantly illegal. Something not even Fudge can just sign off approval for.

There is a silver lining, though. They have to catch her with something that she can’t get away with. If she casts that spell…

Michael wrestles every instinct in his body that screams to run, to flee and hide. Instead, he lifts his defiant gaze to hers. Harry suffers it, once. Michael can be that strong, too.

Umbridge cries, “Crucio!”

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 9

Served Cold

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Harry can already tell how everything is going to come together. He knows what Michael is working on, after all. Every tool he adjusts for their purposes is just another part of the whole.

The modification of the prank products is almost entirely Michael. He enjoys taking things apart, figuring out how they work, and reconstructing them. But the idea is Harry’s.

And Terry’s idea is even better. More vicious by far, and he and Harry both predict that someone will need to be outside to intervene when it’s discovered – which is half the point – but way better.

Harry hopes he can pull it off. Terry and Michael spend many sleepless nights on the problem while Harry is busy getting occlumency lessons with Anthony. In Michael’s own words, what he and Terry are attempting makes dismantling and repurposing Fred and George’s prank products look like squeezing a flobberworm by comparison.

In fact, it’s so difficult that when Michael first considers it, right after he starts getting detentions with Umbridge, he only just starts his research before he determines it too difficult to pull off. But that is before he has access to the rare tomes in the Room of Requirement and before he has Terry to work together with. He’s determined now that he can do it.

But that’s soon. First is the easy part, the gentler part. First is to punish those who do not deserve worse. Those whose only crimes are listening to someone with far more power than them.

First is the punishment they can pursue without malice.

It is for this purpose that Harry slinks through the Hogwarts grounds, avoiding students. He creeps along the walls and the tree line to stay out of sight right up until he makes it to Hagrid’s garden.

Harry is somewhat ashamed to admit that he doesn’t really notice that Hagrid isn’t here for most of the year thus far. He notes Hagrid’s absence on the first day, of course, when Professor Grubbly-Plank takes the first-years across the lake and does the anti-allergen charm on him and the other pets, but he doesn’t otherwise have any reason to come out this far. Harry thinks about him as he does Ron and Hermione, but since he never sees Hagrid in the halls on a normal day, it doesn’t occur to him to think twice about never encountering the man.

So, it is a surprise when, as he and Michael plot when and where to strike, Harry learns that Hagrid only just recently comes back to the castle. Harry spends some time eavesdropping after that and learns through a hushed conversation between Ron and Hermione that Hagrid was out doing something for Dumbledore.

Because of course it comes back to him.

Well, it doesn’t matter. Hagrid’s is the perfect opportunity.

Initially, Harry and Michael want to make it public, but the only reasonable place to do that is the Great Hall, and they don’t want to show their hand before they get to the main event. And since they’re altogether more forgiving to these three than the others, anyway, they decide it’s fine if they get off a little lighter.

“Well, ‘ello there!” Hagrid’s booming voice is more welcome than Harry expects it to be. He wants to grin and laugh just seeing the man again. He really wants to change back, give him a big hug, and talk about everything over tea.

Unfortunately, Hagrid can’t keep a secret to save his life, so there’s no way Harry can do that. He makes a promise to himself, though. Next year, when he’s readmitted to Hogwarts, it’s the first thing he’ll do.

“I ain’t seen you aroun’ before,” Hagrid says, bending down to give Harry the gentlest of pets, mindful of his terrible strength. “And what’s tha’ you got there?”

The moment Hagrid starts to reach for the small leather cylinder attached to Harry’s collar, Harry goes from placid and friendly to hissing in warning. That’s the most difficult part about the plan: subtly carrying the prank in.

But Hagrid is so pure and so good, he just chuckles and leaves the collar be. It’s not his business to get into what students make their pets carry, even if a cat with something like that is unusual.

When Harry’s charge is safe, he goes right back to being a friendly, affectionate cat. He rubs against Hagrid’s legs, meows adorably, trying to convince the man to bring him inside and feed him.

And this is Hagrid, after all, so of course, that’s exactly what he does. He picks Harry up, cooing all the while, and plops him on the table inside, then he putters about until he’s laying a dish of cream there for him.

Yeah, Harry loves Hagrid. He laps at the cream eagerly, only just mindful enough to remember he has to take his time.

He can’t finish too quickly and risk being put back out before showtime, after all.

But he needn’t worry about that. Michael plans this well ahead of time. He knows exactly when Hermione, Ron, and Ginny are going to be there.

As predicted, it’s only a few minutes before the three arrive. Hagrid welcomes them in and puts on some tea for them, and Harry sticks his tongue out, placidly mocking the three when they glower at him.

Someone isn’t over what Harry does in the Gryffindor Common Room at the start of the year, it seems. Good thing that’s not his problem. Although that does raise a good point. Harry should go back to that room of hidden things and retrieve the map. It will help Terry a lot for his part of the endgame. The invisibility cloak would be helpful, too, if only Harry takes it when he has the chance. It’s too bad, but there’s no way to get that back just yet.

He makes a mental note to bring Michael to the map when he can.

But he has his targets in front of him, and his timing has to be right. He can’t see anything, but he knows Michael is disillusioned outside the wobbly windows, waiting for his cue, and Harry has to be ready to go.

None of the Gryffindors say anything about Harry being there. It’s obvious they’re all suspicious of him, but Hagrid taking in one of the cats to feed it some cream is just so normal and expected that they don’t really question his presence.

Hagrid pours their tea, asking hesitantly if they’ve heard anything about Harry Potter’s whereabouts. Harry aches to worry him, but he knows Hagrid will just be happy that he’s safe, even if safe means Hagrid himself doesn’t know.

But this is his moment. While the tea is poured but still on the tray on the table with him. Hagrid is just about to pick up the tray when there’s a knock at the door.

“Now, who might tha’ be?” Hagrid says, abandoning the tray to answer the door.

While Hagrid turns his back, Harry carefully eyes the three Gryffindors. All are turning to see who’s at the door themselves, so Harry slowly paws at the cylinder attached to his collar, never taking his eyes from the students who might turn back to him at any second.

“Hey, Professor Hagrid!” Michael chirps.

Harry drops his paw. As he expects, when the others realize it’s Michael at the door, they all glance back to him.

“Can I blow up a pumpkin?”

All three Gryffindor heads whip back to the door. Harry suppresses a snort; he immediately starts working on getting the lid off the case attached to his collar.

“Now what would you want to do tha’ for?” Hagrid asks.

Michael shrugs. “Seems like fun. I need to practice the Exploding Charm, anyway, and you know how Umbridge feels about us using our wands for anything but- well, actually, for anything.” He shakes his head. “There aren’t a lot of places to practice a spell like that without making a scene, so I thought, maybe Professor Hagrid would be willing to let me use a pumpkin or two for target practice.”

Harry silently gets the cap off, lets it dangle by the small strip of cord keeping it attached to the case, and quickly tips a small amount of the contents into each of the three cups of steaming tea.

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” Hagrid says awkwardly, not wanting to let down a student. “Umbridge already ain’t happy wi’ me. I’m sorry, but I don’ think I can afford to draw her attention.”

Harry tries to make eye contact to let Michael know he’s done.

“Aw, that’s alright,” says Michael. He looks inside, then, acting as if he only just notices Harry there, and shouts, “Oh, Tiger!”

Bold as brass, Michael shoves past Hagrid’s massive width, pushing inside to scoop up Harry and hold him to his chest. Harry nuzzles in close, purrs happily, and otherwise just makes a show of being back with his owner. All the while snickering to himself, just waiting for the fireworks.

“Anyway, thanks Professor,” Michael says. “I knew it was a long shot. I don’t want to get you in trouble, either, so really, don’t worry about it. See you later?”

Hagrid beams. “I’ll see you in class, Mr. Corner! Have a good day, now!”

Michael takes them both out the door then, when it shuts, quickly looks around and disillusions the both of them so they can peek in the window without being seen.

Hagrid returns to the Gryffindors, grabbing the tray from the table to bring them each their tea. Michael and Harry wear matching, invisible grins as they all take a sip nearly simultaneously, politely trying it as soon as it’s in their hands.

“Strange,” they hear Hermione comment, “it’s unusual for Michael to whackle mapple-” Her eyes go wide. Michael lets the disillusionment drop. Hermione sees him first, but all three Gryffindors lock onto him in a second. “BABBLING BABBLE ZABBLE BABBLE YABBLE!” Hermione roars. “Pabble pibble babble... babble... babbling beverage..."

Ron and Ginny both surge to their feet alongside their friend. In seconds, nonsense starts spouting from their lips, too, until the whole hut is a cacophony of the three’s uncontrollable babbling.

Serves them right. They want to hedge so much, never telling Harry or Michael anything of significance… Now they know how they sound. It’s all just a bunch of babbling nonsense.

Michael holds up a hand. Harry gives him a high five. Hagrid tries to calm the three as Hermione furiously stomps for the door, but Harry and Michael aren’t worried. Hermione never makes it there.

She only takes two steps before her babbling is finally interrupted by her tongue growing large, fat, and purple pushing out a foot past her lips.

A clever deconstruction and combination of a babbling beverage and one of Fred and George’s Ton-Tongue Toffees. That’s what Harry has in the canister attached to his collar, and what he spikes their tea with.

He chokes on a much too human laugh at the look on the three faces when they realize what’s happening, smugly lifts his head so that they can all see plainly the now-open canister on his neck, and then turns and licks Michael’s cheek because wow he is amazing.

In such a short time he manages to reverse-engineer Fred and George’s sweet and combine it to play nice with the babbling beverage. Michael is brilliant!

Speaking of brilliant, Michael grins at the three, winks at Ginny, and trots off before they can figure out how to shrink their tongues and come after him.

“I’d call that a success,” Michael giggles. Harry licks him again, which this time makes Michael flush scarlet. “What do you say, Tiger… on to the next?”

Oh yes. The nice prank is over and done with. Now… it’s those Ravenclaw bullies’ turn.

-----

Michael’s hand strokes the length of Harry’s spine. It makes him shiver. Feels good.

“An eye for an eye,” mutters Michael, glaring at Felicity Eastchurch and Latisha Randle who emerge from the girls dorm staircases.

Harry, who gets quite good at swiping things as he builds up his stash in that bathtub in the storage room further down in the tower, stalks the two girls out of the dormitory, following them down to breakfast.

Michael lets him go. Rather than follow himself, he peels off to the Room of Requirement, where his trump card is finally ready.

It’s funny, really. In second year and fourth Snape has those ingredients stolen from him. Snape accuses Harry of stealing them last year. Yet it’s not until this year that it’s actually him. One would think Snape would get better security on his ingredient stores. This is a trend.

It’s also a little surprising that Michael, who will do just about anything to make someone else do his Potions homework, is unflinchingly confident that he can brew such a complicated potion. But then, Harry figures out a long time ago that Michael doesn’t beg off Potions because he’s not good at it. He just doesn’t like the class, and therefore doesn’t want to put any effort into it.

Harry can’t blame him. Snape is the teacher, after all.

The girls get to the Great Hall to eat. Harry darts under the Ravenclaw table. Obscured by the benches, all he needs to do to stay hidden is dodge the feet.

Thankfully, the girls don’t go too far down. He sneaks up by them and silently noses open the bags they put on the floor at their feet.

Ah, yes, Felicity’s mirror. This is the thing Harry finds way back when. Harry can’t take most of this stuff in their bags because he does not have hands and will need to carry it all the way back up to Ravenclaw tower without being seen which is… impractical.

But what he can do is sow some discord. No honor amongst thieves, right? And a tooth for a tooth.

Felicity laughs at something Latisha says. She kicks out with a foot. Harry only just manages to jump out of the way without dropping the mirror. (He valiantly resists the urge to bite her.) But he snakes around to the other side of their legs, drops the mirror into Latisha’s bag, and doubles back to dig once more through Felicity’s bag.

Terry settles onto the bench across from the girls. Harry, after sneaking Felicity’s inkpot from her bag to Terry’s, jumps into his lap and makes himself comfortable to watch the spectacle.

“You guys,” says Terry, “and your little posse need to stop.”

The girls seem genuinely confused. “Stop what?” asks Latisha.

“Stealing from the fourth-year,” Terry answers simply.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Felicity says just a little too quickly. “We haven’t stolen anything.”

Terry hums derisively. “Sure. I don’t expect you to admit anything. I’m just letting you know that you’re seen. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed you coming out of your dorms with that fourth-year’s things.” He glances pointedly between them, then adds, “Or more.”

The girls share a look. “What do you mean more?” Latisha asks. There’s an edge to her voice, a fear, that makes Harry think she actually does steal from more than just Luna. Not that it surprises him. Someone willing to steal from someone has no reason to limit it to just one person. Luna’s uniqueness is an excuse, and someone like Latisha Randle or Felicity Eastchurch is just looking for one.

Terry shrugs off the question. “There’s no point in flinging accusations you’ll only deny,” he answers. “But if I were you, I’d put a stop to it. People are watching. I’m only one of them.”

All at once, as the girls are trying their best to hide their panic, Terry gets up from the bench, putting Harry on the table as he goes. No one looks twice at Michael’s cat. The fools. “Well, then,” Terry says cheerfully. “That’s all I wanted to say. Have a good day, girls.”

Terry leaves, Harry stays to witness what comes next. The warning is given, but the hammer is already falling. Harry doesn’t know if the girls will listen to Terry’s warning, but it’s too late to stop their punishment, regardless. Too bad for the poor bullies and thieves.

“What did he mean by that?” Felicity hisses to her friend.

“How should I know?” growls Latisha. Her eyes go wide. “Do you think Flitwick knows?”

“If he did, we’d be in his office right now.” Felicity takes a breath. “It’s just bluster. Maybe he did see something, but Terry Boot is a coward – he’d never rat on us.”

Harry resists the simultaneous urge to laugh, scoff, and bite her for saying something like that about Harry’s friend. Terry is no coward, that’s for sure. He’s not the Gryffindor kind of “run in guns blazing” kind of brave, but he’s the one preparing for arguably the most dangerous part of their master plan to get Umbridge. He volunteers for it. He plans for it.

No, what Terry Boot is, is clever. These girls never stand a chance. Because he doesn’t hold their feet to the fire and embarrass them publicly for their crimes like Harry and Michael want to do. He just plants a seed. He scares them a little, shakes them just enough for the seed to sink into their earth. And then, he walks away.

Felicity, flustered and in need of some primping, reaches into her bag for her mirror. She gropes around for a while, then pulls the bag up onto her lap to search more thoroughly, then lets out a frustrated growl, “Ugh! And my mirror is missing again!”

But she lets it go, and the pair of them eventually head off to class, and Harry wags his tail smugly. He’s not a patient person, but he has to admit there is a certain artistry to Terry’s idea. There’s an anticipation that he can easily get drunk on.

…Even so, he just wants it to blow up, already.

Harry follows the girls to their first class of the day: Charms. They both hesitate and show their nerves on their faces before the door, knowing their head of house is beyond and still holding Terry’s warning in their heads. But they can’t put it off forever, so the girls eventually do get inside.

Felicity, realizing that she “forgets” her inkpot, asks Latisha to borrow some ink, and since the girls are friends since first-year and very close, it’s perfectly natural for Latisha to just allow her to find the inkpot in her bag herself.

(Terry knows this, of course. When he’s brought into the plan for this, he watches them, he talks to the people they talk to, takes just so many notes. Harry knows more about Felicity Eastchurch and Latisha Randle now than he knows about Ron and Hermione. All their habits, their routines, Terry marks it all down over the course of a week. “To account for variance,” he says. Michael very fondly calls him a nerd.)

But of course, what does Felicity find in Latisha’s bag but her own mirror?

“That’s what he meant…” Felicity mutters in disbelief.

“Hm? What’s up?” Latisha asks, unaware.

“You didn’t just steal from Loony… You stole from me, too!”

Latisha startles, completely taken aback by the accusation. “Wha-? No! I would never-”

Felicity brandishes her mirror like a weapon, showing it off to her (soon to be former) friend. “You forgot to hide the evidence this time! I bet I didn’t lose it that first time either. I think you took it and you lost it! What else have you taken from me?” She gasps, then roars, “Was it you who took my pearl earrings?”

(…Doesn’t Harry have pearl earrings in his stash?)

Latisha snaps back. “What are you talking about? I’ve never taken anything of yours! I don’t know how that got there; you must have just put it in the wrong bag earlier. And I don’t appreciate being accused of being a thief!”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “Please. You had no problem stealing Loony’s things. Why should I believe you’d keep your hands off mine?”

“Because you’re not a freak? Or at least, I thought you weren’t…” Latisha trails off purposely, the insult in the implication.

“This is what Terry was talking about. He saw you taking my things! That’s what he meant about you coming out with more than just Loony’s stuff! I can’t believe you’d do this to me!”

“I didn’t! Come on, you’re acting totally craz-”

“I am not crazy!”

“Girls!”

Both girls go suddenly quiet at the interruption to their argument. Professor Flitwick, in the doorway as he enters midway through, levels a furious glare at the both of them. “Ms. Eastchurch,” snaps Flitwick. “Ms. Randle. Did I hear that correctly? You are the ones taking Ms. Lovegood’s things and hiding them throughout the castle?”

“Professor Flitwick! I swear I didn’t-”

“It’s just a prank, really, we didn’t mean anything-”

Flitwick holds up a hand to silence them. “Detention. With me, Saturday at three. And fifty points from each of you. Bullying is not tolerated in Hogwarts, am I understood?”

Both girls, wilting under their professor’s ire and now under the cruel glares of all the rest of the Ravenclaws who witness them toss a hundred house points out like yesterday’s garbage, hang their heads and murmur, “Yes, Professor.”

And then, when Flitwick goes to start the lesson, they silently glare at each other. They both blame the other for getting them caught.

Harry takes off back to Ravenclaw Tower giggling to himself. It’s no babbling, ton-tongue beverage, but it’s still pretty darn good. Revenge doesn’t have to be flashy.

Of course, that’s only Terry’s part. Michael’s part…

Harry walks into the storage room where he keeps his stash to see Padma smugly twirling a small bag around by its tassels, allowing it to wrap around her fingers before whirling it the other way, unwinding and winding again.

“Hey, Tiger,” Michael, disguised as Padma, says with a wink. “I take it it went well?”

Harry rubs up against his legs then meows at him.

He chuckles darkly. “All too easy, bud.” He holds up the bag. “I’m actually kind of disappointed. It didn’t take any more than walking in and grabbing whatever’s not nailed down.” He rolls his eyes. “Actually, I’m mostly disappointed in the school. The protections keeping boys out of the girls’ dormitory can be bypassed with just Polyjuice Potion? Ridiculous. I thought for sure I’d have to get more creative than this. Have like five other plans that will never be used now. Such a shame.”

Harry huffs, wags his tail, and once he’s picked up, licks Padma’s face.

“Yeah, yeah.” Michael rolls his eyes. “Gift horse, I know. Got to say, though, it is… so weird having the other bits.” He shudders. “Do you think if I took the potion while Padma was… would I…? No. No, you’re right. We’re not thinking about that. But what about trans students? If the security is just checking my physical gender, then… or is it actually letting me in not because of my gender but because I’m Padma? Are we individually registered into the- I mean, you are, aren’t you? To get in and out of the dorm…”

He shakes his head. “Anyway, I’ve got… five minutes left, give or take. Want to, like, play patty-cake or something until this wears off?”

They do just kind of sit there, playing patty-cake (as best Harry can as a cat) until the Polyjuice Potion wears off and Michael’s body returns to his own.

Then, after Harry picks out a few goodies for his stash, they steal away into the castle to hide all of Felicity and Latisha’s things that Michael swipes from their dorm. The girls spend the entire rest of the year looking for all their things, and even then, they don’t find everything.

They understand now that it isn’t funny.

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

-----

While every one of the boys are more than eager to go after Umbridge in earnest, Terry and Michael regretfully inform them that they aren’t yet ready. Michael makes his masterpiece prank item, and prepares for the endgame by stocking up on and modifying a few other things that may be useful, but the spell Terry will need to cast continues to be a problem. They swear, though, that they’re close to a breakthrough.

The wait crawls under their skin, though. Every day brings another detention for Michael, who under pressure from Umbridge only doubles down in his defense of Harry and criticism of her teaching. Every day Michael comes back to the dorm late, pale and delirious, and every day the loathsome flame behind his eyes burns hotter.

But for a while, they can only sink into routine. Harry continues learning occlumency and teaching the boys Defense. They all continue working on Terry’s spell. And they go to class, meander through their days like good little students.

Well, except Michael. But making a scene is his normal, now.

The beginning of the end, the first hint they have that something is more wrong than usual, is Marietta Edgecombe coming back to the common room in tears, inconsolable, with the word “SNEAK” written across her face in large, close-set, purple pustules.

Overnight, notices are put up all around the school. Michael pulls one down, curling his lip at it. “By order of the Ministry of Magic,” he reads, “Dolores Jane Umbridge (High Inquisitor) has replaced Albus Dumbledore as Head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

By the time he gets through it, he’s pale. None of the others fare any better. “They put her as Headmistress?” Anthony hisses.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” mutters Terry.

Michael nods. “We have to finish that spell. By the weekend at the latest.”

“Michael…” Anthony warns. “She’ll have even more freedom, now. This plan will put you-”

“I know!” he snaps. “But we’ve got to do something, don’t we? And she’s not going to let me alone at this point, anyway, so what’s it matter?” Harry rubs against his leg, trying to soothe him. When Umbridge next gets him in detention… if she’s torturing him right under Dumbledore’s nose, what can she do with no oversight?

Even Harry is terrified for him.

The good news is that, soon after, Fred and George unleash their fireworks throughout the school. It’s as if they’re inspired by Harry’s run in the Gryffindor Common Room and, in typical twin fashion, up the ante by making it consume the entire school rather than just one room.

It inspires many students to rebel, and with Michael no longer the sole troublemaker, even when he does get detention in his next class, Umbridge reluctantly puts it off until the weekend so that she can focus on the mayhem caused by the twins.

“Remind me to kiss those two,” Michael mutters with a grin. Harry bats his nose with a paw. “Ow, hey.” Michael pouts. “Oh fine. Kisses are only for you, Tiger.”

Harry freezes, completely taken off guard. Michael just chuckles and presses a kiss to the top of his furry head.

“We’ve almost got it,” he says into Harry’s fur. “And now is the perfect time to strike, too. Before my detention on Saturday.”

Unfortunately, according to the notice put up on the common room notice board, since Michael’s surname is so early in the alphabet, he’s one of the lucky ones who gets to have his career advice meeting with Flitwick this week rather than next.

Terry’s is even earlier, of course, and Anthony’s is on Friday, which irks the lot of them since they can’t work on Terry’s spell while they’re stuck in a meeting with their head of house. Anthony advises them to be patient, though, and reminds them that getting their career options in order is important, too.

Harry attends with Michael. To his surprise and utter displeasure, that means that, for the very first time, he is in close quarters with Professor Umbridge herself. (He’s in the room with her before now, but that’s usually the Great Hall or just in passing through the hallways. Harry can’t go to Michael’s Defense class or his detentions, so Harry never has the opportunity to be this close to the woman.)

Flitwick ushers Michael into his seat, and even conjures a small toy for Harry to play with while they talk, and seems to take the approach of simply ignoring Umbridge lurking in the corner with a clipboard.

Oddly enough, Umbridge seems to soften a little when she looks at him. Fond of cats, then? Stupid question: Michael tells Harry about the plates in her office.

“Welcome, welcome, Mr. Corner!” Flitwick says jovially. “As you know, this meeting is to talk over any career ideas you might have and help you decide which subjects you should like to continue into the N.E.W.T. level.”

Harry bats at the cat toy Flitwick gives him. Strangely enough, ever since he reveals himself to Michael, he’s actually more comfortable doing cat things like this. Starkly different from when he refuses to touch any of the cat toys Michael gets him at the start. Now, it’s not uncommon to see Harry jumping after a feather Michael charms about, or chasing one of the enchanted stuffed mice Michael torments the common room with.

But here, now, Harry notices that his play distracts Umbridge, if only a little. She smiles at him and does not watch Michael like a hawk and Harry takes it as a win.

“About that,” Michael says slowly, thumbing through some of the pamphlets on Flitwick’s desk. “Truth is, I don’t really know. I er- I like to tinker with things, but I’m not really an inventor. I just kind of… do whatever catches my interest.” He sighs and shrugs. “Sometimes, I think I’d be best off as some rich, famous guy’s trophy husband.”

Harry looks up at him, startled by the statement, to find Michael’s eyes slide to him and a wry smirk on his lips.

Flitwick barks a laugh. Michael politely turns his gaze back to his professor. Harry warms all over and petulantly thinks, I’m not rich… before he realizes just what he’s thinking about and proceeds to pounce on the toy with a particular savagery.

I don’t think… He doesn’t ever actually check how much is really in his vault, does he? He just sees the piles of galleons at eleven and thinks it’s way more than he could ever use. Mrs. Weasley handles his money before second year, third year he doesn’t need to visit Gringotts, fourth year again Mrs. Weasley handles it, and then this year he never makes it there despite his intention.

Huh. That’s an oversight. Harry really needs to get on top of something as important as his finances.

“While I don’t doubt you’d enjoy that, Mr. Corner, I dare say that would be a terrible waste of your talents,” says Flitwick. “You are a bright student with an uncommon drive. I only wish that drive of yours would lead you to something other than pranking.” He chuckles. “Have you considered a joke shop?”

“What, like get Fred and George to hire me?” Michael thinks about it. “Not a terrible idea. I’m not sure, though. I think I’ll appreciate using pranks far more than selling them.”

Flitwick hums. “Perhaps you’d like to hear what I think you would do well in? You needn’t pick one of my suggestions, obviously, but it may give you some ideas.”

“Sure. What’s your recommendation?”

“Well, I know you’re a competitive person with a great love of quidditch, and you are always bringing fun to your classmates, so you wouldn’t suffer to find yourself in the Ministry’s Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

At this moment, Professor Umbridge gives a very tiny cough, almost as if to see how quietly she can do it. Professor Flitwick and Michael both ignore her.

“I, personally,” continues Flitwick, “believe you would make a very competent auror.” His eyes shine proudly. “You have very strong convictions when you want to, and the skill and drive to learn to back them up.”

Michael flushes a little and bites his lip. Professor Umbridge coughs a little louder. Flitwick continues to act as if she is not even in the room.

“Although, and I don’t recommend this to many, Mr. Corner, for obvious reasons, but I do think you might have success as an unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries.”

Michael’s head snaps up. “But we don’t even know what they do.”

Flitwick’s eyes glitter. “And isn’t that precisely why you want to do it?”

There’s a moment, and then Michael burst out laughing. “Alright, you got me pegged, Professor.”

Flitwick beams at him. “While I’ve no doubt you’ll make a wonderful trophy husband for a delightful wizard one day,” he says (Michael snorts.) “I am of the firm conviction that you, and your friend Mr. Boot, for that matter, are meant to go beyond what’s been known and been named. In whatever path you choose.”

Seeing Michael thoroughly embarrassed at Flitwick’s high expectations, Harry quickly abandons his toy to jump into Michael’s lap and nuzzle into his stomach, showing him that Harry agrees completely.

Michael is already amazing. He’s only going to be more so in the future.

Professor Umbridge gives her most pronounced cough yet. Harry chokes down the petty urge to go over there and nip her heels.

Michael twitches and curls into himself around Harry, but Flitwick just continues to ignore her despite it being impossible to miss her obvious coughs.

“Thank you, Professor,” Michael murmurs, taking his cue from Flitwick and dismissing Umbridge’s interruption. “Do we even know what the unspeakables look for? Is it possible to prepare for that?”

Flitwick giggles. “I am under the impression that figuring that out is part of the whole process.”

“…Rad. I do like mysteries.”

Umbridge, done with being ignored, this time decides to speak up like an adult rather than put on a cough for attention. “I wonder,” she says, “whether I can make the teensiest interruption, Filius?”

Flitwick doesn’t even attempt to clear the disdain from his eyes when he finally turns to look at her. “I’d wager a guess that you can’t, Dolores. I’m not sure you’re capable, after all, of making only a small interruption.”

Umbridge simpers sweetly, and says, “I was just wondering whether Mr. Corner has quite the temperament for a job in the Ministry.”

“She’s got a point,” Michael says before Flitwick can answer. This is evidently not what she expects, because her simpering, fussy demeanor gives way immediately to utter bafflement. “I don’t much like being told what to do by a corrupt, amoral, sycophantic bitch.”

“Language, Mr. Corner,” chides Flitwick gently.

Umbridge stands up. She’s so short that this doesn’t do much, but the hard fury that overcomes her countenance makes her broad, flabby face look oddly intimidating. “And just what do you mean by that?” she hisses dangerously.

Michael shrugs. “What’s got your wand in a knot?” he asks casually. “I’m agreeing with you. The Ministry, no matter the department, isn’t for me.”

“Now, you would do well to-”

“After all,” he interrupts her shamelessly. “Why in the world would I willingly go to work for an organization that hunts down and attacks underage wizards? Or did we conveniently cover up the dementors in Harry’s muggle neighborhood that were obviously a heavy-handed plot to kill or expel him?”

“There were no dementors!” Umbridge shrieks. “Mr. Potter is a dangerously unstable individual, as his trial has conclude-”

“The trial in which he had no legal representation and no defense? The trial that should never even have happened as the only witness to the spell in question, as is stated in the public record of that trial, is Harry’s own relative who is already aware of magic? Yes, clearly the justice system is working and I should absolutely respect the conclusions they’ve fabricated.”

Umbridge, trembling with fury, glares poisonously at Michael. “…You will show respect. Minister Fudge himself presided over that trial. Surely you are not questioning the integrity of the Minister of Magic?”

Michael grasps the back of his hand, where red bandages cover his wound, but he meets her gaze unflinchingly. “What integrity?” he asks. “You know, I’m not surprised Minister Fudge is so desperate to cover up You-Know-Who’s return. From the very start of his term as minister, he’s been a weak, sniveling, self-important little weathervane. His bumbling ineptitude and inflated ego is a greater threat to this country, and especially the students of Hogwarts, than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could ever be.”

Umbridge sputters. “Surely, I did not just hear you accuse the Minister of Magic of being a dark wizard!”

“On the contrary,” Michael spits. “I’m accusing him of being more useless than a flobberworm. It’s the people he surrounds himself with,” he glares pointedly at Umbridge, “who are dark witches and wizards.”

He turns back to Flitwick, utterly ignoring Umbridge’s outrage. “Anyway, point being,” he says. “I’m not a spineless sack of wet shite or a sycophantic bully, so I don’t think I’d fit in very well at the Ministry.”

Flitwick’s eyes sparkle with amusement as he once more chides, “Language, Mr. Corner.”

Michael shrugs unrepentantly. “Thanks for your recommendations, Professor,” he says, ignoring Umbridge once again. “I’ll keep thinking about it. Would my options be limited much by the path I’m currently on just carrying into N.E.W.T.s?”

“I would recommend cutting down on a class or two, though if you change your mind about the unspeakables you would do well to learn all you can in as many different disciplines as you can. So, no, but we can speak more later once you’ve had time to consider your options.”

As Flitwick knows Umbridge will be here to stop him from actually helping his students, especially Michael, who is outspoken against her, he already speaks to Michael after Charms class ahead of time and knows there will be another meeting with the boy later without Umbridge’s interference. So, rather than waste more time trying to talk about it here, he tells Michael, “You’re free to go.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 8

Occlumency

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

When they get back to school, they waste no time getting Anthony and Terry in on the secret. Michael worries for a moment over where they might be safe for Harry to change back into his human form and hold the lessons, but Harry remembers that room of hidden things where he puts the Marauder’s Map and thinks that’ll work as well as anywhere else.

The boys might have a hard time fitting through the door, but all the better that they won’t be discovered.

So, Harry leads Michael to the seventh floor, Terry and Anthony following behind obediently after being told only to follow and nothing else. At the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy that Harry remembers the door being at, he paces and thinks hard of the room so that they can plan and learn in safety.

As predicted, a door does appear, but it’s not the cat-sized door of last time. Michael leads the way in, ushering the other two past him and shutting it tight behind them.

Inside is not the stacks of hidden things, but what can only be described as a training room. It’s spacious with high ceilings, good for practicing spellcasting. There is a comfier corner where there are chairs and a sofa around a lit fireplace, as well as a large bookcase filled with tomes, but most of the space is empty with just some training dummies lingering in another corner.

“Where are we?” Anthony asks.

“Woah…” Michael murmurs. “Is this…?”

“Tiger found the Room of Requirement?” says Terry, awed.

Both of the other Ravenclaws make noises of understanding, and seem equally impressed, but Harry can only guess at what the Room of Requirement is. If it just takes whatever form is needed, then that explains why all those piles of junk aren’t here.

“Come take a seat,” Michael says, heading to the chairs. “It should be safe enough to talk here.”

Terry and Anthony share a look but follow without a word.

The group gathers and sits. Michael leans forward, elbows on his knees. He takes a breath like he’s going to say something, then lets it go and lets his gaze fall, shaded, to the floor. Three times he does this, tries and fails to begin explaining the situation to his patient friends, until finally he just growls, shakes his head, and announces, “So, long story short, Tiger is Harry Potter. He’s an animagus. We’re going to help him stay hidden and also teach him occlumency so that You-Know-Who doesn’t try to kill him again.”

Harry changes into his human form. His head is already in his hands. “Could you have explained that any worse?” he moans.

“Oh, way worse,” Terry says, not missing a beat. “You should’ve heard him try to break it to us what happened to that streeler when he-”

“Terry!” Michael shouts, face beet red. He very sternly holds up a single finger at Terry. “No.”

“I thought it was a decent explanation,” says Anthony, shrugging. “Told us the important bits quickly. Hey, Harry.”

“Er, hi.”

“I do have a concern, though,” Anthony says. “Well, two. The first more mundane; are you falling behind in your education? I know you’ve been expelled and everything but obviously we’re going to be figuring out a way to kick the Ministry out of the school and get you readmitted, so you should really be preparing for your O.W.L.s like the rest of us.”

Is he serious? “Anthony.” Harry’s voice strains to contain his disbelief. “I really haven’t considered exams at the top of my list of priorities recently.”

Anthony’s sigh is just a little too put-upon and Harry can’t quite tell if he’s teasing or not. “I suppose I understand. But we’re changing that. I’d rather you be readmitted into sixth year with the rest of us than fall behind. Besides the fact that O.W.L. year is actually the best place to miss school. Once you take the exams, you’re officially in the same place as everyone else regardless. Quite convenient for you.”

“The other thing, Anthony?” Terry says.

Anthony nods. “Yes, I would like a bit more elaboration on why I’m going to be teaching Harry occlumency. Is You-Know-Who targeting him with legilimency? I hate to break it to you, but I’m not sure I could keep out a legilimens like him, much less teach someone else to do so. My grandmother isn’t ever actually trying to invade our minds, so extensive shields are unnecessary.”

Harry explains his dream, how they know about Mr. Weasley and Michael’s conclusions about it, and then from there the two of them fill in Terry and Anthony on everything else. No secret is kept, no stone unturned. Michael even finally shows the other boys his scarred hand so that they know what they’re up against with Umbridge.

“Well,” Terry says when the tale is all told. “In that case…” He looks out to the room, the wide open space and training dummies for spell practice, the books on the large shelf. “Harry. Anthony will teach you occlumency to figure out this connection thing and hopefully protect against it. Meanwhile, Michael and I will tutor you in what we’re doing in classes. It’ll be good review for us, but it’ll also help you be ready for your O.W.L.s once we figure out how to get the Ministry off your back.”

“I would volunteer more time to tutor,” Anthony says, “but I actually already tutor some younger students.”

“Can you take the lead on tutoring, Terry?” Michael asks. “I’m more than happy to help, obviously, but I’d prefer to focus more on getting back at everyone who deserves it.”

“That’s fine,” says Terry. “Who’s on that list now?”

“Felicity Eastchurch and Latisha Randle, and I’m keeping an eye on the other older girls too. They all bully Luna. Umbridge, obviously. She needs to suffer.” Michael’s eyes slide over to Harry. “Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. For poor judgement.”

Harry nods. Just because he understands where they come from doesn’t mean he’s entirely ready to forgive them. Besides, it’s not like Michael is going to treat them the same as Umbridge. The punishment will be proportional to the crime.

That doesn’t mean Harry is satisfied with this, though. Occlumency is a matter of life and death, or might be, so it is obviously more important, but… “Are you sure about the tutoring?” Harry asks. “I’m already taking so much of your time, and like you said, you have your own O.W.L.s to study for…”

“And like I said,” Terry says with a smile, “it’ll be good review for us. Besides, we’re not doing it for free. You’re going to be teaching us, too.”

Harry blinks. “I will?” This is the first he hears of it. “I mean- sure? But what do I have to teach you? I’m behind you all.”

Terry shakes his head, “Not in defense, you’re not. You studied far ahead for the tournament last year, didn’t you? And you’re the only one with real, practical experience using defensive magic to defend yourself. With You-Know-Who back, and especially with Umbridge being an active hindrance to our education, we need you to prepare us, Harry.”

Harry drops his head and his arguments in one breath. Terry is right. Everyone should be learning all they can about how to defend themselves. And it’s not even just Voldemort they need to defend against. The Ministry sends dementors to attack a student in his own muggle neighborhood. If Harry didn’t know the Patronus Charm, he’d be a soulless husk right now. Just because Minister Fudge doesn’t like him anymore.

“Besides,” Terry adds grimly, “we all know it’s only a matter of time before you come face to face with You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters again.” His lips turn up into a wide grin. “And we’re friends now. If you think we’re not going to be there fighting with you, you really haven’t gotten to know us as well as you should have by now.”

“Said like a true Gryffindor,” Michael teases. “But I agree, obviously. You’re ours, Harry. If you don’t already know what that means, you will. But Terry’s point stands. We’re going to be at your back whether you want us to be or not, so you may as well train us to survive doing it.”

“Okay, I get it,” Harry chuckles. He really doesn’t like the idea of these guys fighting Death Eaters, or Voldemort, for him, but… he’s incredibly thankful to have steadfast allies. Especially now, when the ones he used to believe hold that title aren’t exactly living up to it. “I’ll work with you guys on Defense, and you’ll work with me on everything else.” He looks to Michael. “And I’m definitely helping to make Umbridge and Luna’s bullies learn to regret what they’ve done.”

“Ruthless,” says Terry. “Cute.”

Harry gives him a puzzled look, trying to decipher what he means by that and the look in his eyes. Then Michael’s arm is around his shoulders, pulling him in. There’s a gentle brush of pink across Michael’s cheeks, but he just glares weakly at Terry.

Terry notices this and grins unrepentantly. Harry shakes his head. It seems like some kind of inside joke. Anthony rolls his eyes at all of them.

-----

Tutoring starts immediately after classes do, and Harry is happy to learn that the Ravenclaw boys are all surprisingly good teachers. Each of them clearly isn’t satisfied with simply being able to regurgitate facts or even being able to perform a spell. No, they insist that Harry must understand the information or the spell well enough to use it creatively. Only then does he really know it.

Terry, for instance, on teaching Harry the suitcase-packing charm, refuses to acknowledge Harry’s mastery of it until he uses it not to pack a suitcase, but to put the room back to order; books return to their shelves, the training dummies back to their corners, the suitcase indeed packed, but also even the chairs moved back to their proper places by the fire.

He says the spell isn’t about packing a suitcase despite its name. It’s about organizing things, and until Harry thinks beyond the intent of something as small and frankly irrelevant as a suitcase, he won’t accept that Harry really knows what he’s doing.

“Magic does magic is never an acceptable explanation of how a spell works,” says Terry. “Most colloquial names of spells are chosen for the reason the spell was invented, or their most common usage. Don’t ever fool yourself into believing that that’s the only thing the spell can be used for.”

It’s a little bit of a clash of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor sensibilities, really. It’s the first time Harry is forced to regularly think outside the box outside of self-defense situations, but he gets the hang of it quickly once he figures out what Terry actually is demanding from him.

Harry can’t help but wonder, and can’t quite decide, whether Hermione would love or hate it. She’s never been the best at… going out of bounds, past what the textbooks tell them about the magic. But Harry can’t argue with results and he hasn’t ever understood his magic like he does after Terry gets his hands on him.

And then there’s occlumency.

Anthony sits in the plush chair across from him, folds his hands in his lap and frowns. “I’ve given some thought to how to approach this,” he says after a moment. “Occlumency is a mind art that actually covers several different things. What we’re most concerned about to protect you from You-Know-Who is counter-legilimency, the art of defending your mind from intrusion.”

“What else is covered by occlumency?” Harry asks.

“Organization of the mind, primarily,” says Anthony. “But also, many other interconnected things. You could think of occlumency essentially as the art of self-mastery. That’s why it’s not very common, although there isn’t a wizard alive who doesn’t develop some skill with it, even if without intending to.”

Anthony takes a breath to consider his approach. “We will be working on organizing your mind, but obviously through the lens of counter-legilimency, which itself is separated into two main categories. Shielding, which is meant to keep intrusion out, and occlusion which prevents a legilimens who gets in from getting anything of significance from you.”

“So, we’re going to be focusing on shielding?” Harry asks.

“On the contrary,” Anthony sighs. “Considering who you’re trying to defend against, I can’t see any shield you manage to maintain being enough to prevent him from invading your mind. With someone like my grandmother, who isn’t actually trying to get in, a shield will keep her at the surface, so she can’t accidentally sink into anything we don’t want her in. But against targeted attack, it becomes much more similar to how you’re accustomed to shielding in dueling.”

“A strong enough attack has the potential to break through it,” Harry concludes. “Someone like Voldemort could just blast right through.”

“Exactly. Shielding is much simpler and quicker, but much less reliable against intent attack by a legilimens. Shields are typically used to keep out surface scans – from particularly weak legilimens, or more likely, the kind a skilled legilimens uses when they don’t want you to know they’re looking into your mind. Shields also work as a sort of alarm. If they’re broken, you’re going to know. But if the legilimens is intent and doesn’t care that you know…”

“Then a shield isn’t going to do much to protect me,” Harry concludes. He frowns at the floor. “I should still make one. If the connection is passive, it might even work, and if Voldemort does try to use it on purpose, I’ll at least know to take what I see with a grain of salt, since he’ll have broken the shield… is that right?”

Anthony smiles. “Very good, Harry. You’re exactly right. A shield is a good temporary measure to give you time to learn to occlude, and should you have any more of those dreams, it will hopefully help prevent you from doing anything rash.”

Harry rubs his neck. Right.

“As for occlusion, there are a few different methods. I’m going to go out on a limb and say the method that I use probably won’t work for you.”

“Why not?”

A chuckle. “Harry… have you ever meditated?” The answer is no. “If I told you to clear your mind, empty yourself of emotion and thought… does that seem feasible to you?”

Clear his mind… Harry’s thoughts race just considering it. “…It sounds impossible,” he admits.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Anthony snickers. “Most of the Goldstein branch of my family does it that way, though meditation, control… compartmentalization, to an extent.”

“The Goldstein branch?”

Anthony grins. “Yes, but my cousin Rolf… well, let’s say he’s like you. He couldn’t clear his head for thirty seconds, much less well enough for long enough to protect from an attack. So, he needed a different method. That’s the one you’ll be trying. It’s not about clearing your mind, but using it. You’ll need imagination and skill with visualization, and you’ll create essentially a kind of world inside your head. It will still require constant discipline and dedication, especially when you’re still getting started, but I think it’s a much more reasonable approach for you than demanding you do something you just aren’t going to be able to do anytime soon.”

“And it’s just as effective?”

“It can be. It’s a radically different method – almost the exact opposite, in fact, despite the similar discipline and organization needed. So, in that sense it’s a bit like comparing apples to oranges, you know. It has different advantages and disadvantages, but it does work.

“To give you an idea… To a legilimens, the untrained mind is something like… a zoo. The paths through it might be circuitous and winding, it can be easy to get lost and hard to find what you want, but anywhere you go, there’s something to find. Skilled legilimens can even take advantage of that. By putting the thought of what they want to find in your head, they can tempt that topic to the surface and find exactly what they’re looking for just around the next bend.

“But someone who occludes using the method that I do, someone who keeps their head clear and their mind organized, you can think of it as a sphere inside a sphere. The inner mind, the inside sphere, is where my thoughts and feelings and memories all reside. But to get there, the legilimens has to first pass through the outer sphere. Imagine smoke and mirrors. Nothing of real substance, so the legilimens can get lost in the nothing, or the fog. No hint of where to go to find that inner sphere, and absolutely nothing given away.

“But your method is different. You’ll craft an environment where the legilimens will find themselves. You’ll disguise memories, and feelings, and thoughts to hide them in plain sight. Rolf once got me by hiding a memory I was looking for as a tooth of a dragon – which attacked me on sight. He somehow even managed to make a memory into the shape of a hide-behind, which I obviously couldn’t find for the life of me. Merlin, he laughed so hard.” Anthony shakes his head fondly. “Your only real limit is your imagination, your ability to visualize what you want to create, and your discipline and dedication in keeping the imagery together.”

“Cool,” Harry says, imagining Voldemort being eaten by a dragon. “How do we start?”

“Ah.” Anthony’s face flickers. It turns to something like a grimace. “Like I said, everyone develops some self-mastery especially as they get older. Everyone starts from a different place when they begin studying occlumency in earnest, as they’re obviously better or worse at different aspects of self-discipline and control.

“That, combined with this connection between you and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named means that the best place to start would be with me looking into your mind to get a sense of where we’re at and whether I can identify anything about that connection.”

“Okay,” says Harry. “Sounds good. Let’s go, then.”

Again, Anthony grimaces.  “I should warn you,” he says, “I don’t have much practice using legilimency. I’ve only ever really used it with Rolf when we were learning and testing each other’s occlumency.”

Harry doesn’t really see his point. Okay, so he’s not a super practiced legilimens. So, what? Harry doesn’t really expect to learn much about this connection, anyway. So long as Anthony can teach him occlumency, that’s what matters.

He says as much, but when Anthony finally draws his wand and raises it, he still looks apprehensive.

“Are you sure?” Anthony asks. “I can’t say what I might find in your head, but I can say for sure that no secret of yours will be safe. Everything you don’t want anyone to know… there’s the potential of me seeing it.”

“I trust you,” Harry says, only somewhat surprised to find that it’s true. Considering how new their relationship is, comparatively, Harry trusts him at least as much as he would Ron or Hermione.

More, actually, since just like with him being an animagus, he’s not totally convinced that Ron or Hermione won’t tell Dumbledore anything they find in his head if they think it’ll help keep him safe, whether he approves of sharing it or not. It’s only these Ravenclaws that seem to decide that a risk is fine so long as he’s choosing it knowingly.

(They do talk about the risks of Harry’s plan, about all the ways it can go wrong, not the least of which is being caught by the Ministry and giving them something actually legitimate to send him to Azkaban for – that of being an unregistered animagus. But the moment Harry confirms that he understands those risks and that he thinks this is the best path anyway, they only offer their support.)

“…Okay,” Anthony sighs. The look on his face makes Harry think he’d actually prefer Harry isn’t comfortable with this and asks him to stop.

So, Harry asks, “Are you okay?”

Anthony drops his eyes and twirls his wand in his fingers for something to do. “There’s a reason I don’t use legilimency much,” he admits. “It’s awkward, it’s invasive… and intimate. I just… I don’t like it.”

“If you’re not comfortable with this…”

Anthony offers him a small smile. “I’m not,” he says. “But you’re my friend. This is important. Taking up my wand to fight by your side against Death Eaters and the Ministry is uncomfortable, too, but I’ve made my choice.” He closes his eyes, can’t stop the tremor that runs through him, then adds in a mutter, “And seeing the memories won’t be as bad as experiencing them…”

Harry flushes and ducks his head. He’s used to Ron and Hermione following him into trouble, getting into uncomfortable situations with him… but he’s not used to anyone else doing the same. And for such a simple reason. Just, “We’re friends now; this is what friends do.”

Anthony sighs, gives him a moment, and says, “Last chance to change your mind. None of us will judge you if there are things you’d rather not reveal to me. Though I swear that no one, not even Michael and Terry, will learn anything you do not consent to me sharing.”

It’s like Anthony says. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s also important. Harry knows that he needs to do this. “I trust you,” he repeats. “Do it. Er… should I fight it? Try to keep you out? Even if I don’t really know what I’m doing, I did somehow fight the Imperius last year, so…”

“That’s a good start,” Anthony says. “But if you really are okay with me digging around, I’d say don’t fight this first time. I should look to see if I can find that connection between you and You-Know-Who. Maybe we’ll learn something about it. It’ll be a lot harder to interpret anything if you’re fighting me the whole way.”

“Okay,” says Harry. He forces himself to relax into his seat. “Then, do it.”

Anthony stands with a stiff nod and points his wand. “Brace yourself,” he says. “Legilimens.”

The room swims before Harry’s eyes and vanishes; image after image races through his mind like a flickering film so vivid it blinds him to his surroundings.

He’s five, watching Dudley ride a new red bicycle, and his heart bursts with jealousy… he’s nine, and Ripper the bulldog chases him up a tree while the Dursleys laugh at him from the lawn… He’s sitting under the sorting hat, and it’s telling him he would do well in Slytherin…

Professor Lupin’s voice echoes through the Defense classroom. “It has nothing to do with weakness,” he says, “The dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don’t have.”

The images flash by even faster, all jumbled and out of order now. The gasp he makes when he first sees the troll on Halloween in first year, dementors swarming the lake where Sirius lays prone with helplessness infecting his very bones, the basilisk’s enormous maw as it strikes at him, the dragon from the first task breathing a billowing pillar of fire that surges towards him, Quirrel turning to dust in his hands and the wraith leaving him…

Voldemort in the graveyard, emerging from the cauldron.

The flashes stop, the memory lingers, it plays through almost as if in slow motion. They duel, their wands connect, that phenomenon Dumbledore calls Priori Incantatem, the shades of Harry’s parents, of Cedric, telling him to take the cup and run.

Like a record skips, it flashes back – the killing curse hits Cedric. The feeling in Harry’s chest is as if it hits him. Cedric’s body lays there, staring at him with blank eyes.

Forward now – Pettigrew slices into Harry’s arm, takes his blood to drop into the bubbling cauldron.

Then the dementors are around him again. He’s on his broom; he’s falling. Freezing water rises in his chest, cuts at his insides. A woman screams.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

“Stand aside you silly girl… stand aside, now…”

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead-”

A shrill voice laughs, high and cold. The woman screams again. A flash of bright green.

Voldemort, hooded, younger and more human than Harry sees him in the graveyard, looks down his wand at Harry.

“Avada Kedavra.”

He’s thrown back into the Room of Requirement, gasping. Only the immediate sight of Anthony crumpling shoves the experience far back enough in his mind to surge to his feet and catch his friend.

Anthony is pale, his blond hair is matted to his head with sweat, and he trembles fiercely. Harry isn’t much better, but he somehow maneuvers Anthony into his chair.

“Anthony?” Harry gasps. “Anthony, are you okay?”

Anthony, still unable to stop shaking, slowly wets his lips. He looks at Harry for a moment, pulls his feet up onto his chair, wraps his arms around his knees, and ducks his head into them as he holds up five fingers.

…Harry thinks he’s asking for five minutes.

Harry kind of needs five minutes, himself. Or five days.

Taking the hint, since none of the Ravenclaw boys have yet pushed him when he indicates he wants to take a moment, Harry simply gulps hard and finds another seat to make himself comfortable in.

“And seeing the memories won’t be as bad as experiencing them…” Anthony knows that Harry goes through terrible things. He might not know all the details, but he knows the rumors. That’s what he’s scared of before he delves into Harry’s head.

Harry looks over to the boy who is still curled into a tight ball, eyes pressed into his knees, shaking but trying desperately to steady his breathing. And Harry can’t help but think that Anthony is one of the bravest men he’s ever met.

Maybe that’s a conceited thought. After all, it’s Harry’s memories. But frankly, if Harry didn’t have to live them, if he had the choice not to witness any of that… he doesn’t think he’s brave enough to choose to do so.

But even though Anthony is scared of the memories he’ll see in Harry’s head, his only concerns are about it being invasive and whether Harry is okay with sharing his secrets. Anthony is brave. Incredibly so. And if Harry ever has any doubts that the Ravenclaws will run into danger by his side as readily as the Gryffindors, they’re well and truly shattered now.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony croaks suddenly.

“It’s not your fault,” Harry says fiercely. “None of it is.”

Everything is quiet for a few long moments more. “…I can’t say what that connection is,” Anthony says, slightly muffled since he still has his head in his knees. “But I confirmed it’s there in your head. You should be able to protect against it.” Finally, his head lifts. His expression is puzzled. “It seems like it comes from that moment when he tried to kill you. Er, the first time.”

That makes sense. “Dumbledore told me once that he accidentally transferred some of his powers to me when he failed to kill be back then,” says Harry. “That’s why I can speak parseltongue.”

Anthony’s brow furrows only more deeply. “Transferred his power? How?”

Harry opens his mouth, then realizes that Dumbledore never actually tells him that part. Because why should Dumbledore tell him something like how he has Voldemort in his head somewhere? Harry is as disappointed with himself for not asking about it as he is bitter towards Dumbledore for never telling him. “I don’t know.”

“Hm. Don’t like that.” Anthony taps his forehead with his knuckle, trying to work through the problem. “I don’t even know how he might theoretically do something like that, much less on accident. I can- I suppose…” He shakes his head. “If he somehow managed to- oh, but that’s appalling. How would he even-?”

“Anthony?” Harry patiently makes sure Anthony is focused on him before he asks, “What do I do?”

Anthony takes a deep breath, focuses himself. “Right. So. Visualization. Here’s how we’ll get you started…”

-----

Harry returns with Anthony to the Ravenclaw dorms with a splitting headache but too exhausted – emotionally, mentally, even physically for some reason – to care about it.

Anthony immediately collapses into his own bed and shuts the curtains, wanting to be alone to process and think through everything. Harry, though, climbs the ladder to Michael’s bed and unthinkingly crawls right up onto Michael’s chest, curls up, and purrs quietly.

“…Er… Tiger?”

Harry cracks an eye open to see Michael flushed and biting his lip. Harry tilts his head.

Michael glances to the rest of the dorm, then shuts his own curtains and casts the quietening charm before he wraps his arms around Harry, pressing him tight against Michaels’ bare chest. “This is… okay?” he asks. “I wasn’t sure how comfortable you’d be with the… cuddling. You know, now that I know and you’re not just trying to pass as a cat and all.”

Harry makes a face that he hopes conveys how stupid he thinks that sentiment is. …Okay, he gets it. It’s different cuddling with an animal than with a human. But Harry tells him straight up that he and Tiger aren’t any different. Harry refuses touch a lot as Tiger. But he’s comfortable with Michael and frankly, after that occlumency lesson, he needs a snuggle.

…Which is not something he’d ever think before he spends several months as a cat. So, fair play. That doesn’t mean it’s awkward, though. It just means that Harry gets used to it.

Unless Michael means that he isn’t comfortable with it because Harry is human? Oh. Oh, of course, he’s not. Reluctantly, Harry scrambles off of Michael, accepting that he needs to give the guy his space.

But Michael catches him, pulls him back in. “I’m glad,” Michael says. “I’d miss this if you weren’t.”

Ah, good, then. Harry stretches up to lick the tip of Michael’s nose. He giggles and ruffles the fur atop Harry’s head. As the moment calms quickly, he says, “You look knackered, Tiger. Get some sleep. We need to be well rested if we want to get our revenge.”

Harry perks up. “Mrr?” he asks, just a little meow.

Michael smirks wickedly. “I’ve… modified something. I want to test it soon. And it just so happens that we can kill two birds with one stone and get Ron, Hermione, and Ginny out of the way. If you’re up for a prank?”

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny… Harry still loves them. He can acknowledge that they’re all doing their best, and they’re not trying to exclude him or make him feel untrusted. In fact, Harry is fairly certain that their continual letters over the summer are supposed to make him feel like he is involved. They just happen to have the exact opposite effect.

That doesn’t mean he’s not still mad at them. And that certainly doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to see them at the wrong end of a good prank.

He only regrets that they likely won’t ever find out about his involvement. At least, not until the Ravenclaws figure out how to get the Ministry off his back and he can come out of hiding. So, they won’t know what they’re being punished for, but…

Well, revenge is best served cold, anyway.

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 7

Trust

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Michael doesn’t come back to bed. After the hushed whispers between him and Anthony end, and the two boys both leave the room, Michael doesn’t come back. Harry just sits there on Michael’s bed, petrified.

Michael knows. Michael knows now that Harry has been deceiving him this whole time, that the cat he so adores is actually just a scrawny, speccy git who is too selfish to give up feeling loved for once in his life to do the right thing.

Michael knows that Tiger really will leave and never come back. The one thing he says he’s not afraid of, anymore, and Harry snatches that away from him.

He deserves better than Harry. And even after all that, even reeling from seeing Tiger change into Harry… Michael still believes him, still helps.

Seriously, Michael is too good for anyone at this school. Especially Harry.

That’s not even starting on the dread in Harry’s gut as he wonders whether Anthony’s dad reaches Mr. Weasley in time. Because neither Michael nor Anthony come back to bed, so Harry gets no word.

The dawn breaks the darkness. It comes through the windows, and Harry has to change back into his cat form or risk Terry and the others waking and seeing him sitting there in Michael’s bed, but still Harry doesn’t move from his spot. Michael tells him to stay here. Harry… trusts him. He trusts Michael more than anyone at this point, and he can’t bring himself to let Michael down again.

So, if Michael tells him to stay, he stays. His skin crawls, his mind threatens to drive him mad, he still feels ill, and his head still throbs, but he stays sitting right there in that spot. It feels like he’s awaiting judgement, just passing time until the blade falls, but he doesn’t move a centimeter.

“Anthony and Michael are already up?” Terry comments as he crawls out of his own bed. “That’s odd.”

Stephen and Kevin are also leaving their beds, but Terry is the only one who peeks up and sees Harry. He freezes for a moment, taking in Harry’s miserable appearance, then quietly encourages the other two to go on without him.

When they’re alone, Terry climbs up to Michael’s bed to attempt to look Harry in the eye. “What’s wrong, Tiger?” he murmurs. “Did something happen with Michael? Anthony, too?”

Harry just stares at the blanket underneath him.

Terry bites his lip. “Did you eat this morning?”

Harry hasn’t. Michael leaves in the dead of night when Harry wakes him up and he doesn’t come back, so Harry doesn’t have breakfast.

Harry is usually an expressive cat. Michael, Anthony, and Terry all know perfectly well that he understands them, and he always does his best to communicate back without seeming too human because kneazles can so he can get away with it and frankly pretending not to understand would make his life very boring.

That’s why Harry just not responding to Terry’s questions raises even more red flags than his miserable appearance in the first place. Terry’s gut sinks. He knows something’s up. He’d like to go hunt down Michael and Anthony and demand answers, but…

Instead, he grabs a bowl of food for Harry and tries to gently coax him to the floor to eat.

Harry’s stomach growls. He is hungry. But it’s like there’s a sticking charm on his butt – he won’t move from this spot. He can’t.

Terry lets out a distressed little whine, worried for the cat. Harry winces dully, feeling only worse that now he’s worrying Terry as well. But after trying to get Harry to move with treats just out of reach, Terry finally gives in and just puts the bowl of food close to Harry on the bed.

“You’ve got to eat, Tiger,” Terry says quietly. “You’ll make Michael worry if you don’t.”

Will he, though? Will Michael even care, after this? In one nightmare-induced act, he rips Michael’s cat away from him and makes him complicit in harboring a fugitive. Whatever love Michael has for Tiger… There’s no reason he should have it for Harry.

Harry doesn’t get that kind of love. He never has.

(But he hopes, if nothing else, that Mr. Weasley is okay. If Harry will never be loved, at least let this sacrifice mean that the Weasleys don’t lose their father. It’s all Harry can pray for.)

Harry doesn’t eat. He doesn’t think he can keep it down even if he does.

Terry sighs, climbs fully into the bed, and sits down right next to him. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t even try to touch him after Harry squirms away from his pets as best he can without moving from his spot. He just sits there quietly, waiting with him.

Harry appreciates it. At the same time, he wonders if Terry will do the same thing if he knows that it’s not really a cat he’s sitting with. If he knows how Harry betrays Michael.

He probably won’t. He’ll be right not to.

-----

Anthony comes back after an eternity of waiting. Harry’s heart falls when he notices that Michael isn’t with him.

Strangely, Anthony doesn’t question Harry or Terry’s position at all. He just climbs up onto Michael’s bed, too, taking Harry’s other side, sitting together. He slowly wets his lips, arranging his words before him. Terry gives him a questioning look but doesn’t prod. He knows Anthony will tell him what he can.

“Michael woke me up last night,” Anthony begins. “He said he was playing around with some divination and saw Mr. Weasley being attacked by a giant snake somewhere in the Ministry.”

Terry lets out a heavy breath. “That sounds like you’re leading into a bad joke,” he murmurs. “I guess he was right?”

Anthony nods. His eyes are unfocused, somewhere else. “I thought he was joking, too. Or, no, I didn’t think he would joke about that. I thought he was mistaken. Not like he has any talent in divination, right? But he was panicked and the only way I could get him to calm down was to ask my dad to go look.”

“Flitwick’s floo?” Terry asks.

Anthony nods. “Umbridge found out. She’s not happy we contacted someone outside the school, even though we didn’t even talk about her. She saw us contacting someone in the Ministry as an attempt to… usurp her or something. I think she’s planning on locking down all the school’s floos now. Maybe even check our mail. Wouldn’t put it past her. She has it out for Michael since he started defending Harry in front of her.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, Dad did manage to get back to us.”

“Is Mister Weasley okay?”

“We think so. Dad found him and he’s at St. Mungo’s now. It’s too early to say for sure, but they said they think they can fix him up.”

Terry deflates. “Good.” Both boys take a long time to just process what happens and breathe. After forever, Terry finally says, “But what was Mister Weasley doing there in the first place? Was he near his office? Even so, in the dead of night…”

That’s a very good question. More secrets. Anthony lowers his voice. “I asked. He was outside the Department of Mysteries,” he answers. “And I don’t need Dad to tell me that the Unspeakables will be having the same question.”

Terry frowns. “Curious,” he murmurs. “And do you really think Michael learned about it by playing around with divination?”

“Not in the slightest,” Anthony says immediately. Harry wilts even more, appreciative but guilty that Michael lies to his best friends to protect his identity. “Flitwick bought it, but we both know he’s pants at divination. He knows that, too.” He shakes his head. “But he lied about it anyway, even just to me. There’s more to it. It’s bothering him.”

“I think it’s bothering Tiger, too,” Terry says softly. “He won’t move, won’t eat… won’t even look at me. He’s just been sitting here, like this, since I woke up this morning.”

Anthony bites his lip. “Should we… ask him about it?”

Terry is quiet for a long time. He watches Harry shrewdly, considers Michael, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Give him time. You had his back on the divination thing, right?”

“I pretended we were doing it together,” Anthony says. “That I saw the same thing. Figured Flitwick and Dad both would take it more seriously if it’s both of us.”

“Yeah, well, he obviously knows you covered for him,” says Terry. “Give him space. He knows he can come to us if he needs us. I think if he hasn’t… it’s just something he needs to work out on his own.”

“…I don’t know, Terry. You’ve seen him the last few weeks. He’s…”

“Reckless, cagey, angry…”

“And he’s still hiding his hand!” Anthony hisses. “I can’t help him if he won’t-”

“Yeah, I know.” Terry is soft. He understands. “But we just got to trust him, Anthony. As much as he might act like an idiot, he’s really not. If he lied to you without anyone else there to hear it… it’s just something that he can’t or won’t talk about.”

“I know that,” Anthony huffs. “But… he somehow knew that Mr. Weasley was attacked by a giant snake deep in the Ministry. How did he know that? I’m worried…”

“Me, too,” Terry admits. “I hope he’ll tell us sometime but pushing him won’t help any of us. You know how he is. Let him work it through. He’ll come to us when he’s ready.”

Anthony runs a hand through his golden hair with a sigh. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I’m really worried about him.”

-----

The three of them sit there for hours. Terry and Anthony occasionally chat quietly, but not one of them moves from their vigil on Michael’s bed.

When lunchtime comes around, they try to feed him, try to get him to drink some water, at least, but Harry just sits there, staring at the bedsheets, awaiting his judgement. He doesn’t move a muscle. He can’t.

Terry and Anthony get into a hushed argument about it. They both go crazy with worry over their best friend and their best friend’s cat, but they don’t agree on what to do about it.

Terry says that they should wait and let Michael come back on his own. Anthony puffs up and growls that that’s well and good if Michael is only responsible for himself, but Tiger is hurting himself over this and Michael will march back up here and fix things or so help him-

They’re still arguing when the door to the dorm opens. Michael, looking just as dead as Harry, steps inside. He looks at Anthony dully, then his eyes slide over to Terry, then finally they fix on Harry.

For the first time in so many hours, Harry lifts his head. His ears fall as if to make up for it.

Anthony starts trying to talk to Michael, but Terry’s eyes are fixed on Harry. Terry bites his lip for a moment, then finally shifts, jumps down off the bed. He steps up to Michael, looks him in the eye, glances back over his shoulder at Harry. “We were just keeping Tiger company,” he says blandly.

Michael winces. So does Harry.

Terry notices this and pauses. “…Do you want us to stay?”

Michael’s voice sounds… raw, vulnerable, when he says, “No.”

Anthony clenches his jaw but, after a pointed look, he follows Terry’s lead. The pair of them leave the dorm, so it’s only Michael and Harry.

They look at each other from where they are. Just staring. It feels like so many more hours just staring into each other’s eyes. And then Michael turns his gaze down. He breaks that spell that hangs over them, sighs, climbs up to that his head pokes up over the frame, so they’re on an even height when he stops and stares for just a little longer.

“I just need you to tell me one thing,” Michael says. Harry’s breath catches. Anything. He’ll tell him anything. Michael bites his lip, looks away, then decides he can’t bear to ask and not see Harry’s face and purposefully fixes his gaze there. “Was it real?”

Harry blinks. Was what real? What would-

“Tiger,” Michael says. “Is he- Is he a character, or… or is that just Harry? Was it you, or an act?”

Oh. That… Harry can answer that honestly and without guilt. He lifts a paw, brings it to his own chest. It’s me. And it’s true. Harry might act in ways he never would as a human, but that doesn’t mean it’s not him. The cat is as much him as the human is, as he suspects McGonagall can attest to (and he knows Sirius will agree). Harry never thinks of the human and the cat as different people or even different faces. Only different situations. He’s still himself.

Michael’s eyes turn to the bed. He gulps, nods, shakes his head, sighs. “Okay,” he says finally. His eyes lift again, and they don’t look quite as heavy anymore. “Okay. I… There’s a lot we’re going to have to talk about.” He glances over his shoulder at the door. “But it’s going to have to wait until we have a location we’re sure is secure. Maybe at home over the winter holidays. But- But Harry- Tiger…”

He sighs again with frustration. His brow furrows and he growls at the bed, not at Harry. “…Honestly, there’s so much going through my head, and I don’t even know where to start with it,” he admits. “I guess… you need to get some food in you. Anthony mentioned you didn’t eat. Come on.”

He reaches out, hooks Harry around his middle, and pulls him unprotestingly off the bed. Harry’s food and water bowl are checked (Terry and Anthony already fill them, obviously) and then he’s put down next to them.

Harry gulps. He looks at the food, then back up at Michael. He doesn’t feel like he deserves it.

“Eat,” Michael orders. Harry obeys, slowly nibbling on the food set out for him. He is hungry, anyway.

Harry nearly jumps out of his fur when a hand brushes along his back. “…I love you, Tiger,” Michael murmurs. Harry freezes. That’s… the last thing he expects to hear. “I don’t know that I should, but I do. I’m feeling a whole lot of things, and I don’t even really know what all it is, yet, but I know I love Tiger. If you’re telling the truth, if that really has been you and not just your attempts to… trick me? I don’t know. I figured you wouldn’t have any reason to put on an act, but I just couldn’t stop thinking- Ugh…”

He shakes his head. “What I’m trying to say is… I know there’s a lot we’re going to have to talk through. But as far as I see it, you’re still Tiger. Or… maybe you don’t want me to call you that? But I’ll have to to keep up the ruse at least until break. Sorry.

“I’m so bad at this.” He growls again, passing his hands through his hair in his agitation. “Basically: all the fun we had, all the trust we built… that doesn’t just go away. I don’t want it to go away.” He gulps, closes his eyes. “Please don’t take it away…”

Harry watches, dumbfounded, as Michael swipes his arm over his eyes, then subtly grasps the back of his hand. The one that’s wrapped up in bandages.

Harry throws himself at Michael. He jumps into his chest and purrs frantically, climbing him and nuzzling into him desperately. Harry is petrified this whole time that Michael will take all that away! How can Harry ever suffer to do that to him?

“Tig- …Harry…” Michael’s shock, his relief, gives way to determination. “I’m going to trust you. I’m going to trust you, because trusting you… because you… because… because you haven’t let me down, yet. Not like Ginny, or Umbridge, or even those prissy older girls in my house that bully Luna. Not like the Ministry, or the Hogwarts staff. So, I’m going to trust you.”

Harry might cry with relief. He doesn’t deserve Michael’s trust. He knows he doesn’t. But he won’t break it. Not for anything. Not when Michael is the only one to stand by him. Not after Michael shows him so much love. Not after Michael hides his identity before even thinking about Harry pretending to be a cat all school year. Not after Michael trusts him and goes to find someone who can save Mr. Weasley’s life with no good reason at all to take Harry even remotely seriously.

“I can guess at a fair bit of why you’re here,” Michael murmurs. “I know it wasn’t by choice; that’s why I didn’t really think you were trying to trick me or anything. Hell of a coincidence, though, huh? That you’d end up back in Hogwarts, anyway. And you did try pretty hard to convince Mum not to let me buy you.” Michael smirks. Harry thinks it’s a beautiful sight.

“That’s why you kept trying to escape, too. But Tiger…” Michael takes a deep breath. “You don’t have to escape. I’m not saying to be my pet cat forever, either, but- well, you know- I’d like to help.” Harry blinks. He- really? “I believed you from the start,” Michael says. “You should know that by now. And I do really like you. Not just because you’re cute like this as a cat,” Harry warms and ducks his head, “but because you’re fun. You said you didn’t put on an act, so that’s just you, and I really like hanging out with you.”

He gets quiet again for a moment. “I think… I think I need a little bit of space. I’m still processing everything, and I need to figure out how I feel about it all before we really talk once we’re home for the holidays. But- I know I want to help. I’m with you, Harry. I promise that. You can count on it, so just… give me a little bit of time. I’ll be back, just like you came back to me.”

Harry stares at Michael with wonder in his eyes. Part of him, the part that still hurts from Ron and Hermione and everyone else up until now, doesn’t believe him. But Harry is going to count on it, anyway. He’s going to trust Michael, because he wants to and because he thinks he might need to a little, as well.

He needs allies, anyway, if he really wants to stay safe from the Ministry. So, Harry nods determinedly, licks Michael’s chin, and lets him go.

(Michael looks back just long enough to make sure Harry is eating again.)

-----

The following days are slow and long. Anthony gets updates on Mr. Weasley. He’s recovering well, to everyone’s relief, though all the Weasley children are released from school early so they can be at home together with their family and support their mother.

Other than that, the days are quiet. Michael doesn’t take Harry with him anywhere, though he does make sure Harry has food and water and checks that he isn’t ever locked in the dorm so he can come and go as he pleases. Otherwise, they barely see each other. Even at night, when Harry would ordinarily curl up with Michael on his bed, Harry takes instead to using the cat bed on the floor just in front of Michael’s closet.

It's incredibly lonely. Even Terry and Anthony, both obviously noticing the change between the two, can’t fix it despite how much time they spend entertaining him.

Terry and Anthony… really are great friends. Time with them makes Harry’s heart so full it hurts. They want to help so badly, but they recognize that Michael needs to work through things on his own. They trust him enough to let him go through things on his own.

Harry is honestly half convinced that Terry has him completely sussed out and only isn’t saying anything out of that ride-or-die loyalty and trust to Michael. Because he also figures out that Michael knows, of course. And Anthony is never the first to offer cuddles or even company, really, but he’s always, always the one checking that he doesn’t need anything, that he’ll be alright on his own, and that he’s still socializing even if not so much with Michael anymore.

It's Anthony who drags Luna to the dorm and asks her to take Harry out into the castle to do something, because he’s worried about Harry being cooped up.

They are probably the only reason Harry makes it through those several days before winter holiday. Them, and the promise that Michael makes to him.

But those long, slow, lonely days do pass, and Harry finds himself being brought back aboard the Hogwarts Express. The ride to King’s Cross is quiet, overall. Michael is the rowdiest of the three boys, but he’s dark and subdued the whole time. Much of the train ride is spent simply looking out the window, totally lost in thought.

Anthony pointedly looks at Michael’s bandaged hand, but he doesn’t push for Michael to reveal anything he doesn’t want to. He only silently makes clear his desire and willingness to help. Terry spends most of the ride looking between Michael and Harry with a small frown on his lips, like he’s trying to solve some kind of puzzle.

When the Patil twins join them partway through, things return to more of a veneer of normal, but even they are affected by the atmosphere, and especially Michael’s near unresponsive state just staring out the window with a slight pinch in his brow, and no one can really convince themselves that things are truly okay.

When they get to the station, Harry has a moment, looking around, where a thought unbidden comes to his head. This is when he would have escaped. Or, at least he would attempt to. Given his lack of any real attempts for a while, Michael might even be complacent enough that Harry would be successful.

But that’s not going to happen and the thought itself is unwelcome. Escape is the last thing Harry wants right now. Even if his plans aren’t thrown to hell in a handbasket by that stupid dream and him revealing himself to Michael, even if Michael doesn’t promise him that he doesn’t need to escape because Michael wants to support him, Harry doesn’t think he would.

He doesn’t think he can bring himself to.

As it is, Harry doesn’t even pretend to try. He’s practically limp in Michael’s arms as he greets his family. The other Corners, who really only know Harry for a few days when he’s a lot more standoffish than he is now and through Michael’s stories, aren’t as bold about trying to pet him, so he ends up left pretty much alone except for the welcome backs and the questions to Michael after his health.

That first day back is a usual one. Michael’s sister is too distracted by having her brother back to notice, but his parents definitely exchange looks at how distant he and Harry are. But it’s not until the next day that Michael can slip away to talk to Harry without risk of his family overhearing.

He approaches Harry early that morning, looks at him so significantly that Harry knows it can only mean one thing, and then silently picks him up and heads for the door.

They walk down the muggle street so different from Privet Drive. The houses are all suburban dreams, but they’re not identical, and one is even painted blue for some reason, but it definitely makes Harry smile.

They come up to a park not at all different from the little one in Harry’s neighborhood, and Harry knows what Michael’s idea is.

So long as they speak quietly so as not to be overheard, none of the muggles would think twice about some kids at the playground. And no one will be looking for Harry here, so the few people that might be about this early in the morning won’t recognize him.

It’s hiding in plain sight.

The two triple-check that the coast is clear, and then Harry changes back into his human form, joining Michael on the swing set too small for their teenage frames.

“I think I’ve pretty much figured out the story,” Michael says. “The dementors in your neighborhood, that attacked you. You defended yourself and the Ministry expelled you and called for your wand. Obviously, you weren’t going to just let them disarm you especially considering You-Know-Who is back, so you ran away in your animagus form. How’d you end up in the Magical Menagerie?”

Harry’s cheeks warm. “I thought to go to Gringotts to get money and maybe a way out of the country. Lady at Madam Malkin’s found me in the alley, took me there.”

Michael snorts, but he doesn’t comment on it. Not yet, at least. “So, you made a bunch of trouble for them trying to escape, and when I walked in with that bag from the joke shop, I was just another opportunity for you.”

While that’s true, Harry hates it being put like that. An opportunity. It feels… manipulative and exploitative.

“But of course, I thought you were the coolest cat in the world for setting off that prank in the middle of the shop.” He smiles, maybe for the first time since Harry wakes him up to go save Mr. Weasley. Something in Harry’s chest teases loose, a knot of tension coaxed unbound by that little smile. And so Harry smiles back.

Michael turns his eyes away. His cheeks pinken slightly. After just a single more moment of pause, he says, “The only thing I’m confused about is why you stopped trying to escape. Basically, from the moment we made it to Hogwarts I could tell all your ‘attempts’ were really more just pranks.”

Ah, right. “I figured Hogwarts was the safest place I could be,” Harry admits. “The Ministry wouldn’t be looking for me there, and frankly I fancied my chances better with you than wandering the Scottish Highlands.”

Michael hums. “That’s… not exactly true. The Ministry was looking for you at Hogwarts.”

“They were?” Harry blinks. Why? How do they think he even gets there?

“Umbridge seemed to think Dumbledore was hiding you. Why the Ministry thinks he has any say in you or your life is beyond me, but she was pretty obvious.”

That’s… actually a good point. Harry never considers just why Dumbledore has so much say in his life. It’s just Dumbledore. “I think,” he says slowly, “it’s just because Voldemort is after me. He’s trying to protect me.”

Michael flinches at Voldemort’s name, but otherwise frowns quietly, considering Harry’s perspective. “If he’s trying to protect you… why didn’t you go to him? Once we got to Hogwarts, it would’ve been easy. He doesn’t know you’re an animagus, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t.” Harry sighs. “I thought about asking him for help. But…” He shakes his head. “Michael, I became an animagus to escape my aunt and uncle. It wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with anything in the wizarding world. I didn’t even tell Ron or Hermione.”

“I did wonder about that. Hermione never recognized you.”

Harry hugs himself, rocks on the swing a little. “My aunt and uncle hate magic, so they hate me. They’re tolerable most of the time, but… well, summers are better if I spend most of my time out of the house.”

Harry does not look at Michael, so he cannot see the grim fury overtaking his face as he processes the implications.

“So, I became an animagus partly to get out of there, and partly because my dad was one and it made me feel… connected to him, a bit. It’s personal. I didn’t think anyone else had to know. Although I probably would have registered like I’m supposed to if…” He sighs.

“Dumbledore is the one who put me with my aunt and uncle. I get that I don’t have any other family, but… he’s very concerned about my safety. Especially now that Voldemort is back, he would see sneaking out as a cat to be very reckless. He’d stop it.”

“Best case,” Michael murmurs, “you’d be back to square one with them.”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “Worst case… well, changing into a cat sometimes isn’t exactly normal. If Dumbledore told them about my ability so that they could watch out for it… I don’t know how they’d take it.”

“Harry.” Michael’s voice is thick. Harry is taken off guard when his hand is suddenly snatched. There’s a gentle rattle of chains from Michael moving the swing to reach him, but their eyes fix together. “Are you really safe in that house?”

Harry’s gaze drops. He can’t face the intensity in Michael’s eye. “I’m safe there,” he says. And he does mean it. He’s hit sometimes, and he knows that’s not normal, but he’s never in danger. It’s definitely an unpleasant place to be, but it is safe.

For all that matters.

Michael seems to understand. He frowns but doesn’t push on it. “You know,” he says, “as long as no one knows you’re an animagus… we could probably get away with you coming here to be Tiger over the summers.”

Harry would love that. He grins. Being offered that out is the last thing he expects, but he’s so, so thankful that Michael would even consider it. “I don’t think it matters unless we get the Ministry off my back but thank you. I’d… really like that.”

Harry squeezes Michael’s hand, trying to show his appreciation. Michael rubs his neck with his free hand, then Harry lets go and they return to their respective swings.

“Anyway,” says Harry, “point is, I’d really prefer Dumbledore not know. As long as no one knows and I never change back outside the house, I don’t see how I’m at that much more risk, anyway, but I know he’d insist.”

“He really has no right,” Michael says. “I get that he’s trying to protect you, but he’s not your guardian.”

“He is my professor,” Harry says dully, “and he’d be informing my guardians of something I did behind their backs.”

A low growl sounds in Michael’s chest. “Still stupid.”

Harry smiles and shakes his head. He really wishes it weren’t the case, but at least about that, Dumbledore wouldn’t be wrong to do it. It’d be the “responsible” thing to do, even Harry can admit that. It just doesn’t fully consider the reality of being there.

“And Ron and Hermione…” Harry hums. “I considered telling them, but… I don’t know. It’s not for them. And besides that, while I’m sure they’d keep it secret under normal circumstances, the moment something like this happens and they don’t know where I am… well, Dumbledore would be the first to know.”

Michael scrunches up his face. “Your life’s weird, mate. Why in the hell would Ron and Hermione go to Dumbledore? Yeah, he’s trying to keep you safe, but…”

Harry bites his lip. He really shouldn’t say, but frankly? They clearly don’t trust him, anyway, telling him next to nothing. Most of what Harry can share is either speculation or learned entirely from Mrs. Figg’s cats. Not to mention how the whole thing ruins Michael’s relationship with Ginny. He deserves the truth.

“I don’t know any more than you do,” Harry says. “Not for sure, anyway. But I think Dumbledore is putting together some sort of resistance to fight Voldemort.”

Michael blinks, furrows his brow, taps his chin. “That would make sense.”

“Ron and Hermione sent me letters all summer.” He swallows thickly, knowing that Michael will make the connection right away. “They told me basically nothing, only that they couldn’t tell me where they were staying or what they were doing or why they couldn’t tell me… They said Dumbledore says it’s too dangerous.”

A sharp inhale. “The Weasleys are part of it,” Michael says. “Dumbledore’s little resistance. The whole family must’ve been…” He forces all the air out of his lungs, closes his eyes for just a moment. “I see. Thanks for telling me. That explains a lot.”

Yeah, it does. Harry gives him another minute of silence before continuing. “Dumbledore also had guards around my home. Invisible. Watching the house, watching me. They had shifts. I could tell by the sound of apparition.”

“You’re sure they were Dumbledore’s?”

Harry nods. Michael relaxes even before Harry elaborates. “Our neighbor Mrs. Figg, her cats told me. I can sort of understand them when I’m an animal. Of course, Mrs. Figg has been our neighbor my whole life, but it’s only after talking to her cats that I found out she’s a squib.”

“He’s been watching you the whole time,” Michael concludes.

“That’s all I can think of,” agrees Harry. “Too much of a coincidence, otherwise. Or she’d have made some sign of knowing me like everyone else in the wizarding world.”

Michael bites his lip. “Do you think… was Mr. Weasley at the Department of Mysteries for Dumbledore? Some mission for his resistance?”

Harry doesn’t think about that, but if he does, “I think it’s likely.”

Michael slowly nods. “Okay… so… what happened that night?”

Harry doesn’t have to ask what night he means. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve been having these dreams… about that corridor, that door. I didn’t know it was the Department of Mysteries. I didn’t even know it was the Ministry. But I’ve been dreaming about it over and over again, I keep trying to get to it, but I never manage to open it.”

He shakes his head roughly. “That night was the first time it was different. I wasn’t just approaching the door, I was- I was the snake. I could see Mr. Weasley under an invisibility cloak – I guess his body heat? Maybe? Or just his scent? And…”

“But it obviously wasn’t an ordinary dream,” says Michael. He doesn’t show any sign of being bothered by Harry’s admission of just what point of view he has in the dream. If anything, he seems sympathetic. “Do you often dream of things that’re happening? Are you an oneiromancer?”

“No,” says Harry immediately. “I don’t think so? No. The only times I’ve ever had dreams like that…” That poor groundskeeper, Voldemort talking to Peter Pettigrew… “It always has to do with Voldemort. My scar hurts when I wake. Only this time, it was excruciating.”

That alarms Michael. “It has to do with him? And your scar hurts? Isn’t your scar where he…?”

“From when he tried to kill me, yeah.” Harry shrugs. “The first time.”

Michael’s shrewd eyes narrow in thought. “What else can you tell me about it?”

“I get, uh… feelings. Like when he’s torturing someone and is really happy, I can sort of sense it…?”

“Even when you’re awake?”

Harry nods. “Sometimes. I don’t get, er, visions, when I’m awake, though.”

Michael glares off into the distance as his mind works. “Harry,” Michael says slowly, “I think we should tell Anthony about you being Tiger.”

“What?” Harry struggles to figure out just what brings Michael to that conclusion. He’s not entirely against it – he trusts Anthony and Terry both – but what takes Michael to that conclusion? “Why?”

“I know you’d prefer no one knows,” Michael says, “but if there’s some kind of… connection between you and You-Know-Who… maybe your scar is cursed somehow, I don’t know, but… if you’re connected to where you’re dreaming about him… do you think he might be dreaming about you, too?”

A surge of terror rips through Harry at the thought. If Voldemort is having similar dreams, who knows what he sees? Maybe he already knows that Harry is an animagus. This cat form of his might already be useless to protect him. He might know where Harry is. Ron and Hermione, Harry’s best friends, are protected in Dumbledore’s hideout, wherever that is, but Michael is just as important to Harry and isn’t. He and his family could be at risk if Voldemort decides to use them to get to Harry.

“Can we stop it?” Harry asks desperately. “Does Anthony know a way to make sure he can’t look into my head like that?”

Michael nods slowly. “I think so. I can’t be totally sure, since I don’t know what exactly is causing those dreams, but Anthony’s family has legilimens in it.”

“Legilimens?” Harry echoes. “What’s that?”

“Mind readers,” Michael says with a little shrug, as if it’s not a big deal. “That’s super simplified but I don’t really understand it, either. All I know is I met some of his extended family once and his grandaunt, or grand- cousin or something, I don’t know what the proper term is, she kind of couldn’t… shut it off? Some use a spell to use legilimency, most of Anthony’s family can do that, though many wizards can’t do it at all, but very rarely there’s someone like her who just does it. All the time.

“So, naturally, the rest of her family learned counter-legilimency. Anthony called it occlumency. It’s the opposite, meant to shield the mind from intrusion.”

“So, if I learn occlumency, I might be able to keep Voldemort out?”

“Maybe,” Michael says. “If there is something connecting your minds, though, Anthony might even be able to learn something about it by using legilimency on you, if you’d trust him to.”

“I trust him,” Harry says immediately. “And he’ll teach me occlumency?” Even without this connection with Voldemort, Harry doesn’t feel okay knowing that some wizards can read his mind. He has no doubt that, even if they aren’t connected somehow, Voldemort is capable of using the spell at least. Not to mention Dumbledore.

“Definitely. We just have to explain why you want to learn, but he’ll help.”

“Then we’ll tell him,” Harry says. It’s the easiest decision he ever makes. If Anthony can teach him to protect his mind, even better if he can stop the dreams… although… it’s only because of those dreams that Mr. Weasley is alive.

“It’s not worth it, Harry,” Michael says, reading the look on his face. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not worth it. If You-Know-Who doesn’t know about that connection, you know it’s only a matter of time until he figures it out. Once he does… who knows what he can do? You wouldn’t be able to hide from him for sure. He might even be able to attack you through it. It saved Mr. Weasley this time, but it also hurt you, and next time it might be worse. You said it’s never been that bad before.”

That’s true. Harry just isn’t used to thinking that selfishly. If it saves someone else’s life… doesn’t he owe it to them, no matter how much it hurts him?

But if Voldemort can get information on Harry through it like Harry is – and Harry has a hard time believing that the connection is so conveniently one way – then not doing anything about it puts Michael at risk. Harry can accept the risk to himself, but not to his friends. He has to learn occlumency.

And if someone like Mr. Weasley dies when he might otherwise have been saved… then on Harry’s head be it. He’s making his choice. The choice to protect Michael.

Harry sighs. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“No, I get it. I’d be tempted, too.”

Harry takes a breath. That’s done. Michael’s right and it would do Harry well not to dwell on the possibilities. “I want to tell Terry, too,” he says, instead of lingering on the subject.

Michael’s eyes widen. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. He’s one of your best friends, and I trust him, too. Especially if we’re telling Anthony. He shouldn’t be left out.”

“He’d understand… but thanks. I don’t want to keep secrets from him.”

“Speaking of.” Harry eyes Michael’s bandaged hand. He wants to ask why Michael doesn’t say anything to his friends about what Umbridge makes him do in detention, but he knows that’s not the best approach. “You know they’re worried about you.”

Michael’s good hand moves to cover his bandaged one. He pinkens a little and ducks his head. “…I know,” he admits. He slumps, a little groan on his lips. “It’s just been one thing after another. Bullies in our house – as if the teachers aren’t bullies enough – then Ginny broke up with me, and then this,” he lifts his bandaged hand, “and then the whole thing with Mr. Weasley and you… I just focused on revenge because it’s simple, and because I didn’t know how I felt about anything else. Everything’s complicated, but… punishing someone who deserves it isn’t. I guess… I just didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t, not really.”

“It is complicated,” Harry says mildly. “But I’m on your side. Anything you need me for.”

Michael shakes his head. “You shouldn’t go near Umbridge.”

“What’s she going to do? No way she figures out I’m an animagus.”

A sharp gaze tries to silence him. “That doesn’t mean she’s not dangerous all on her own.”

Harry only laughs. “Michael, you do know who you’re talking to, right? Honestly, making it all the way to the winter holidays without my life being threatened? I think it’s a new record.”

Michael’s frown twitches. He tries valiantly for a moment to stay stern, but the smile is too powerful for him. “I don’t think that’s true. The Ministry tried to kill you before school even started.”

“That’s summer.” Harry waves it off. “That’s an entirely different tally.”

“I hate that,” Michael chuckles. “And I hate that I’m laughing at that. Wow, your life sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”

The two share a laugh that fades into a comfortable quiet. Harry thinks they cover most of the pressing issues, and he feels comfortable and safe with a friend, an ally, and a plan to protect himself and his friends.

Michael is good with him. He seems comfortable, as well, though he keeps glancing at Harry’s face almost like he can’t believe Harry is really there, which Harry can’t blame him for. Even so, even though Michael seems fine, Harry has to ask, “And… you’re really okay with this? With me… being Tiger?”

Michael goes quiet for a moment, looking away, trying to find the right words. “…Are you comfortable being called Tiger?” he asks in response.

Harry blinks. “I- yeah, I suppose so.” It’s sort of like how Sirius takes the name Snuffles to stay undercover as a dog, or even just his nickname Padfoot. It’s not really a pet name or even a wrong one so much as a pseudonym. “You could have named me something a lot worse.”

Michael snorts. “Oh, trust me, I was going to. Thank Rosie for that one.”

Harry doesn’t know how true that is, but he laughs regardless.

“Anyway, I don’t…” Michael trails off. He worries his lip. “You’re still Tiger, aren’t you? Sure, you’re not my pet, but you’re still my friend. I don’t see there’s much of a loss, except maybe that once the Ministry isn’t after you anymore, we won’t be able to be together as much. I’m glad we met. I’m glad I convinced Mom to let me buy you.”

Harry winces. “I’ll pay you back…”

Michael just flashes him a bright smile. “You already have.” His eyes find the horizon again, far away. “I admit… I was a little angry at first, but that’s part of why I asked for some space and some time. I was able to think about it and… that’s where I’ve landed. You’re still my friend. You’re still everything Tiger is to me. I just… learned a bit more about you.

“I care about you, Harry. That’s real. It doesn’t much matter if you started out as a cat, because that feeling is still there. And you didn’t really lie to me, or betray me, or anything. You had a choice to keep your distance and keep trying to escape. And even if you didn’t escape, you didn’t have to be my friend. You didn’t have to… be there when I needed you to be there. But you were. That matters more to me than everything else.”

Harry swallows past the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’m… I’m really glad we’re friends.”

The boys share a small, secret smile, and know they’re okay. They’ve got a lot to do when they get back to school, and a lot of planning to do before then, but this unexpected shift doesn’t break anything. They’re still okay.

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 6

End of the Line

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

“I-I’m sorry,” Michael says. “Tiger did what?”

Hermione, tapping her foot, fuming, glaring at Harry, snaps, “He set off a bunch of Fred and George’s prototype pranks! And stole from us!”

Michael bites his lip. He turns sternly to Harry. “What did he steal?”

Hermione huffs as if the what shouldn’t matter so long as she says he steals something, but she does admit, “One of my bookmarks and- and… some scrap parchment.”

Harry smiles to himself. His tail wags. Hermione can’t say why the Marauder’s Map is important, obviously, so it’s just any old parchment to Michael. Unless she wants to start trusting him, which everyone knows is never going to happen.

Michael blinks. “A bookmark,” he repeats, “and some scrap parchment.”

Hermione’s cheeks color, realizing how silly that sounds. “Well… y-yes. But it doesn’t much matter what he took, does it? Your cat stole from us, and I demand it back!”

“A bookmark,” says Michael. “And scrap parchment.”

“Yes, we’ve already said,” snaps Hermione impatiently. “Now are you going to return them or not?”

Michael’s shoulders start trembling. “A… a bookmark,” he repeats yet again. “And scrap- pfft- scrap- bahaha!- scra-hap parchment! Ahahahahahahahahahaha!”

“Michael Corner! This is not funny!”

“A bookmark! Pahaha! Haha! Ha!”

“Michael!”

“And scrap-” He’s wheezing so hard at this point that Harry legitimately worries he might not be able to breathe. “Scrap parch- hahahaha!”

Hermione, thoroughly red, stamps her foot. “He destroyed the Gryffindor Common Room!”

“Haaa- haa- oh, I can’t breat- haaaaaa- Oh, Merlin’s pants! Hahahaha haha haha!”

“Michael!” Hermione shrieks. “He set our common room on fire with unsafe, untested prank fireworks!”

“Like the Menagerie! Hahaha! Awesome, Tiger!”

“And then he destroyed everything that wasn’t damaged by the burns with a portable swamp!”

“Bahahahaha! A swamp! Genius! For a bookmark and scrap- pahaha!”

Hermione growls somewhere deep in her chest. Harry doesn’t know she can make that sound. “You’re just lucky that Professor McGonagall doesn’t hold you responsible!”

“I wish! All I did was give Tiger a stink pellet. The rest is all him! You’re a genius, Tiger!”

Harry looks up at Hermione with the smuggest expression a cat can make.

“Look,” Hermione hisses. “Just get yourself together and give me back what your cat took, and I’ll overlook this. This time.”

Michael, still wheezing, wiping the tears streaming down his face, struggles to get himself back under control. “Right- right… hehe- right.” He coughs. “Right, okay, sure. Yeah, I know where Tiger’s stash is. We’ll get your- pfft- your- bookma- pffthahahaha!”

It takes several more minutes for Michael to calm down enough to walk straight, which only makes Hermione even more unhappy, but he does eventually manage to lead her back to the storage room where Harry’s tub stash is.

“Alright,” he says. “Tiger carries his goodies up into the top tub. Give me a second.” He casts the sticking charm again to make sure the tubs don’t topple under his weight and then climbs up to look inside. Spotting the bookmark quickly, he snags it. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

Hermione snatches it out of his hand and pockets it, obviously not at all concerned about the bookmark. “Yes, now the parchment?”

“Chill out, Granger, it’s just parchment. Tiger likes it for some reason. I swear I saw him eating it once, but he had a stack in here already when I found it. Hold on…” With obviously no way to know which parchment is Hermione’s, not that it matters in Michael’s eyes, he just gathers the lot of it up into a stack and hands it down to her. “There, that’s everything he’s got so you’re actually leaving with more parchment than you lost.”

It… leaves Harry’s stash feeling pretty barren, actually. He doesn’t like it. He’s going to have to steal more soon. To fill in his tub again.

“Oh, cheer up, Tiger.” He feels Michael’s hand on his head fondling his ears. “You can always steal more parchment.”

Hermione, with a thick stack of parchment in her hands that she can’t actually check for the map until she’s out of sight of Michael, finally cools down. She sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Just… keep him out of Gryffindor from now on, okay?”

Well… he sincerely doubts Ginny will be willing to take Tiger back into the common room after this, so, “Sure,” he promises. “I’ll do my best.”

Hermione leaves the room.

Michael turns his amused gaze back to the stash. “Hey, is that my sock?”

-----

Hermione ends up going back to Michael after checking and finding that the Marauder’s Map isn’t among the parchment he gives to her. Michael is left mostly confused and frustrated because firstly, how does she even know that her bit of scrap parchment isn’t among the whole stack he hands to her, and secondly, why in the world does she care? It’s parchment.

Hermione is obviously left pissed because the map is missing, but Michael really has no other answer for her but that he gives her all the parchment that Tiger gathers, so there’s nothing he can do to help her if she’s not happy with that.

Not long after that, Michael is cornered in the hall by two older Gryffindors. Two identical older Gryffindors.

“Hello, Tiger,” says Fred.

“Michael,” says George. Both lean imposingly into Michael’s space, pushing him back against the wall.

“Fred, George,” Michael says pleasantly. “Hey. What can I do for you?”

There’s a dangerous gleam in their eyes. Harry resists the urge to hiss.

“Well, you see,” says Fred. “We just got done with detention.”

“Apparently, some of our pranks were used in the Gryffindor Common Room,” says George. “Only we don’t remember setting them.”

“And someone went through my trunk while I was studying in the library like a good little student,” says Fred.

The stare down continues for exactly five more seconds. Then, all three humans break out into enormous cheshire grins.

“How did you train him to do that?” Fred asks, holding his hand out for Harry to sniff.

“And can we borrow him?” asks George.

Michael laughs. “I didn’t train him to do anything,” he says. “Tiger stole my filibuster fireworks out of my pocket and set them off in the middle of the Magical Menagerie. That’s how we met. He’s been pranking long before I came into the picture, as I understand it.”

Both twins eyes fill with interest. “Oh? And about the common room?”

Michael snickers. “I thought he was just upset because I was.” He winces. “Because, er… Ginny has been… sort of distant. I knew he knew how frustrated I am about it, and he was acting funny last time we hung out, all clinging to Ginny even though he never likes strangers like that, so I knew he was up to something.

“I swear, all I knew was that he wanted Ginny to take him back to your common room and I gave him a stink pellet to use. I thought he wanted to prank her for upsetting me. That’s it. The rest is all him.”

Fred and George share a look. “Sorry about Ginny, mate,” Fred says. “With You-Know-Who back and everything, Mum’s being a bit paranoid. Didn’t really like us sending letters at all last summer.”

“Read through them, too, to make sure we didn’t say anything she thought might endanger us,” adds George.

“Oh.” Michael blinks. Harry flattens his ears. “Oh, that… actually makes sense.”

Does it? It rings of the truth, yes. Harry gets that much from Ron and Hermione over the summer, too. But it doesn’t change the fact that they all get together and leave him out. It doesn’t change that none of them trust him enough to just pick him up and talk to him in person. It’s not enough for Harry.

But it seems like it’s enough for Michael. He visibly relaxes, like a great weight is lifted off his shoulders, and he sighs, although he still mutters under his breath, “Then why didn’t she just tell me that?” He shakes his head sharply. “Thanks for telling me,” he says, louder. “Like I said, it was bothering me.”

George throws an arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you and Ginny can work it out.”

Harry secretly hopes not. He knows perfectly well why Ginny does what she does. It’s still inexcusable to treat her boyfriend that way, Harry thinks. Michael deserves better. (Harry deserves better than how Ron and Hermione treat him. But it’s easier to be mad about someone else being treated that way than himself.)

The last thing Harry wishes on Michael is heartbreak, but… he really does believe that he should find someone better than Ginny.

Fred and George swiftly return the discussion to Harry and the many, many pranks they have planned, but Harry is mostly just disquieted at the thought of Michael forgiving Ginny for what she does.

Maybe… Maybe it’s just because he’s not ready to forgive them. But maybe he should? He doesn’t want to, though. He wants to be angry and bitter and spiteful. He wants to hate them.

He really, really wants to hate them.

-----

Harry dreams of a corridor. Slick black stone walls leading to a door. He tries to open it, tries to reach it, but he wakes up before he can. Every time.

Weeks pass. As the weather turns, Harry hears disquiet in the school. Professor Umbridge, the Defense teacher and subject of many complaints in the common room, is given more and more power by the Ministry and wastes no time exercising that power.

As Harry isn’t a student anymore, it doesn’t affect him much. But Michael is frustrated by it. He comes back to the dorm ranting and raving, pissed to the heavens, about Umbridge and the things she preaches. About not learning any practical defense, about how she continues to attack Harry even though he’s missing and what kind of heartless shrew talks that way about a missing kid?

Apparently, the Ministry assumes that Harry skips town to become some kind of dark lord in his own right, committing the acts Dumbledore continues to point to as proof that Voldemort is back. Umbridge says they’re working together to sow chaos in the wizarding world. No word on a motivation, though, except for him being mad, egotistical, et cetera, et cetera.

Truthfully, it doesn’t even bother Harry much. He’s upset because it upsets Michael, Anthony, and Terry, but he doesn’t take it personally. The Ministry’s opinions stop mattering to him when they try to snap his wand for defending himself and his helpless cousin from dementors, frankly. But he also doesn’t have to deal with Umbridge directly, so that probably also plays a part.

What does bother Harry is that Michael and Ginny actually do manage to recover their relationship. She makes it known in no uncertain terms that Harry is not ever welcome in the Gryffindor Common Room again, but past that the two get on again with the awkwardness a thing of the past. Michael moves on from the hurt, accepting Fred and George’s explanation, and Ginny is happy to not have to talk about it, so they’re back to how they are before the end of last year, and seem every day very much in love.

It makes Harry’s stomach turn. He tries to get between them for a little while, sitting between them so there’s space, even sometimes hissing at Ginny when she gets too close. He certainly doesn’t put up with her touching him like he does that first day to trick her into taking him back, which of course only makes it obvious that he does it to trick her in the first place, which means Ginny doesn’t much like him anymore, either.

Harry becomes the one thing that they consistently argue about. And Harry is so disgustingly satisfied with that that the moment he sees the heartbroken look on Michael’s face, eyes going back and forth between Harry and Ginny’s back as she storms off, he decides that he just can’t do it anymore.

He can’t sit there and watch the two get close. He just can’t forgive Ginny or the others, and he thinks Michael is making a mistake staying with her. But he also doesn’t want to hurt Michael by being the reason he breaks up with his girlfriend. That’s just unfair to him. So, whenever Michael goes out with Ginny, Harry just finds something else to do. Most of the time he hangs out with Terry or goes wandering the castle to pick up goodies for his tub stash. Just anything but sitting there between Michael and Ginny.

It's with this extra time that Harry also finds himself more often in the Ravenclaw Common Room. Luna is a delight whenever she’s around, and Anthony is always willing to let him doze nearby while he reads if he feels like quiet company.

The only problem is… Cho. She still makes his gut go all fluttery, but she at least learns that he doesn’t want her to pet him, so she thankfully mostly leaves him alone.

He still finds himself watching her whenever she’s in, though. She’s just so pretty… and is dealing with a lot. Harry feels terrible for her. She… spends a lot of time crying. It’s actually really sad. At the start of the year, she’s surrounded by girl friends. One of the most popular girls in Ravenclaw. Now, though… it’s basically just Marietta still by her side.

She’s still grieving Cedric. Harry can’t blame her – he’s still grieving Cedric. But her emotions are all over the place and she breaks down seemingly at random and she really needs support, but all her friends ditch her because they don’t want to deal with it.

It pisses Harry off.

The final straw, though, is when Harry is in the common room late at night and spots red-haired Felicity Eastchurch coming up the girls’ staircase with Luna’s shoes.

He never does find out until just then how Luna loses her shoes at the beginning of the year. He gets the sense from the vibe of the common room that Luna isn’t popular. The other Ravenclaws think she’s weird and they talk about her behind her back. But that’s all… fine. That’s stupid teenage stuff that Harry deals with all the time when he’s a student. It sucks, but it is what it is.

But the bag in Felicity’s hands? The shoes? The coat, robe, and butterbeer cork necklace that Latisha Randle next to her is carrying?

That’s unforgivable.

And Harry is just angry enough – at those girls, at Ginny, at Umbridge – that he can’t take it lying down anymore.

So, the next chance he has, he drags Michael to where the older girls hide Luna’s things. Michael, horrified, gathers it all back up and takes it back to the common room, and together they stake out the place. Every time a student passes by, Michael gives Harry a purposeful look, and Harry patiently stares down the girls’ staircase.

When Felicity and Latisha come up the stairs, giggling like they aren’t bullying a student two years younger than them, Harry’s claws flex. Michael hisses as they dig into his leg, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just narrows his eyes at the faces involved.

“Those used to be Cho’s friends,” he murmurs. Harry remembers. The first time he meets Cho in the common room, Felicity Eastchurch is the girl on the other side of her, opposite Marietta. He sees Cho and Latisha laughing together often. Or did, before both abandon Cho for being moody because her boyfriend is murdered not even a year ago.

They need to pay.

-----

Harry dreams of a corridor. Slick black stone walls leading to a door. He tries to open it, tries to reach it, but he wakes up before he can. Every time.

It’s really starting to bother him now, that dream. He has it too often, too regularly. It has to mean something. But what door is that? What does it lead to?

But Harry has retribution to plan, and so tries to put it out of his mind. Harry prompts Michael to bring up Luna’s situation with Fred and George – because Felicity and Latisha deserve a lot worse than a dungbomb or anything else in Michael’s prank stash – and the four of them start planning.

Michael also takes to watching out for Luna, though it doesn’t do much good. Anthony and Terry help, but Padma is the only one with any real authority in the girls’ dormitories, so it’s basically just her against all of the older girls. Including Marietta, Harry learns. Not including Cho, though he can’t tell if that’s because Cho is too busy crying over Cedric to bother bullying Luna, or because she’s actually against it. The angry part of him says it’s the former – she allows it up until this point after all – though his heart yearns for the latter.

Or… he thinks it does. Honestly… he pities Cho more than anything else, at this point. He’s not sure he’s actually attracted to her anymore.

(He kind of worries that spending so long as a cat is making him… lose that attraction? Will he ever be interested in anyone again? Will he start getting interested in cats? Ew.)

But he definitely feels for her. He gets it. The emotions are easier to deal with like this, as a cat, but he really wants to just curl up and cry sometimes, too. Sometimes, everything just gets so overwhelming and the only thing that helps is having Michael hold him to his chest and whisper safe things in his ear.

And while Harry dreams about that corridor and plans retribution against Luna’s bullies and tries to comfort Michael against Umbridge’s everything, he thinks – hopes – that the first quidditch game will be a bright spot in a rapidly-darkening year.

Only the game is Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. Harry goes with Michael because he likes quidditch, wants to see the game, and because he’s curious who replaces him as Gryffindor seeker.

He should really expect that it’s Ginny.

The game is great, really. It’s an exciting match. The Gryffindor chasers are better, and Harry is legitimately ecstatic to see Ron as keeper, though he kind of fumbles it a bit while the Slytherins shout a mean chant about him.

Because Ron is off his game with the Slytherins’ jeers, the Ravenclaw keeper plays better. That said, the Gryffindor chasers are unmatched and will be until Angelina and Alicia graduate and they have to find a new lineup. Fred and George are the superior beaters, though the Ravenclaw ones are strong. And Harry knows Ginny is no slouch as a seeker, even if she prefers chaser.

Sadly, Ron is the obvious weak link, and the longer the game goes on, the truer the Slytherins’ jeers ring, the more they get to Ron, and the worse he plays as a result. It’s a bit of a mess.

It’s only the chasers and Fred and George playing so well that keep Gryffindor even on the scoreboard, but it’s a high-point game. Either team stands a decent chance of pulling ahead far enough to overcome the snitch points and win regardless of which seeker catches it.

In the end, though, it’s Ginny who gets the snitch, earning Gryffindor the victory. Ravenclaw all lets out their collective disappointment, including Harry, who feels more a Ravenclaw than a Gryffindor some days. Harry is still proud of his team, though.

So, it kind of is that bright spot Harry hopes for, even if Ravenclaw does lose. Which these days of course means it can’t go untainted.

The day after the match, Michael finds Ginny. Harry is getting ready to leave like he always does, not wanting to witness them be all coupley together, but things devolve so rapidly to pegasus dung that Harry doesn’t even have time to walk away.

He wishes he listens to what exactly Michael says. But he doesn’t. He tunes it out after just, “Hey, Ginny!” and leaves it at that, fully intending to go swipe something Felicity Eastchurch will miss.

He wishes he listens, though, because he does hear Ginny’s reply, and he can’t imagine what on earth Michael can possibly say to justify it.

“Merlin, you are such a bad loser, Michael!” Ginny says. Harry immediately whips around to look at her. “You aren’t even on the quidditch team. Don’t sulk. And can’t you be glad for your girlfriend who caught the snitch?”

Michael stands there, gawping. Harry knows perfectly well that he is happy for her, and will gladly say as much if he’s not so taken aback that he can’t say anything at all.

“You know what?” Ginny snaps. “I’m done. We’re through. I don’t want to put up with this anymore.”

Michael squeaks. “What? What do you mean we’re through? What did I do?”

“I’m sick of you pouting just because you don’t get your way! Honestly, even Tiger realized that it wasn’t worth the trouble, but you just sulk and sulk because things don’t work out perfectly for you and I’m not entertaining it anymore. We’re through. Goodbye, Michael.”

She turns and walks away. Harry has a terrible urge to throw a dungbomb after her, but he doesn’t have one right now, unfortunately.

Michael just stands there, completely lost.

And Harry has much more important things to focus on. Retribution can wait. Michael is more important.

He purrs and rubs up against Michael’s legs until Michael mechanically bends down to pick him up. Then, he pushes his head into Michael’s chin, rubbing against him. He licks Michael’s nose. Anything to get him to come back.

Slowly, Michael does. It takes a while, but everything catches up with him. His eyes water and he ducks his head. He says nothing as he marches back to the Ravenclaw dorm.

It’s only inside the safety of his quietened bed curtains and after several minutes of cuddling that Michael speaks. “…I’m sorry, Tiger,” he murmurs. His voice cracks. Harry feels tears sear his fur and his breast fills with flame.

“You even tried to help,” Michael whispers, “even though you never liked her. But I messed it up, anyway.”

Harry would like to say it’s better this way, but… nothing that hurts Michael like this has any good in it. Nothing.

“…Am I really a bad loser? I mean… I joked about Ravenclaw losing, but…” He shakes his head. “No, that’s not what it’s really about. She’s been looking for an excuse since the summer. I thought it’d be over you. I guess… maybe part of me just wanted to give her the opportunity I knew she was looking for.

“I missed you, you know. Every time you’d leave when I was with her. I know you did it to stop us arguing over you, but… I always miss you when you’re gone. That’s what she was really talking about. About me sulking. …Maybe I do, when you’re not there.”

He sniffs. Harry climbs up him, the closest thing he has to a hug. Michael says, “But you know… I’m always going to choose you. If it’s between some girl or you… you win hands down.” Michael holds Harry desperately tight. “I’m so glad you’re here, Tiger. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He gently separates from Harry, making sure that Harry is safe before he turns, takes a deep breath, and punches the wooden arch frame. “I hate this,” he growls. He drops his head against the frame, already just sounding tired. “I wish…” This time, he sighs. “There’s so much fear,” he murmurs. “Everywhere. The Ministry is terrified of Dumbledore and of Harry, everyone is afraid of You-Know-Who, and even when we try- when we try to have those little good things that teenagers are supposed to be able to have… fear ruins that, too.”

His eyes are dull and dead as he stares at the wooden frame. “…You know why Ginny really broke up with me?” A sniff. “It’s because I wanted her to.” A bitter laugh. “After summer, I was so scared of her, scared of her coming back and telling me that she didn’t want me anymore. So, I just tried to appease her.” He shakes his head, but it looks more like his whole body shakes instead. “It was never going to work.

“She was never interested in actually talking about the problem. She was too scared to face it, and I was too eager to brush past it because I was scared of what that confrontation would bring. But I knew- I knew it wasn’t sustainable. Honestly… I was done, too. A while ago. I just had so many other things to be scared of… I didn’t want to face that, too.”

Harry shoves into the hollow of Michael’s body, nuzzling in and purring to bring whatever small comfort he can. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough. But it’s all he has.

“I was even scared of you, you know,” Michael admits, quietly.

And Harry does know. He burns with shame imagining the fear he puts Michael through, and what he will inevitably have to put him through in the future.

“I was so scared that you would just leave and never come back. You were always trying to escape… I thought that if you managed it… that’d be it. And it was probably very selfish of me to try so hard to make sure you didn’t, but… but then- then when you- on that first day, when I saw you here after the feast… you didn’t run.

“And I was terrified, but I trusted you, and when I went to class the first time, I couldn’t even do my classwork because I kept thinking, ‘Where’s Tiger? Where’s Tiger? Is he going to come back?’ And I was sure you wouldn’t because you always tried so hard to get away, but… you did.

“I think… Tiger… you’re like, the only thing I’m not afraid of, anymore. And I need you so bad, because I’m so tired of being afraid and you- and you make me- you make me feel… brave. You make me feel like I don’t have to be scared, because even though things suck major balls right now… being brave gave me something good. It gave me you. I want to be braver everywhere else, too.”

A hard glint takes his eye. “I’m sick of it, Tiger. I’m sick of keeping my head down, of doing nothing. I’m sick of the Ministry who think they can walk all over this school. I’m even sick of You-Know-Who. But mostly… I’m just so sick of being scared.”

-----

It’s with that steely edge to his eye that Michael leaves the common room the next morning, and it’s with an even darker edge that he comes back. He bundles Harry into his arms and shuts his curtains, shuts Terry and Anthony and everyone else out.

“I got detention with Umbridge,” Michael admits quietly, just between him and Harry. Michael doesn’t look proud of it, exactly, but he does look satisfied with himself. Like he proves something to himself. “She made a comment in class… said Harry is a threat to the wizarding world. Well, I told her the only threat I saw was the threat she posed to our O.W.L. scores teaching us that garbage. That already pissed her right off, then I had to mouth off and say in front of everyone that Harry is right, actually, and I’d really appreciate learning actual defensive magic instead of racist, hippie theory so that You-Know-Who doesn’t kill me quite so fast.”

He lets out a huffing laugh. “So, yeah. Detention. Felt good, though. Felt good to do something. To stand up to her. I know I don’t have any real power and I’m only going to cause myself trouble but… man, it felt good.” He laughs again, a little more genuine. “You should have seen the look on everyone’s faces. Ha! More than worth detention.”

That does sound satisfying. Harry probably would have gotten detention on day one. And that’s not even counting how Umbridge would definitely have it out for him. No, he would actually earn it. Umbridge sounds awful.

“Tiger…” Michael whispers. “The students who defy her… well… they don’t, anymore. I don’t know what she does in her detentions, but… even though I’m scared… I won’t let her make me that person again. The one who rolls over and lets her walk over them. She can expel me if she wants, but I’m not going to let her break me. Never.”

Harry licks Michael’s hand. Please be safe, he begs, hoping that Michael will somehow understand his thoughts.

“Don’t worry.” Michael puts his hand on Harry’s head and grins. “I mean, it’s detention. How bad can it be?”

As it turns out… it can be very, very, very bad.

Michael returns from his detention pale and grim. He doesn’t look at or acknowledge anyone between the defense office and his bed. But a storm rages underneath his skin. Harry knows immediately that the swirling rebellion in him has only been stoked further.

Michael summons his trunk before he shuts the curtains of his bed. Harry paces erratically, looking Michael over desperately for some sign of what happens, of what Umbridge does to him that silences everyone he says speaks out until now.

Michael digs through his trunk, sorts through potion supplies and small vials of potion he makes over the summer (he doesn’t like potions, but he’s surprisingly good at them) and pulls one. He grabs a clean shirt to use as a cloth and clenches it tight in his hand.

Then, when he puts the sealed potion vial down and lowers his hand so that he can tie the shirt tightly around the back of it, Harry sees the angry red cuts, still oozing blood. They read, I must not tell lies.

Michael ties the shirt around the wound and slowly trickles the potion onto it, letting it soak into the cloth, which holds it tight against the wound, and he hisses just slightly, then sighs with relief.

But Harry boils.

A teacher does this. A teacher. And Harry might not have the greatest record of teachers not trying to maim or kill him, but that’s him. This isn’t supposed to happen to Michael.

Worse, this is the teacher the Ministry places at Hogwarts. Harry knows they’re willing to attack, potentially kill, and definitely ruin the lives of the children of Hogwarts, but torture?

Harry has to do something. He has to do… anything.

Michael’s good hand falls on Harry’s head. His smile is warm, but his eyes are made of winter and the fingers in Harry’s fur are cold.

Michael whispers, just a secret between a boy and his cat. “Don’t worry, Tiger. She’s going to regret this.”

-----

Harry and Michael find themselves suddenly very busy. They’re still planning retribution for Luna, but now Michael is also taking time to hide and sit over a cauldron, plotting something dastardly for Umbridge as well.

The twins try to make some excuse for Ginny, but Michael doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t talk to them anymore. He barely talks to anyone anymore. All his free time is spent over his joke products and especially the ones Fred and George give him (okay, give Tiger) for the “masterful display” in the Gryffindor Common Room, not debating which to use, but dismantling them, figuring out how they work.

And he gets more detentions because he refuses to give Umbridge the satisfaction of shutting him up, even if he knows he’ll win in the end. He comes back, night after night, almost ritualistic. Pale, bloodied, crying, but harder, sharper than ever before. Like Umbridge is merely a whetstone upon which his blade is prepared.

Meanwhile, Harry dreams. He dreams of a corridor. Slick black stone walls leading to a door. He tries to open it, tries to reach it, but he wakes up before he can. Every time.

His body feels smooth, powerful and flexible. He glides between shining metal bars, across that dark stone. At first glance, the corridor is empty… but no… a man sits on the floor ahead, his chin drooping onto his chest, his outline gleaming in the dark, alive but drowsy. Sitting there on the floor in front of the door at the end of the corridor.

Harry wants to bite the man, only just masters the impulse. He has other work to do… But then the man stirs. A silver cloak falls from his legs as he jumps to his feet. He withdraws his wand from his belt… No choice, then. He rears high up from the floor and strikes once, twice, thrice, plunges his fangs deeply into the man’s flesh, feels his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feels the warm gush of blood… finally.

The man yells in pain, then falls silent. He slumps backwards against the wall, blood splatters on the floor.

His head hurts… an aching pressure like it’s fit to burst…

“Tiger! Tiger!”

Harry opens his eyes. His body feels icy cold and his lungs refuse to breathe. He trembles fiercely; it feels as though a white-hot poker sticks in his skull.

“Tiger!”

Michael kneels over him looking terrified. Harry slaps a paw over his face trying to block out the world, then all at once lurches to the side to vomit on Michael’s bedsheets.

Michael doesn’t care about that, though. He doesn’t even look twice at it.  “You’re ill…” he mutters, whining worriedly. “Would Madam Pomfrey know how to help a cat? Hagrid can’t do magic…”

Harry has to tell Ron. It’s very important that he tell him… Taking great gulps of air, Harry forces himself to stand, willing himself not to throw up again, the pain half blinding him.

But Ron isn’t here. The only one who is, is Michael, and no one knows that Tiger is Harry, and Harry can’t afford to let that secret out.

…Even if it means no one finds Mr. Weasley?

For a brief, horrible, disgusting moment, Harry considers it. He wants to protect himself at the cost of even his best friend’s father’s life. Who’s to say that informing someone right now means he’ll be reached in time, anyway? Harry could be throwing away his safety only for Mr. Weasley to die, regardless.

“Alright, I’m getting help,” Michael mutters, turning to open his curtains.

Harry lunges. He doesn’t think – his decision is made by his body before his mind. He changes back into his human form, grabs Michael by the waist, pulls him back into the bed, and sits on him so he can’t move.

“Wha-?”

And claps a hand over Michael’s mouth to muffle the screaming.

“We’ll talk about me later!” Harry hisses. Michael’s eyes somehow widen even further. “Ginny’s dad! Mister Weasley- he’s been attacked!” Harry pulls his hand back to tug at his own hair. “Bitten. It’s serious, there was blood everywhere…”

“Harry- Harry- Ugh, Tiger!”

Harry’s mouth snaps shut.

“You had a bad dream…” Michael says, trying to soothe him.

“No.” says Harry furiously. He has to make Michael understand. “It wasn’t a dream- not an ordinary one. I was there, I saw it, I did it…”

Michael’s brow is pinched, clearly worried even though Harry isn’t actually a cat. “Harry…” he tries again. It looks like he wants to say Harry is sick again, and he wouldn’t be wrong. Pale and shaking and clammy and slick with sweat, Harry definitely looks the part. But Michael’s lips turn down as he meets Harry’s eye and he drops the protest. “What do you need?”

“There was a gigantic snake.” Harry shudders. “Mister Weasley was asleep on the floor… it attacked- so much blood, he collapsed… Michael, we have to find out where he is. Someone has to find him!”

“Harry- Harry, focus. I believe you.” Michael grabs Harry’s face to make him look at him. “You don’t know where he was?”

“N-no.”

“What can you tell me about it? Where did this happen? Anything that could give us a clue?”

“Er… black stone walls, metal bars… a door at the end of a corridor…” He recalls something despite his state, one more detail he never quite makes out until tonight. “M.”

“The Ministry,” Michael says. “Stay here – actually, change back into Tiger. Anthony’s dad works at the Ministry. He can get in. I’ll wake him up and we’ll figure out how to contact him quick, then he can go find Mister Weasley.”

Harry numbly rolls off of Michael, allowing him to rise once more. Michael pauses just before disturbing his curtains, looks back at Harry. “…Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admits. “Just please save Mister Weasley. I’ll be fine until then, at least.”

Michael nods solemnly. He lifts a hand, reaching out to Harry as if to pet him, but he pulls it back with a grimace and jumps out of bed to the ground, and the bunk, below.

For some reason, Harry kind of wishes Michael would pet him. It would feel a lot less like breaking.

[bouwrites]

Five years past those warm and halcyon days, He shall become the lion that devours the Sun.

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 5

The Great Map Heist

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

The first thing Harry does with his freedom, while all the students are at breakfast getting their timetables, is walk up to Gryffindor Tower. There, he lounges on a windowsill just outside the Gryffindor Common Room where he can keep an eye on the portrait of the Fat Lady who guards the entrance, and he plots.

Harry needs to get his paws on the Marauder’s Map. He can’t risk Ron or Hermione checking it out of desperation and finding him here, not while being caught means being turned into Dumbledore, sent back to the Dursleys (who will undoubtedly be informed how he hides and will beat him senseless for doing something as freakish as turning into a cat), and then having his wand snapped by the Ministry.

Maybe even prison by that point, for fleeing from the Ministry in the first place.

It’s just not an option, and the Marauder’s Map is the one thing that can definitively out him, so Harry can’t suffer allowing it to remain out of his reach.

The problem is how in the world he’s going to get it back while he’s a cat. Well… that and what in the world he’s going to do with it to keep it hidden once he gets it, but one problem at a time.

It has to be with either Ron or Hermione’s belongings. Or maybe Fred and George nick it back, but that seems less likely. But either way, it means that Harry has to somehow infiltrate the Gryffindor Common Room.

Learning the password should be easy enough, but Harry can’t use it as he is. He can change back to give the password, but then the Fat Lady will identify him and the whole castle will know he’s around by the next morning and everyone will know to look for him here.

Most students won’t let an animal they don’t recognize into the common room on account of them not wanting to accidentally trap another student’s pet there and prevent it from getting back to where it’s meant to be. If he were disillusioned, then he might be able to slip inside, but Harry will have to do that as a human and he isn’t sure he can disillusion himself and then turn back into a cat without breaking the charm. Maybe worth a try?

But then the exfiltration will be very tricky. Slipping through with a student works when he isn’t carrying a sheaf of parchment which will not be disillusioned with him, even if he is, himself. But the map will immediately draw attention to him and then everyone will be wondering why there’s a disillusioned cat trying to steal this parchment from their dorm and it’ll only make everything worse.

Not to mention that Harry has a very, very bad track record at exfiltration. (Magical Menagerie…) Although maybe since no one would actually be looking for him he might have better luck? If nothing else, he does have a lot of practice, so he’s got to pull it off one of these days, right? 

Ugh. He flicks his tail in annoyance. He knows he’s impulsive and not the most organized person, but there’s definitely truth in that saying that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. Harry would kill for a notebook and a pen right now so he can organize his thoughts.

Okay. So, step one: infiltration. Entering the Gryffindor Common Room.

Step two: find the map. Probably in either Ron or Hermione’s trunks. (Harry really does not want to dig through Hermione’s trunk. That’s just… inappropriate. But he has to keep himself safe.)

Step three: exfiltration. Get out without anyone catching him or the map. Ideally without anyone being the wiser that he has the thing, just in case Ron and Hermione piece together that Michael’s cat steals the Marauder’s Map and make a scene with him trying to get it back, because uh… they would. Make a scene, that is.

Step four: hide(?) the map. Harry honestly doesn’t have the foggiest idea what he can possibly do with the thing, he just knows it needs to be away from the two (four, including Fred and George) people in this castle who can use it.

Minor problem with that step: Harry cannot think of a single place in the castle that Fred and George do not stand a decent chance of uncovering the map should he hide it there. Hiding it from Ron and Hermione surprisingly isn’t that hard so long as he has the opportunity, but Fred and George? Oof.

Step five: profit. He guesses.

Simple. Now, if only Harry can figure out how to do literally any one of those steps, he’d be flying with the hippogriffs.

Oh! Harry has an idea. He should steal more stuff. That way, if he is seen taking the map, Ron and Hermione won’t have any reason to think he goes after the map specifically, and won’t suspect he knows anything or is anything more than the cat he presents himself as.

Cats steal things, right? Harry thinks he remembers that cats sometimes steal little hoards. He doesn’t actually know if that’s true, but if he establishes it as part of his character then he doesn’t need to worry about not being seen leaving the common room with the map, only not being caught.

Which is much easier. In theory. Again, Harry does not have the best track record with escaping.

Great. He can get started on that while he continues to think over how to get into Gryffindor.

With something actionable to do, Harry gets back up and trots down to the Grand Staircase, then up towards Ravenclaw Tower. He’s just entering the hall that leads to the tower when he notices a single shoe laying dejectedly half-hidden behind the foot of one of the blue arches decorating this corridor.

And Harry thinks, well, why not? Why shouldn’t he take it? He may as well get started as soon as he can, right?

So, he approaches the shoe, eyes it for a moment because it’s pure white but has been doodled all over and clearly has been worn often in the dirt and grass from the stains on it, and he wonders who it belongs to. Not many people would lose a shoe in the middle of the corridor. At least, not many that would then proceed to keep walking, presumably with only one shoe left.

Location would suggest a Ravenclaw. They by far use this hall more often than anyone else. (Most other houses would use this path as an alternate route, not the primary or shortest path to their classes or anywhere else in the castle.)

He wonders if the other shoe is around here somewhere, too. Even if it’s not, maybe he can find some other things to swipe to establish a little hoard before he gets back in the Ravenclaw Common Room and takes things more directly.

A cursory inspection of this hallway reveals nothing new, so Harry picks up the shoe and heads off in search of a place to keep his hoard. Somewhere close to Ravenclaw Tower.

His answer, serendipitously, comes literally the very moment he enters said tower. Just on the right, before the tight spiral staircase that leads up to the common room, is a room Harry recalls no one ever entering.

He finagles the door open with a lot of jumping and scrambling trying to catch the doorknob, but he manages it, and pulls the shoe inside the room that’s… storage, it looks like?

At least, Harry can’t imagine any other reason why there would be a stack of bathtubs piled up all the way to the ceiling. Oh, ew, there’s a toilet in here, too. Obviously, it’s not attached to the plumbing, as it’s balanced precariously atop a battered and toppled bathroom sink, but still. Gross.

Harry figures the tubs are his best bet at hiding his stash and jumps up, climbing carefully to the topmost one. It is, thankfully, empty inside, so Harry drops the shoe and heads back to the door, closing it behind him, to look for more goodies throughout the castle.

-----

By the end of the first school day, when Harry determines it’s late enough that he needs to climb back up to the common room, Harry proudly gathers in his claw-foot bathtub three quills (one broken), a gobstone, a mirror some girl leaves on a bench, half a chocolate frog card, a paper clip, two earrings (not matching), the very angry black rook of a wizard’s chess set, four (four!) blank pieces of parchment (he’s planning ahead!), and the match to that shoe he finds first (it’s up in the trophy room of all places).

So, altogether a very successful day if he does say so himself.

…What was he supposed to be doing? Something about the Gryffindor Common Room?

Well, he really needs to get back to Michael before he worries. Not that Harry doesn’t know Michael doubtless worries all day. He will continue to do so until Harry comes back, and then a few more times after that, at least, until some more trust is built there.

Hm, now that he thinks about it… surely, there’s a way in and out of the common room for pets, right? Crookshanks is out in the middle of the night sometimes, and Harry sincerely doubts Hermione goes and lets him out. He knows that she makes sure he’s in at the end of the day, because she and Ron get in such an argument about it all the time since Crookshanks was after Scabbers.

Ironically, Ron actually tells her to kick Crookshanks out overnight so that he isn’t a threat to Scabbers, but Hermione emphatically refuses, saying she’ll just ensure he’s in the girls’ dorm and out of the boys’, but Harry distinctly remembers the cat being out on the grounds at night.

…Probably not something Harry can rely on to get into the Gryffindor Common Room, but he should definitely figure out how to get in and out of Ravenclaw. He wants access to Michael’s prank items during the day, and he can start taking stuff while everyone’s in classes.

He should probably learn the access into the Gryffindor Common Room, too, if it’s something he can use. He doesn’t know if he’ll need it, but options are never a bad thing.

He approaches the Ravenclaw eagle door knocker, and then feels very, very stupid because a smaller door appears magically just at the base of it, opening all on its own to admit him in.

House elf magic. Duh. The elves that bring the pets up to the dorms in the first place ensure the rooms are open to them. Harry wonders if Michael has any control over whether the common room “cat flap” is open or shut to him.

Unfortunately, he can’t say for certain based on Hermione and Crookshanks’ behavior. Hermione leaving the cat door open makes just as much sense as her closing it, so it’s really up in the air.

(Sometimes, Harry really wishes he had a pet here that’s not an owl. He might actually know some of the rules and restrictions on him if he did.)

Well, whatever. Far be it from Harry to look a gift horse in the mouth. He enters the common room, searching for Michael.

His chest warms pleasantly and his tail wags when he sees the look on Michael’s face when he catches sight of him. The sheer relief and delight… he’s just so happy, and so Harry can’t help but feel a bit of that happiness, too.

Harry spends much of that evening curled up dozing on Michael’s lap, and then deigns to join him in his bed this time, instead of betraying him for Anthony again. (Although Terry does try to tempt him with a treat. Michael is very smug that Harry chooses him over it.)

Unlike Anthony, though, Michael does cuddle, so Harry quickly finds himself enveloped with Michael curling around him. Harry doesn’t have any complaints about his night at the foot of Anthony’s bed, but… he doesn’t mind this, either.

He feels loved.

Of course, the next morning, Harry takes one of Michael’s socks, the shoelace off one of Terry’s boots, and Anthony’s spare prefect badge to his tub stash, all before Michael even wakes up.

And then it’s another day of stealing things for his stash. Harry even makes sure to get caught a few times, because the point is to get a reputation, and he makes sure to get stuff from people of every house, too.

Just two days later, Harry is finally satisfied with the state of his stash and decides that, to cement it in everyone’s head that “Michael’s cat takes things,” he should let someone find the stash.

And he very conveniently has just the means of doing that. Since he realizes the day before that those shoes he finds the first day, that are doodled all over and covered in grass stains, actually belong to that Luna girl who is not wearing them that first day not because she’s weird, but because she doesn’t know where they are.

Well, Harry is more than happy to give them back.

He jumps ahead of Michael in the common room, bounds up to the pale-haired girl, and steps on her feet, rubs against her legs.

“No shoes again, today, Luna?” Michael asks sympathetically, attention drawn to her feet since he’s watching Harry.

“No,” says Luna, not sounding bothered in the slightest about it. “They haven’t seemed to find their way back to me, yet.”

Harry meows loudly, to get their attention, and bounds towards the staircase to the door, wagging his tail, waiting for them to follow. It takes a moment, but Luna eagerly follows him and Michael is bemused enough (and has nothing else to do) to allow him to go where he pleases and simply follow him to watch regardless.

Harry leads them down the spiral staircase to the door where his tub stash is hidden, jumps onto the handle to open the door (he’s good at it, now) and then climbs up to the topmost claw-foot bathtub, where he meows expectantly at the witch and wizard below.

Michael eyes the pile of tubs warily. “Do you think that’s stable?”

Luna just gasps, “There must be something at the top!” and she starts climbing.

(Okay, Harry really likes this girl.)

Michael hurriedly pulls out his wand to cast sticking charms on the stack of tubs so that Luna’s weight doesn’t send them toppling over as she climbs up to Harry’s level. Her head pops up over the rim of the tub, at last giving her a look inside. “Oh! My shoes!”

“Seriously?” says Michael. “How’d they get up there?”

Luna grabs for her shoes, dropping them behind her (Michael has to jump out of the way as she doesn’t actually look to see where she’s dropping them) and then curiously examines the rest of Harry’s collection. “I think Tiger found them for me,” she says. “I guess he realized they were mine when you commented on my feet this morning.”

Michael balks. “I did not comment on your feet, I just asked about you still not finding your shoes!”

“Oh, look,” Luna chirps, grabbing onto the mirror Harry takes after some girl leaves it on a bench. “I think this is Felicity Eastchurch’s.” Replacing the mirror, she pokes at some hair ties, then picks up the gobstone to examine in the light as if it’s a precious gem.

“Just what exactly do you have up there, Tiger?” Michael asks, exasperated.

“Some quills, lots of parchment, a few earrings,” Luna starts listing, “oh, even a muggle pen. A chess piece, some hair ties-”

Michael groans. “I leave you alone to go to class,” he moans, “and you become a thief. Tiger…”

That is… exactly true, yes. Harry wags his tail, holding eye contact with Michael unrepentantly.

“Luna, is there anything there that’ll actually be missed?”

“Whoever lost these butterbeer corks must want them back,” Luna answers. “They keep the nargles away, you know.”

Michael’s head drops into his hands. Harry kneads the edge of the bathtub unconsciously, trying desperately to hide any too-human sign of his amusement. Harry, really, really likes this girl.

After a fortifying breath, Michael reexamines the stack of tubs, shrugs, announces, “Alright, I’m coming up,” and starts climbing himself. As he reaches the top, Harry walks onto his shoulders and flops down, laying across them as he purrs.

“Merlin, Tiger,” Michael sighs. He still gives Harry scritches behind the ear, though, before he focuses on looking through Harry’s pile of collected treasures.

He quickly sorts out anything that might potentially be missed. Blank parchment and quills and the like are ignored (as Harry plans), as are the various “trash” items like the butterbeer corks that Luna points out, but the bits of jewelry, the chess piece, the Gryffindor tie Harry snags right off of Seamus’ sleepy neck one morning at breakfast, a single green dragonhide glove, and the mirror are all shoved into Michael’s pockets for the climb down.

“You said something here belongs to Felicity?” Michael asks. Luna points out the mirror to him. “Oh, yeah, she’s been moaning about losing that.”

In Harry’s defense, she does leave it. Harry just picks it up. He does take some things directly from the students, but that isn’t one of them.

“Great,” Michael sighs, “now I have to go around trying to find who owns these.”

Uh, Harry does? Obviously? He steals them fair and square.

Luna giggles. Maybe at Michael, maybe at the look on Harry’s face, he doesn’t know, but Harry supposes Michael can return all that stuff to their places since it’s time for him to get moving on the next part of the plan, anyway.

It already makes his fur itch knowing it’s been days and he doesn’t have the map yet, even though he knows that Ron and Hermione shouldn’t have any reason to bother looking at it. They surely don’t suspect Harry is in Hogwarts any more than anyone else. And that assumption is the only reason that Harry is as patient as he is.

Thankfully, he does consider his plan while he’s busy making his reputation, so he already knows how to proceed. With luck, Harry can execute his plan and have the map back by tonight.

Step one: infiltration.

Harry stays on Michael’s shoulders even when he goes back to the common room, making quite clear his intentions to tag along today. Since it’s a Saturday with no classes, Michael is happy to have him. Michael himself is nervous because he has a study date with Ginny – one of their first hangouts of the year – and he’s still not sure how that’s going to go.

Harry knows how it’s going to go. He knows how he’s going to make it go, even though he has misgivings about the whole thing.

The two settle in the quad courtyard where they can be louder than in the library and chat about things other than their schoolwork, then get out their homework for the first couple of days and idle through it as they begin a conversation about quidditch.

Quidditch. Harry is as happy to talk about quidditch as the next guy, but come on. Quidditch? Ginny obviously just picks the first, safest topic she can think of and rolls with it, and Michael’s quiet frown when she’s not looking at him makes it clear that he notices, too.

After brushing him off all summer, she wants to just act like none of that happens? It yanks the strings in Harry’s chest bad, mostly because he suspects that Ron and Hermione would do the same thing to him if he comes back as a student. Ron does do just that after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament.

Well… he does apologize, but still. After that, he just goes about like it never happens.

Harry loves Ginny. He loves all the Weasleys, but… Ginny really doesn’t deserve Michael. Maybe it’s mean to think it, but that’s how Harry feels. He wants to get between them, to hiss and scratch at Ginny until she just leaves Michael alone and stops playing with his heart like this.

Unfortunately, Harry needs her.

So, instead of biting her like he wants to do, he cuddles up to her. He swallows the bitter taste on his tongue to crawl into her lap. (He absolutely gets in the way of her work, and yes, it’s petty, but that’s what “affectionate” cats do, isn’t it?)

Michael tries to ask her about her avoidance twice, just she dodges the question both times. It’s not until Harry meows at him, annoyed, that Michael decides to talk about him instead, and Ginny deems Michael’s new cat a safe enough topic, and the classic Weasley love of pranks has her doubled-over laughing in no time at Harry’s antics as Tiger and Michael’s suffering love for him.

And the ice there seems to break. Conversation flows easily after that. Ginny even teases Michael that he loves his cat more than her, and he laughs it into a joke, but Harry flexes his claws. He’s on her lap. It will be so easy to just grab. A few scratches on her thighs aren’t going to hurt her, right?

Harry catches Michael eyeing him a few times, sensing that something is up. Harry takes Anthony’s side that first night to avoid the consequences of his stink pellets (the boys still don’t find the one in the extra bed) but other than that Harry always prefers Michael. So, him latching on to Ginny, purring loudly and snuggling into her lap is unusual behavior for him.

Harry is starting to branch out. Luna picks him up yesterday, and he climbs up Anthony the night before only because he’s the tallest and Harry wants to see if he can get to the top. He sits next to Terry, accepting pets, while Terry reads the night before. But that’s all while Michael is doing other things. Generally, if it’s a choice between Michael or anyone else, Harry is closest to Michael.

Partly because Harry knows Michael the best, partly because he’s just showing loyalty since he is Michael’s pet. (Michael spends nine whole galleons on him! That’s… not actually a lot, but way more than he expects anyone to spend on him! More than anyone has done before, for sure, except McGonagall and Sirius when they buy him his brooms.)

Harry makes a show of liking Ginny, because Ginny will assume he’s just friendly or likes her for some reason and Michael should know better, so when their time together ends amicably and optimistically and Michael reaches for him so that they can go, Harry gives him a hard look.

Michael hesitates. He looks between Harry and Ginny for a few moments, then he smiles. He digs into his pocket for the treat bag he keeps on him, bends close to Harry’s head and pets him with his free hand just to disguise the movement of his lips as he whispers, “Give her hell, Tiger.”

Michael brings a cat treat to Harry’s lips, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, but Harry catches the stink pellet he hides between his next two knuckles, and Harry paws at Michael’s hand for the treat, but also to grab the stink pellet which he hides in his fur and pins in place with his leg tucked up against him just like he does with the fizzing whizzbee in the train station.

Michael’s smile turns blinding – Harry knows he can count on that man. He worries, because it looks like things go well, which they have to for Harry to conceivably go with Ginny afterwards, but Michael might not want to risk pranking her after only just smoothing things out between them.

But there’s a hard look in Michael’s eye, too, and Harry recognizes it because he feels the exact same way. They might get over the awkwardness today, but Ginny still never explains, never apologizes… she deserves what she gets.

Besides, it’s Ginny. If she of all people gets angry over a prank, then it’s not really the prank that riles her up, anyway.

“Hey, Gin,” Michael says. “Looks like Tiger really likes you. You’re just going back to your common room after this, right? Why don’t you take him with you? I’ve got to meet the guys in the library anyway, so I’d feel better if he isn’t alone.”

Harry wags his tail smugly. Good man.

“Sure, I don’t mind,” says Ginny. She picks up Harry as she stands, ensuring he doesn’t have to drop the stink pellet.

“Oh,” says Michael. “And don’t worry if he disappears on you. He does that, sometimes. He’ll make his way back to Ravenclaw when he wants to.”

The two part ways. Harry watches Michael’s smirk from over Ginny’s shoulder and smiles. Michael reads his intent, trusts him, and helps him just like that. They don’t pull off any joint pranks yet like Michael plans the moment he buys Harry, but it already feels like they’re partners.

It feels good. Even Ron and Hermione would question him first or refuse to allow him to go off alone. Michael doesn’t even know Harry’s plan; he just knows that Harry is putting on an act of liking Ginny for some reason and enables him.

And he trusts Harry to come back. Every day, that doubt that so fills his expression every time they part dissipates more and more. Today, there is only pride and eager apprehension, excitement to hear later about what Harry pulls off in the Gryffindor Common Room.

Harry isn’t going to let him down.

Step one: complete. Step two: find the map.

Ginny brings Harry up to the fourth-year girls’ dorms, which is overall much tidier and better-smelling than the boys’, but otherwise pretty much the same. Harry uses the quiet moment following to breathe and ready himself for the next step.

“How’d it go with Michael?” The voice catches Harry off guard because it doesn’t belong to a fourth-year. The one who speaks, the only other girl in the room, is Hermione.

“It was fine,” chuckles Ginny. “You know he’s always good for a laugh.”

A laugh? Harry glowers at her words. Who thinks of their boyfriend as nothing but a laugh? Michael is funny, yes, but he’s a lot more than just something to laugh at!

Merlin, Harry is going to enjoy the next few minutes.

“I think it’s going to be okay,” Ginny says. “He tried to ask about the summer a few times, but I somehow got things moving again without saying anything.”

She did? Since when? Harry remembers it being Michael, trying so hard to keep their relationship together, who focuses on something she won’t avoid and deflect just so that things aren’t so awkward.

Hermione winces in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Ginny. It must be hard to keep it from him. But you know how dangerous it is…”

“I know. It’s fine.” And Ginny really does sound like it is. It pisses Harry off. It’s not fine. No part of this is fine! “I just wish I knew who we can trust…”

Harry can’t resist yowling in offense. If she can’t trust her boyfriend, then why is she even with him? He squirms, not wanting to be touching her any longer.

Who they can trust- Right, just like they can’t trust Harry. Who do they think they are? How can they just accept that they can’t trust him? Or Ginny’s own boyfriend? And they keep going on as if nothing’s wrong!

“Is that Michael’s cat?” Hermione asks, wide-eyed at the scene Harry is making of himself.

Ginny groans. “He does love to talk about how smart Tiger is. I guess he understood what we’re saying. Probably offended on Michael’s behalf.” She tries to soothe him, but Harry hisses and squirms. “Sorry, Tiger,” Ginny says. “It’s just without Dumbledore’s permission-”

Oh, Dumbledore’s permission? Harry sees red. They need Dumbledore to tell them who to trust? Like risking his life against a troll, or a basilisk, or going back in time with them isn’t enough for them to think for themselves and make their own decisions? Dumbledore is the final say on who’s trustworthy and who’s not?

Because the man who sends Harry back to the Dursleys every summer, and isolates him there right after he watches someone die and fights for his life against Voldemort, is the epitome of trustworthy. The man whose response to the Ministry attacking and attempting to snap the wand of an underage student is to tell that student to sit still like a good boy and do nothing?

To hell with that, and to hell with them. Harry drops the stink pellet.

It hits the ground and bursts, dispelling an odour like dung all around them. Both girls reel back, Hermione confused and startled, and Ginny wincing.

“Where did that come from?” Hermione shrieks.

“Okay,” Ginny admits, “maybe he doesn’t forgive me. Ow!”

Before either girl can recover, Harry bites Ginny with a vengeance to force her to let go of him, and he sprints out the door.

But as much as Harry wants to lash and spit and linger on all his unkind thoughts towards the girls right now, he has something more important to do. He forces himself to put it in the back of his mind and darts up the stairs to the fifth-year dorms.

Hermione’s trunk isn’t hard to find. It’s the only one Harry actually recognizes since as a boy he can’t ordinarily come in here and he never shares a compartment with the others on the train. Well, except for this year, but he doesn’t pay attention to Parvati or Lavender’s luggage at the time.

He forces Hermione’s trunk open, praying she doesn’t put any dangerous security charms on it, and rummages as quickly as he can.

Unfortunately, he can’t be as thorough as he’d like. He’s on a bit of a time crunch, especially for this one, but he can’t find anything that looks like the map. As a consolation prize, he snatches the tassel of a bookmark and yanks it right out of the book, then runs off to try the boys’ side of the dormitories.

It being the middle of the day on a Saturday, none of the boys are in. That’s good for Harry. He thinks he loses the girls. They don’t really chase him in the first place and shouldn’t have any reason to guess he might try to go into the boys’ dorms, so if they do look for him, he should have a few minutes at least.

Still, he doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t even worry about security on Ron’s trunk, knowing very well that there isn’t any, and he starts digging.

It’s good he has more time here, because Ron’s trunk is actually harder to look through than Hermione’s. Hermione’s is organized, and Harry can just look for any hidden places she might think to put the map. Ron just has all his things in a big pile jumbled together, so Harry has to paw through it all to even see anything underneath.

But he finds it. Together with his invisibility cloak, in a bundle buried at the bottom of Ron’s trunk, Harry finds the Marauder’s Map. Excellent.

Step two: complete. Step three: exfiltration. It’s time to escape.

Harry takes the map and Hermione’s bookmark and cautiously checks outside the dorms. He can hear Hermione and Ginny downstairs, but no one is stomping around up here yet. Good.

He slips into the stairway. Rather than going downstairs, however, he goes up. To the seventh-year dorms.

Now, these trunks Harry is almost certain are booby-trapped, so he searches the room first, hoping to find something without having to open them. And he is moderately successful. Between the twins and Lee Jordan, they apparently don’t feel the need to hide their joke products. Harry’s heart soars upon finding a pack of (possibly half-finished?) fireworks just sitting out on one of the twins’ bedside tables.

So, he snatches that, decides he’s really running out of room to carry things with his mouth and briefly misses having opposable thumbs, but nonetheless decides to risk looking for one more goody to really make his mark.

He unlatches the trunk that he thinks is Fred’s, pushes it open, and takes cover.

There’s an unholy shriek from a caterwauling charm – oops – and Harry is assaulted by a horde of rubber snakes springing out of the trunk, which, yeah, that’s funny.

Knowing that someone will be up shortly to investigate the racket, Harry jumps up, snatches the first box that looks even remotely usable, and darts back onto the staircase.

“You!” Ginny shouts.

Harry, mouth full with Hermione’s bookmark, the Marauder’s Map, a bundle of fireworks, and a small brownish box (and thanking Merlin that all but the Marauder’s Map have ties so he can actually fit them all at once, allowing them to dangle like kittens picked up by their scruffs) only pounces.

He narrowly evades her grasp on the stairs, peeling out into the common room proper at the bottom of them, then he hears Hermione shouting an incantation.

“Wait, don’t!” Ginny shrieks, but it’s too late.

Hermione really should listen to Michael’s stories about how he and Harry meet.

Of course, the incantation Hermione uses is for the stunning spell, so Harry really doesn’t feel bad at all about what happens next. Never mind that being stunned won’t actually hurt him.

Harry twists, maneuvers the fireworks into the path of the spell sent his way, and the magic makes them erupt.

The Weasley twins clearly work hard on them, because the chaos that follows is way more impressive than the filibuster fireworks in the Magical Menagerie.

Dragons comprised entirely of green and gold sparks soar through the common room, emitting loud fiery blasts and bangs as they go; shocking-pink Catherine wheels five feet in diameter whiz lethally through the air like so many flying saucers; rockets with long tails of brilliant silver stars ricochet off the walls; sparklers write swear words in midair of their own accord; firecrackers explode like mines everywhere Harry looks, and instead of burning themselves out, fading from sight or fizzling to a halt, these pyrotechnical miracles seem to gain in energy and momentum the longer he watches.

Harry loves the twins.

Hermione desperately tries to vanish the things, but it only makes them multiply. The few people in the common room scream and run around like headless chickens.

Only Ginny seems able to still focus on Harry, determinedly fighting through the dazzling flashes and dangerous bangs to get to him. Harry narrows his eyes. She narrows her eyes back.

And Harry picks up the bookmark and the map, turns tail, and kicks over the box he brings down from Fred’s trunk.

Immediately, a stench like rot fills the room. The stone floor turns to water and weeds, dense plant growth sweeps out from the upturned box in a tidal wave. The Gryffindor Common Room turns into a swamp.

Oh, and the fireworks are still only gaining momentum. On the bright side, the swamp puts out the fires.

Merlin, but Harry loves the twins.

Ginny is trapped waist-deep in muck and Hermione is still on the other side over by the stairs, leaving Harry to cockily jump from exposed tree-root to fallen log to get to the door, where the panicking Gryffindors unlucky enough to get caught up in the whole incident are escaping themselves. Harry slips out wholly unnoticed by the panicking students.

Step three: complete. All that’s left is step four: ditch/plant the evidence.

Because it’s actually fairly close by, Harry stops by his tub stash first and drops off the bookmark there with the myriad pieces of parchment he steals previously. But since this place is known and Hermione very well might try to go to Michael to get the map back, Harry can’t put the map here.

Now, this is the part Harry doesn’t quite get to in the planning stage. Frankly, he’s impressed with how well step three goes, and attributes it entirely to dumb luck and Fred and George’s brilliance considering Harry’s plan is just to grab something of theirs to make a distraction. Harry doesn’t even know what that swamp box is when he grabs it, but it’s more glorious and useful than he ever would imagine.

All Harry knows is that he needs to get as far from Gryffindor Tower as he can and put the map somewhere that even Fred and George won’t discover it.

So, he just kind of peels off into the castle. He considers the Ravenclaw Common Room. No one there would know the parchment to be any more than parchment so the only real risk would be someone taking it to use for notes or something. But any one of the Ravenclaws inside might see him with it and rat him out to Michael if Hermione goes to him looking for the map, so it’s too risky.

Instead, he races through the corridors, avoiding students as much as possible (Which isn’t difficult. It’s the middle of the day on a Saturday; most students are outside enjoying the grounds.) looking desperately for anywhere to stash the thing where there’s no risk of passersby noticing it and getting their hands on it.

By sheer happenstance, he winds up in the astronomy wing, up on the seventh floor, in front of a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to do ballet, lashing his tail and pacing because the only thing up from here is the astronomy classroom and tower, where there are no good hiding spots Harry knows of. So, he has to backtrack, which he’s nervous about since he doesn’t know if Hermione or Ginny will get out of the common room and pick up his trail.

And then a small cat door appears in the blank wall. Harry stops. He stares at it, wondering if he imagines seeing the thing materialize right in front of him or if he just somehow misses it until now.

Well, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Hermione and Ginny would have trouble even getting through that door, which makes it the perfect place almost no matter what’s behind it.

He shoves inside, stumbles a little, then gawks up at the mountains and mountains of miscellaneous goodies. It’s perfect.

(It makes Harry’s tub stash feel inadequate, which is rude.)

Harry stumbles through the room, terrified of getting lost in the piles of things. Well… Step four: complete.

That’s a job well done.

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 4

Ravenclaw Tower

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

The mood in their compartment aboard the Hogwarts Express lifts after a while. The four gossip about inconsequential things, get into a friendly argument about quidditch, gorge themselves on sweets from the trolley when it comes by. (“Can cats eat chocolate?” Michael asks when Harry pounces on a chocolate frog that tries to escape. That sets him off asking about every single thing they have, wondering if he can feed any of it to Harry.)

Anthony and Padma join them later on after their meeting with the other prefects ends, but Harry doesn’t see Ron or Hermione even once.

When the train pulls in to Hogsmeade Station, Harry allows Michael to pick him up to bring him out to the carriages.

The Gryffindor girls go ahead, and Padma joins her sister, but Michael, Terry, and Anthony linger while Michael stands on his tiptoes to nervously scan the crowd. He doesn’t say as much, but it’s obvious that he hopes to at least get Ginny to ride up to Hogwarts with them.

After a while, he drops back down with a heavy sigh and dejectedly turns to get in line for the closest carriage.

“Couldn’t find her?” asks Anthony.

Michael scoffs bitterly. “No, I found her.” He gestures sharply with his thumb to a few carriages down. “She’s in that one. With Luna, Neville, and Harry’s pals.”

Terry’s lips pull into a frown. “Did she even look for you?”

“Sure didn’t look like it.”

Terry shakes his head. “Sorry. I don’t blame her for being distracted, especially if what Lavender heard about Harry is true, but…”

But she starts ignoring him before anything happens to Harry. She ignores him all summer, just like Harry’s friends do him. Michael’s grip on Harry tightens just a little.

“Come on, guys,” Anthony says gently. “That just means there’s more space for Tiger, right?”

Michael allows himself to be pulled into the carriage, and they’re joined by only a pair of Slytherins, so there actually is an empty space for Harry, not that Harry is trying very hard to get away from Michael while he’s still holding him like a lifeline. Michael needs to hold him right now, and Harry can’t blame him for it, so he just settles in for the ride.

Once they get up to the gates, though, Michael is a bit closer to normal and it’s time for him to let go of Harry for the entrance feast. While many students file through the gates to the Great Hall, Michael takes Harry to a separate line where all the students with new pets go.

“Mr. Corner, so good to see you again,” Professor Sprout says warmly. “And who is this new addition?”

Hefting Harry into a bit more prominence, Michael announces. “This is Tiger.” Doubt flashes across his face. “Er… could you remind me what’s going to happen to him while I’m at the feast?”

Professor Sprout smiles indulgently, all too used to students being reluctant to leave their pets. “He will be perfectly safe, Mr. Corner,” she says. “A house elf will take him over to the Care of Magical Creatures classroom and watch over him until Professor Grubbly-Plank gets the first-years across the lake. Then she’ll cast a standard anti-allergen spell over all the pets so that he doesn’t set off any of your classmates with allergies. Once that’s done, the house elves will take him up to your dormitory where he will be waiting for you to arrive after the feast.”

Michael bites his lip. “Right,” he says, “just… please warn the elves to keep a close eye on him. He likes to test you. I’m a bit worried he’ll escape if I let him out of my sight for too long.”

Professor Sprout just chuckles. “I’ll warn the elves. But I assure you, Mr. Corner, the house elves of Hogwarts are more than capable of handling a rambunctious cat. Tiger certainly wouldn’t be the first one.”

Harry can tell that Michael still isn’t convinced, but he hands Harry over to Professor Sprout anyway. His hand lingers on Harry’s head, even when he’s firmly in Professor Sprout’s arms, clearly fighting with himself to leave.

“Be good, now,” Michael says, brow stitched together with worry. “Don’t cause Professor Sprout or the house elves any trouble, okay?”

He starts to pull back, but his fingers in Harry’s fur are like a tether and he’s boomeranged close again. He grabs Harry’s head with his other hand quickly and plants a kiss on the top of his head, then just as quickly releases him.

Harry shakes once, ruffled by the unexpected action.

“I’ll miss you, Tiger!” Michael shouts, walking backwards so that he doesn’t have to turn away. “I love you!”

Anthony, waiting a few paces away with Terry, sighs. “You are so whipped for a cat.”

“We haven’t been apart since I got him!” Michael whines in protest, but he does finally turn away, and the three Ravenclaws’ voices fade as they make their way up to the castle.

It’s… actually really nice, and very novel, for Harry. He knows Michael is going to be missing him and worrying about him, even though they’ll only be apart for a couple of hours.

It’s also a little frustrating. Harry can’t help but reflect on that, after a lifetime of trying so desperately to find someone, anyone, who really loves him unconditionally, and all he has to do to find it is turn into a cat.

All he has to do is… not be Harry, anymore. Tiger gets that unconditional love. Harry never will. Even the ones Harry thinks love him, his friends, ditch him the moment Dumbledore asks them to.

But mostly Harry is just soaking up the feeling of being loved. That’s most of the reason why he decides not to cause any trouble for Professor Sprout or the house elf that takes him to the Creatures classroom. Part of it is that Harry decides already that his safest option at the moment is to stay with Michael, so he doesn’t have any need to try to escape from this, but part of it, a buzzing part deep in Harry’s chest, is that Michael asks him to be good.

It’s funny. Harry feels like Michael should be relieved if Harry escapes. All the trouble Harry causes him in the few days they’ve been together, but Michael never once asks Harry to behave better. He just laughs, compliments Harry’s cleverness, and says that he’s keeping him on his toes. Even when Harry is being grumpy and aloof, Michael still only looks at him with adoration and awe.

Then again, Michael better have known what he was getting himself into, considering how they meet and the whole reason he adopts Harry in the first place is Harry swiping his fireworks and setting them off in the middle of the Magical Menagerie.

The only time Michael ever asks Harry to behave, to be good and not just act how he wants, and it’s not really because he doesn’t want Harry to cause trouble for the elves or professors. It’s because he’s scared that if Harry escapes from them, he won’t see Harry ever again.

And that… that more than anything seizes Harry’s heart with an icy grip.

Because Harry has been in dangerous situations. It’s practically a Tuesday for him if his life is being threatened. But even though he worries about Ron and Hermione getting caught up in those things with him, it never really hits him that they can die. One wrong move, and he might never see them again.

It hits him when Cedric is killed. Harry spends the summer dealing with the realization that Cedric is gone. And Harry might not know Cedric well, but he knows him some. Cedric is the Hufflepuff Quidditch Captain and seeker and Harry sees him every time they play. All the teams have littler, friendlier rivalries off the pitch, and Cedric is a prefect who practically every student encounters at one point or another.

But Harry will never see him again. It’ll be someone else in that Captain and seeker position this year. Harry will never see his teasing smile or hear him laugh and offer trash talk that’s so soft everyone just rolls their eyes and fondly calls him “such a Hufflepuff.”

And Harry isn’t even really his friend. He can’t imagine if it were someone who is close to him. Ron, or Hermione.

But while Harry is processing all of this, and the fear of the very real threat that Voldemort is back and will try to take his friends from him, and take him from them… While Harry is sitting alone and terrified that what happens to Cedric can happen to his best friends… What do they do?

They shut him out. They all but tell him that they don’t trust him. While Harry misses them with every fiber of his being, while he worries that he might never see them again, they clearly don’t miss him.

But Michael, even if Harry doesn’t know him half as well, feels the same hurt at not being missed. He misses Ginny and gets nothing back. He misses Harry, Tiger, and Harry… finds himself not wanting to let Michael down.

Not like they’ve both been let down already.

So, Harry is good for Professor Sprout. He’s perfectly compliant, even walks freely alongside the house elf who guides him to the Creatures classroom. He doesn’t put up a fuss when Professor Grubbly-Plank casts a few spells on him, and he follows obediently when a small horde of elves takes him and the rest of the Ravenclaw pets up to Ravenclaw Tower. He’s even good inside the common room and the dorm that he’s shut into.

He's good, because he doesn’t want to think about the look on Michael’s face if he comes up here to his dorm and finds out that Harry is gone. And because he really wants to see the look on Michael’s face when he sees Harry again and knows that Harry listens to him.

Harry is filled with a low kind of excitement that rubs inside of him like static. It’s hard to sit still, and he keeps looking over to the door, and out the windows, wondering what time it is and when Michael will be getting back.

But he’s also in a place he’s never been before, and where he doesn’t imagine he’ll ever have the chance to visit. It’s a unique opportunity, and he’s curious, so he spends the wait exploring the Ravenclaw boys’ dorm.

It’s definitely different than what he’s used to in Gryffindor. Even though Harry has seen the Slytherin Common Room before, he never sees their actual dormitories, and though the common rooms are quite different between Gryffindor and Slytherin, Harry always imagines that the dormitories themselves are essentially just palette swaps of each other.

Especially for Ravenclaw, who also resides in a tower. Not that Harry puts much thought into it, but he always pictures it as just the Gryffindor dorms, but with blue and bronze instead of red and gold.

He can’t be more wrong.

For one, the shape of the room itself is different. Unlike Gryffindor, whose dormitory is circular, the Ravenclaw dormitory is in a wide wedge, with closets, shelves, and desks sticking out along the flat walls. On the curve of the circle, great wooden arches lead each to a tall window and enclose the bunk beds nestled lengthwise against them. There are five windows total in this dorm, with the three equally spaced housing beds, and the two in between having chairs and small tables and generally look like quite cosy reading nooks.

The hardwood floor is also covered in much larger and more plentiful rugs than the Gryffindor dorm, which for a moment Harry is confused about, since the center of every Gryffindor dormitory is a furnace that warms them in the drafty tower and it is quite dangerous to put their rugs too close to the fire of the furnace.

But to Harry’s delight and envy, he finds that the missing furnace isn’t a mistake but a feature, as when he pads across the rugs littering the floor, he feels a gentle warmth seep up from the pads of his paws to diffuse through his body. He should expect no less from Professor Flitwick, assuming he has any hand in designing the dormitories, but warming charms on the rugs and, Harry assumes, the curtains, bedding, and possibly the large, comfortable chairs in those reading nooks as well, is a much more elegant solution than a small furnace in the center of the room.

There’s a floor-length mirror near the door, of the non-talking variety, and starry-patterned blue and bronze curtains to close off each bed and nook before every window, and there are a few Ravenclaw banners hanging from the ceiling, but otherwise the place is quite bare, which is to be expected as the residents haven’t yet unpacked and decorated for themselves.

(Harry expects that, by this time tomorrow, there will be a lot more books.)

The beds, though, are what strike Harry as the most unusual. He’s used to the Gryffindor four-poster beds free-standing in a circle around the room. These are built into the wooden nooks before the windows. The lower bed is actually partially sunken into a thick frame that makes the entire bottom part of the nook into one platform. There are a few drawers that pull out from under the bed, but once Harry jumps up onto one, he can see that the bed almost seamlessly flows into a wooden surface that fills up the space between it and the wall.

Likewise at the head, there is a short headboard where the frame rises, but then it flattens out again creating yet more surface for the Ravenclaws to use. Bars line either side of the frame above him, each with curtains that can be drawn to alternatively block out the room or block the window for the sleeper.

But Harry is mostly just boggled at the notion of bunk beds. He wonders how well that would go over in Gryffindor. He can just imagine his housemates getting into rows over who gets the top or bottom bunk.

(The bottom is more enclosed, with its headspace blocked by the top bunk above it. But although the top bunk has the tall arched ceiling giving it the feel of more space, they actually have less storage space since they lack the drawers beneath their bed.)

The notable difference that makes Harry very glad he’s in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw, however is that because of how the beds are arranged, Ravenclaw students clearly don’t keep their trunks at the foot of their bed like most of the Gryffindors do.

The only place Harry sees for the Ravenclaws’ trunks is the closets and the shelves high above them. Seamus does take to throwing his trunk atop the dresser in Gryffindor, since he rarely needs to access anything he leaves in there, unpacking everything into the provided places anyway, but Harry, who has some items like his invisibility cloak or the Marauder’s Map, is reluctant to leave those in more public spaces than his personal trunk.

If he has to climb up and get his trunk down from one of those high shelves every time he wants to get his cloak out… well, it would be very irritating.

Though he supposes that most students wouldn’t have something like that and can simply unpack everything they need and then store their trunk until they pack up once more. And Harry supposes he can negotiate the use of a lower bunk and use one of the drawers built into the bedframe for that kind of thing. So, it’s probably not an issue for the Ravenclaws.

Harry is still thankful to be in Gryffindor, though.

Speaking of trunks, they are currently on the floor before each of the bed nooks, waiting for the students to come and put them away. Harry, after lounging on the warm rug for a while, gets bored and decides that Michael probably doesn’t want him to be too good and so he finds Michael’s trunk to start digging for something to entertain himself with.

He will not be using the cat toys Michael packs, and Harry determines that it will be too difficult to get a book quickly into an uncompromising position that doesn’t reveal his ability to read it should the Ravenclaw boys return without warning. (It should be just about time for them to be coming back, Harry thinks. It’s been a while, in any case.) Terry Boot, Harry notices, is quite sharp and though Harry does like him, he’s definitely dangerous to Harry being undercover here. He can’t take foolish risks like trying to read while the boys can be coming in any minute.

What Harry does find and deem acceptable to occupy him for a few more minutes, is Michael’s collection of stink pellets.

Giggling to himself, and knowing that his “escape attempt” is more a game this time than anything else (and knowing that Michael will know that, too, on account of Harry being here at all and not escaping while with the elves or while he’s alone), Harry carefully – very carefully – takes the stink pellets one at a time and plants them under the blankets of each of the beds.

The top bunks are a bit more trouble. It’s unexpectedly difficult to climb the ladders up to them, but Harry manages it, and only just shuts Michael’s trunk to cover his tracks when he hears the Ravenclaw students arriving in the dormitory outside.

Harry plants himself directly atop Michael’s trunk and watches the dormitory door.

He’s not kept waiting. Michael is first through the door, searching frantically until his eyes land on Harry and he’s so overcome with relief that it feels palpable in the very air.

“Tiger!” Michael cries, rushing over to him. He tries to pick Harry up to cuddle, and part of Harry wants to let him, but he can’t afford to be trapped in Michael’s arms when his “escape attempt” goes off, can he?

Plus, he uh… really doesn’t want to be on this side of the room when his surprise goes off.

So, he squirms until Michael accepts that Harry doesn’t want to be held, but he allows Michael to kneel by the trunk, petting him thoroughly with such a joyous grin not put off at all by Harry’s refusal to cuddle. And he watches the door for the others.

Just a little later, close behind but far enough that it’s obvious Michael rushes here first thing, the rest of the Ravenclaw boys file in, chatting about their summers.

Harry tracks the four of them across the room, casually stands and stretches as they approach the beds, then hops off of Michael’s trunk and trots towards the door left ajar by Kevin Entwhistle, the last boy in.

Michael reaches out for him to grab him before he gets out, but in just that moment, Terry collapses into his bed with an exaggerated groan – doubtless to accompany some tale the boys are all talking about.

And the impact of his body hitting the stink pellet hidden there sets it off. There’s a small, muffled poof, and a small cloud of noxious stench covers Terry and his bed. The boys all shout and recoil and very quickly start laughing at Terry’s misfortune. Harry just prances casually towards the open door.

Michael, well trained by now to look for Harry during moments of distraction like this, scoops him up about halfway there.

“Michael!” Stephen Cornfoot groans. “Now the whole dormitory is going to smell!”

“It wasn’t me!” Michael protests. “I was at the feast same as you guys! When would I have had the chance to plant something like that?”

“He’s got a point,” says Kevin, climbing up to his bed above the one Stephen is hovering around. “Who could have done that?” And then he jumps in and sets off another stink pellet.

The boys all recoil in shock. Harry buries his head into Michael’s chest to attempt to hide any strange reaction that might seem too similar to a human laugh.

“Mine, too? Really?” Kevin whines.

Michael grins down at Harry, obviously knowing exactly how those stink pellets gets there, and then shrugs, shuts the door tight, drops Harry so that he can stay over here and not in the middle of the stench cloud, and in a surprising feat of athleticism, jumps bodily into the upper bunk above what Harry assumes is Anthony’s.

And sets off another stink pellet. Michael laughs. No one else even looks at him twice for obviously doing that on purpose.

“Are those in all the beds?” Anthony asks, cautiously approaching his own. He draws his wand and levitates the blankets, searching for and finding the little pellet Harry leaves there for him. He chuckles and grabs the thing rolling it between his fingers smugly. “You don’t think Professor Flitwick would play a prank on us like this, do you?”

Wisely following Anthony’s lead, Stephen likewise safely removes the stink pellet in his own bed. “If it is, I hope the other houses got it just as bad. Imagine if the heads of houses all got together to plan this. Fred and George would be jealous.”

(Michael is still just laughing.)

Terry eyes Harry knowingly and says, “It wasn’t Professor Flitwick.”

“You think so?” asks Kevin. “Who else has access to our dorms before we even get here?”

Like he simply can’t contain himself anymore, Michael squeals, “It was Tiger!”

“The cat?” Kevin asks.

“I knew it was you!” shouts Stephen. “You seriously trained your cat just to prank us?”

Michael hangs over the edge of his bed, still giggling madly. “It’s adorable that you think Tiger can be trained to do anything,” he says. “No, he’s just my little genius. Speaking of. Tiger-” his voice turn whiny and begging as he reaches out dramatically across the room, “come snuggle with me!”

Yeah, right. Harry rarely allows that on a good day but at the moment Michael and his bed are covered in the stench of a stink pellet. Harry hisses at him.

“You set the stink off on purpose and expect him to snuggle with you?” Anthony scoffs. He rolls his eyes until they land on Tiger. “Course the whole room is going to stink for a while. Sucks to be you guys.”

“What?”

Anthony smirks, twirls his wand towards his own bed once more, and casually announces, “If you want to avoid the stink, Tiger, you can join me in my bunk.”

“What?” Michael screeches. “You can’t- He’s my cat-!”

Harry, deciding this is by far the funniest option and frankly hoping that Anthony really does have some way to prevent the stink of the pellets from penetrating his bunk, immediately saunters over and hops onto Anthony’s bed.

“Hey,” says Terry, “Anthony, can I-”

“No, you can suffer,” Anthony says without missing a beat.

“At least tell me what spells you used!” cries Stephen, who likewise doesn’t set off his stink pellet.

“I just combined odor-eliminating charms to get rid of the stench in the air and a scent-masking charm to stop the linens from letting out more of it,” says Anthony.

Stephen squeaks something like offense. “Those don’t work on stink pellets and dungbombs! They’re charmed against those!”

Anthony just hums doubtfully. Michael continues moaning dramatically about being betrayed, Terry laughs while Kevin just pouts.

“Well, I’m not going to suffer this stench anymore,” announces Anthony. “Goodnight, everyone.”

With that, he slips into the bed with Harry, closes his curtains, and casts a quietening charm on them to effectively shut out the rest of the room. Harry is surprised and relieved to find that it also shuts out the stink of the pellets entirely, and he breathes fresh, clean feeling air instead.

Anthony then stops, runs a hand through his blond hair, eyes Harry – who eyes him back – and he chuckles. “Magizoologist specialist variations of the charms,” he explains. “They’re not nearly as widely known, so the joke shops that manufacture the pellets don’t bother countering them. My cousin Rolf taught me the spells last year after I complained about Michael letting off a dungbomb for the thousandth time.”

Oh, that is clever. The household odor-eliminating charms that everyone, even Harry at this point, knows may not work on those pranks, but a different spell would.

Anthony rolls his eyes fondly. Another second, and the fix once more on Harry, examining him more closely with a scrutinizing gaze. “You know, you really are remarkably intelligent for a cat. I can see you setting off the stink pellets before we get back, but actually hiding them in our beds? Hm…”

Uh oh. Harry meows as cutely as he can, hoping it distracts Anthony from that line of thought.

He doesn’t quite know if he’s successful or not, but Anthony shakes his head. “Well, whatever. Alright, budge over,” he says finally. “I like you, but I don’t cuddle.”

To make his point clear, Anthony carefully nudges him. Harry backs up without any sort of fuss, allowing Anthony to take his own bed. Harry decides, partly out of thanks to Anthony for allowing him the clean air of this little bed nook, especially since the stench is entirely Harry’s fault to begin with, to in fact let Anthony have the bed in its entirety and wanders down to curl up on the flat wood past the foot of the mattress itself.

Anthony watches him choose his spot, smiles gently, and conjures a warm, soft blanket that Harry can happily bunch up and wrap around himself comfortably.

(A thought passes through Harry’s head idly, like a snowflake trapped on the gentlest of breezes, taking a butterfly’s fluttering, ambling path to the ground. He curls up to sleep, and as he dozes, that thought which crosses him is this: are cats just treated better than humans? Or is the difference Michael, and Anthony, and Terry instead of his friends as Harry? The contented hearth in Harry’s breast doesn’t truly care, but a wriggling boil in his gut roars at the thought that it just might be the latter.)

-----

The next morning, the smell is mostly gone, but everyone still gets ready quickly and loiters in the common room rather than the dorm. (Harry, who when he places the stink pellets doesn’t actually know whose beds are whose, wonders if they’ll forget that the pellets are planted in all the beds, and whether they’ll remember to remove the one from the unused bed above Terry’s. He hopes not.)

Michael takes Harry up to the common room with them, although he’s already talking through his day, explaining to Harry that he can’t actually bring Harry with him to the Great Hall for mealtimes during events – the handing out of timetables at breakfast today being one of them, and the other being mainly feasts for holidays and the like. Basically, if all students are expected to be present at one time and required to sit at their respective house tables rather than the more casual meals they usually have, pets aren’t particularly welcome at the table.

Part of Harry thinks, Great, I don’t have to go to the Halloween Feast. Maybe if he just hides under Michael’s blankets when the time comes, and doesn’t even leave the Ravenclaw dorms, he can get through one Halloween without something horrible happening.

Yeah… that’s probably too much to ask for. Not that Harry isn’t going to try.

(Granted, except for his name being called for the Triwizard Tournament, none of those horrible things actually happen to Harry… The troll doesn’t count on account of him actively leaving the safety of his house to find Hermione. But the point still stands. Halloween is not an auspicious day.)

But even though Harry will be left here for now and will have time to explore more thoroughly once everyone leaves for breakfast, this is Harry’s first real opportunity to get a look at the Ravenclaw Common Room. The house elf kind of bundles him right on through to the dorm itself when he first arrives.

It’s two main “rooms” separated by an archway. The stairs that they climb to get here from the dorms spits them out just on the deeper side of that archway, into a room with the signature high vaulted ceilings and tall windows that Harry comes to expect from Ravenclaw locations. The wood is all a deep bronze, with a fireplace directly in the center of the room making a statement.

On the other side of the archway, the wood is all painted white, giving the room a brighter feel despite there being fewer windows to let in the ample morning sunlight. A statue of Rowena Ravenclaw stands in an alcove on the far side, where stairs descend and wrap around the room.

Looking up, Harry sees more of the constellations painted there that he sees in the bronze-wood half of the common room, but the center is open, allowing a great chandelier with hanging banners draping down from it to descend through the hole from the floor above.

Is there a second floor? There are stairs up right next to the stairs down to the dormitories, and the suits of armor that guard the female side of the dorms only guard the way down on that side, so up might be another common area.

Michael sees Harry looking up and whispers, “I’ll show you the roof later,” as he scratches the top of Harry’s head.

Beyond that, the Ravenclaw Common Room isn’t too different from the Gryffindor or Slytherin ones. Different vibe, obviously, and décor, but it’s still generally just full of carpets covering the floors, and tables and chairs for hanging out or studying at. The principle of the place is the same.

Well, with the exception of the astonishingly massive bookcase in the bronze-wood part of the room. Gryffindor definitely doesn’t have one of those, and Harry can’t remember anything quite like it in his single foray into Slytherin, either.

“Oh, look! Michael got a cat!”

Harry looks over to the approaching girls. And then his heart leaps to his throat.

Oh, shoot. Harry does not consider that Cho is a Ravenclaw. And she’s coming closer with a couple of her girl friends, giggling and cooing at him.

Ah. Right. Because he’s a cat.

“Aw, he’s so cute!” Marietta Edgecombe says. “Can we pet him?”

Michael looks at Harry, who starts squirming a little with the girls fawning over him (Nope! Bad!) but otherwise just kind of freezes.

And since Harry is usually quite good about making it known if he protests to being pet, Michael assumes he must be fine with it. Still, thankfully, he doesn’t just say yes and instead goes with a warning. “He can be kind of fickle about that sometimes, but you’re welcome to try.”

Marietta and the other girl whose name Harry can’t recall ever hearing allow Cho to try to pet him first. She giggles as she smoothly passes her hand over his head, pushing back his ears, and then lets it flow smoothly down his back.

Harry… does not know how to respond to this.

On one hand, he feels a little like he’s going to be sick. His body flushes with heat and he knows if he were human right now he’d be beet red. His throat is dry; it’s hard to swallow over the lump there. His brain is totally fuzzy.

It’s more embarrassing than his disastrous attempt to ask her to the Yule Ball last year, somehow, and she of course has no idea that he’s him and not a cat, so she just keeps petting him, delighted.

And Harry realizes with a jerk that he’s purring.

Heck. No. This can’t be allowed to continue. Harry tries to nip her just to get her to stop because he cannot deal with his crush petting him. The moment she does, he buries his head into the crook of Michael’s elbow and wishes silently to simply die.

“Oh, that’s interesting…” a very different voice says airily. “I thought I felt a wrackspurt zooming around here, but they’re not usually attracted to cats.”

A what? Harry risks lifting his head again to get a look at the new girl who approaches the group.

She looks maybe a little younger, though close enough that it’d be harder to tell if Cho and her friends weren’t older, giving a bigger contrast. So, perhaps in Ginny’s year. But she gives off an aura of distinct dottiness. Her pale blonde hair is braided intricately with… some kind of ornaments that look like beets woven into it. She wears her uniform, but with a necklace of butterbeer caps and without shoes. Her wide eyes give off a permanently surprised expression, which makes her staring him down somehow kind of intimidating.

(Harry likes her immediately, but much like with Terry is also very nervous that she’s dangerous to him being undercover here. Terry is too smart, but this girl seems like she’s just weird enough to jump to the idea that he’s actually a human pretending to be a cat fairly quickly. Harry knows how much confirmation bias helps keep his secret.)

“Hey, Luna,” Michael says, sounding equal parts exasperated and fond. The group of older girls, however, roll their eyes together and whisper amongst themselves. Harry is too busy dying of embarrassment to care to eavesdrop.

Luna doesn’t even ask, doesn’t hesitate for a single second. She just reaches out, scratches Harry on this one spot near the underside of his neck that has him purring and rolling to expose that spot and get more, and then she’s rudely pulling those fingers away and Harry is left to recover from just how quickly he melts for that.

(He shoves his face back into Michael. Just kill him now.)

“That’s a very special cat, Michael,” Luna says dreamily. “I’m glad you’re taking care of him.”

“Er… thanks,” says Michael, obviously confused. With a bit more spirit, he adds, “He is special, isn’t he? He’s so smart.”

“Oh, you should do something fun with him, though. He needs more positive thoughts to drive away the wrackspurts.”

“…I’ll do that. Thanks. See you later, Luna.”

And Luna skips away, humming some jaunty tune Harry doesn’t recognize.

“Merlin, what a weirdo,” Marietta sighs. Harry’s ear twitches.

“Anyway,” Harry can’t tell from Cho’s tone whether she’s agreeing with her friend or trying to avoid the subject, “we’ll see you at breakfast, Michael. Don’t take too long.”

“Yeah, I’ll be down soon,” he says. When the girls are gone, he refocuses his attention on Harry, “Alright, Tiger, I got to go. But…” Michael frowns, torn. “I really don’t want to keep you cooped up all day. I know the castle house elves will keep you safe, but… will you really come back if I let you out into the castle on your own?”

That is a very, very fair question. As soon as just yesterday, the answer would have been a resounding no, but Harry does decide to stick with Michael at least until the break. There’s just nowhere to go from Hogwarts, so he has to get back to London at least before escape is worthwhile.

And, frankly, if Ron and Hermione, and therefore Dumbledore and all those witches and wizards Dumbledore sets to spying on Harry’s house of the summer, are looking for him, it’ll be safest not to actively be on the run.

Dumbledore especially, the clever wizard he is, might put together that the cat travelling the countryside is very much like Sirius in his dog form doing the same thing only last year while Harry was part of the tournament. But he won’t have any reason to suspect a student’s pet, nor that Harry would be at Hogwarts at all.

Confirmation bias is a hell of an ally. But it sure does mean that Hogwarts is currently the safest place for Harry, and therefore he no longer has any reason to escape from Michael.

But how is Harry supposed to convince him of that when he spends the entire few days they know each other trying increasingly extreme methods of escaping?

Harry considers that question for a while, but eventually settles on simply stretching up and licking the tip of Michael’s nose.

Michael visibly trembles with the effort of keeping himself together. “What, you think you can just do something cute, and I’ll give you whatever you want?” he asks sternly.

Harry tilts his head, then butts it up into Michael’s chin.

Michael breaks. “Well, you’re absolutely right,” he coos. “Let’s get out of here.”

They leave the common room and Michael laughs all the way up until the point where he actually has to let Harry go. His grip tightens for a moment. “…Please come back, Tiger. I’m trusting you, here, because you didn’t really try to escape last night, and I’m hoping that means you actually do want to be with me. So… go explore, and come back to me with some elaborate prank planned, okay?

“I really need you to come back…”

Harry feels a kiss to the top of his head, and he twists around to touch his nose to Michael’s to hopefully reassure him, and then he is released into Hogwarts.

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 3

The Hogwarts Express

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Harry cuddles with Michael for a while. And yes, it is as weird as that sentence sounds, but he does it anyway because it’s really the only way Harry can comfort the boy. It’s not as if he can just tell him that he knows exactly how he feels because everyone in Harry’s life is doing the exact same thing Ginny is doing to him.

Bitterness swells in Harry’s chest. He feels a bit guilty, honestly, about running off and doubtlessly worrying everyone once they discover that he’s not hiding in his bedroom, making no noise and pretending that he doesn’t exist. If they discover that. Even the note Mr. Weasley sends telling him to stay put (which he obviously disregards) doesn’t actually tell him anything about anyone coming to pick him up or let him know what’s happening. And even if it did, it’s clear it would only be because the situation leaves them with no other choice, not because they actually trust or care about Harry. As far as Harry knows, they don’t ever intend to tell him what they’re up to. Hermione’s the only one who hints that she expects to see him “soon”, whatever that means.

He feels a bit guilty up until about now when he’s snuggling with Michael, trying to comfort Ginny’s boyfriend because they treat him the exact same way. But honestly? They can all sod right off. All of them. Ron, Hermione, and especially Ginny included. Maybe he ought to tell them that he’s an animagus and that he’s okay and just laying low, but why should he tell them anything? What have they told him all summer? And Michael, too, who must understand even less…

No, not one of them has the right to complain about Harry worrying them for dropping off the radar when they do it first. Harry is just going to do it better. They want him to be safe, don’t they? That’s their whole excuse for refusing to inform him of even the protections around his own home, or what dangers really are lurking beyond those boundaries. So, they can’t possibly gripe about Harry making himself safe by hiding as his animagus form.

If he tells them about it, he’d be putting himself in danger, after all, wouldn’t he? If he tries to send a letter, the owl could be intercepted, like they love to tell him. And he can’t very well inform them in person on account of them refusing to see him. So, it’s not his fault that they’ll get nothing from him, is it? He’s only doing what he has to to stay safe.

If he can’t be mad at them about that, then what right do they have to get angry with him about it?

Harry is so angry thinking about Ginny’s stupid excuse for a letter and his friends who pull the exact same thing, that he almost even forgets to try to escape the next day. Almost.

Today, Michael is supposed to be packing for Hogwarts and Harry isn’t allowed to wander alone outside of Michael’s room yet since Michael still thinks he’ll try to lose the Corners and slip out somewhere if he’s left unattended. (Which he will. So, fair play.) So, they’re both together in Michael’s room.

Harry lounges for the very first time on the cat bed that Michael gets him only because, when Michael comes in to start his packing, he tries to move it out from in front of the closet door to get it out of the way. Harry deciding to use it for once leaves Michael to have to awkwardly lean, reach, and step over him to grab his clothes from the closet so that he can pack them.

The Hogwarts Express leaves tomorrow. Harry is running out of time to escape. He… supposes he can hide at Hogwarts. If he’s trying to stay safe, that might even be a good idea since he can be reasonably sure that the Ministry won’t be looking for him there of all places. What makes him nervous is that he’s not sure he’ll be able to live there under Dumbledore’s nose without getting caught.

It will definitely be easiest to escape from Michael after they get to Hogwarts, when Michael will be in classes and the like and he’ll have to be left unattended at least part of the time, but how can Harry be sure he’s not walking out of Michael’s arms right into Dumbledore’s? And if Harry escapes while at Hogwarts, what does he do from there? He at least knows where he is in London. Wandering around the Scottish highlands, hoping a Hebridean Black doesn’t think a cat a nice appetizer isn’t exactly high on Harry’s to-do list.

Then again, Harry doesn’t really have a plan here, either, so…

Oh, but another problem with getting to Hogwarts is that, once Dumbledore does finally realize that he’s missing, Ron and Hermione will probably get their hands on Harry’s things. Harry leaves Privet Drive with nothing but his wand. If Ron or Hermione has the Marauder’s Map from his trunk, then walking into Hogwarts will basically be announcing his identity to everyone.

Harry rolls over, groaning to himself. If he could just get some message to Sirius, figure out where Sirius is staying right now… they could hide together. Harry could have a goal, a destination, at least. But as it is his plan is basically just “don’t get caught.”

Harry only then notices that Michael isn’t packing any more. He’s not finished by a long shot, but he’s still just laying on his bed, watching Harry intently with a cute little smile on his face.

Seeing that he’s caught Harry’s attention, Michael chuckles. “I like watching you think. You look like you have a rich inner life.”

Harry lets out a definitely-distinguished, “Mrp?”

“What does a cat think about, I wonder?” Michael hums. “Probably ham.” Oh, if only he knew. “Though you are you,” he continues. “You’re probably planning your next prank. Or escape attempt. Mom was not impressed when she had to repair my window yesterday, by the way. You know that, right?”

Well, that’s just his own fault for leaving his fanged frisbee where Harry can get to it, isn’t it?

Harry just sticks his tongue out at him.

Michael squeals. “Aww, you’re just so cute. Parvati’s going to love you.” He grins. “Actually, scratch that, all my friends are going to love you. Even if they don’t, I’ll annoy them until they do.”

Harry huffs and turns away, back to his own thoughts.

“You’re kind of moody, aren’t you?”

What? Harry is not moody!

He looks back to see Michael putting on a pouting face. “Where’s all the love you had a few days ago? Why can’t you come cuddle me more?”

Michael pats the bed next to him invitingly. Harry hisses at him. Inside, though, Harry is thoroughly embarrassed. Yes, he does it the once, but that’s only because of Ginny’s ridiculous, stupid letter that makes Michael sad. He’s not really a pet!

Michael snickers. “Be that way if you want, but I know you’re actually a very nice cat.”

Harry just narrows his eyes and turns away once more. He has better things to do than engage with Michael. He’s got to figure out how to get out of here, after all.

“…The truth is, Tiger…” Harry stops. He can’t help how his ear swivels towards Michael’s voice. All at once the happiness and humor is sucked away like a dementor swoops into the room. Michael just sounds… defeated. Dead. “I’m scared to go back to Hogwarts.”

Scared?

“I mean… You-Know-Who is back, and the Daily Prophet and the Ministry are too concerned with their image to admit it. Poor Harry, his name is being dragged through the mud just for saying what he saw that day. The Ministry of Magic is attacking a kid my age. The fucking Ministry!”

There’s a sharp bang that makes Harry jump, but when he gets his eyes back on Michael, he’s only burying his head into his crossed arms into the blanket of his bed, taking deep breaths.

“Sorry, Tiger. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Michael mumbles quietly. “But think about it… our government is going after a fifteen-year-old. Who does that and can still call themselves adults? I don’t care if he is lying, it’s just ridiculous!”

Harry… honestly doesn’t even think about that. But Michael is right. This is the highest governing body in the British Isles, the Minister for Magic himself, slandering a child because they don’t like what he says.

And Michael doesn’t even know about the dementors. It only occurs to Harry now that the Ministry is just as likely to have sent those as Voldemort is. Maybe more, actually, considering how eager the Ministry is to use the attack against him.

“…I do believe him, though,” Michael mutters, now fiddling with a thread at the edge of his blanket overhanging the bed. “I don’t know Harry very well, but… well, he’s a lot of things, but he’s not a liar. If he says You-Know-Who is back, then he believes it.”

That’s… Harry warms, hearing that. Despite the Ministry’s smear campaign, there are still people who believe in him. Michael doesn’t even hesitate to say it. There’s not a doubt in his mind.

And at the same time, it kind of pisses Harry off more. Because if Michael Corner, some random Ravenclaw bloke Harry talks to maybe twice his entire time at Hogwarts, knows him well enough to know he wouldn’t lie about something like this, then what’s wrong with the world that he hears so many people believing that rubbish while he’s in the Menagerie?

Michael shudders. “I don’t know how anyone could look at his face the moment he came out of that maze and say they don’t believe him. And Cedric…”

Oh, Cedric. Harry can’t help but feel that Cedric is wronged even more than he is. Cedric dies in that graveyard. He’s murdered in cold blood, just because he’s there. An unnecessary, meaningless death. But if he can be used to make people aware of the threat… that would be the meaning in it.

And the Ministry is actively taking that away from him. They want Cedric’s death to mean nothing. Just a tragic accident in a tournament they swear is made to be safer so that deaths like that don’t happen.

“…So, yeah,” Michael whispers. “I’m scared to go back. If the Ministry is willing to attack Harry… what’s to stop them from going after the rest of us? And You-Know-Who is out there, but we’re not even going to learn to defend ourselves.”

He grabs his copy of Defensive Magical Theory from his stack of textbooks and tosses it to the ground. “I mean, have you seen this? Slinkhard’s primary thesis is that we just shouldn’t use any magic that could be used aggressively. In any situation. Poncy git wouldn’t approve of a freezing spell to cool your pop, because then you’d actually know a spell you could use on a person. If our Defense teacher this year chose this book, they’re worse than useless. They’re actively encouraging ignorance.”

Holy- Is that true? Wow, Harry is almost glad he’s expelled, then. That sounds like their Defense teacher goes out of their way to choose the actual worst book they can for the class.

Michael groans. “I feel like we’re stuck between the Ministry and You-Know-Who, both want our heads. You-Know-Who got to Harry at Hogwarts last year, and that was before he was resurrected. And you know the Ministry isn’t going to protect him, much less the rest of us. If they interfere at all, they’re only going to make things worse. I’ve got O.W.L.s this year, so there’s that to worry about. Not to mention I haven’t heard anything of substance from Ginny all summer and I’m really not optimistic about what’ll happen when we see each other again…

“It’s just… a lot, all at once. And it’s scary. Don’t you think?”

Yeah, he does. Harry gets it. It’s hard for him not to, being who he is. Harry doesn’t realize that other people feel this way, too. He never really thinks about what the other students are feeling about all the crazy things that happen. He’s too busy trying to survive it himself.

Michael sighs. He slumps where he is hanging off the bed. After a moment, he lifts his head once more, smiling at Harry. “You’re a good listener, Tiger. Thanks for letting me rant.” He reaches out, and Harry graciously permits him a little scritch behind the ear.

“I wish I was a cat,” Michael says. Harry has to choke down a visible reaction at the irony. “You’re not worrying about the Ministry, or You-Know-Who, or exams, or girlfriends.” God, if only he knew. “You’re just thinking about ham.”

…

…

…Well, he is now.

----

Harry tries to escape five times that day. Unfortunately, either his heart really isn’t in it, or he’s just really bad at it, because Michael catches him every time.

The next day, the very day they need to board the Hogwarts Express, Michael distracts Harry from trying to escape by sitting them together on the sofa and putting on DuckTales for them to watch for the entire morning.

Harry intends to use the television as a distraction for the Corner family and slip out while they’re watching, but he’s never been allowed to watch cartoons before – he’s never been allowed to watch anything before – and he’s just totally sucked in from the moment the theme starts. (Woo-oo!)

Michael of course notices that Harry gets into it and spends the entire car ride to King’s Cross Station shouting the DuckTales theme at the top of his lungs. Even Harry can’t quite tell if it’s an efficient distraction making him forget to escape, or if it only makes him want to get out faster. But the rest of the Corner family surprisingly don’t seem to mind. They even shout their own hearty “Woo-oos” at the proper moments for at least the first half or so of the drive.

Imagine if Harry makes this much ruckus at the Dursleys. Unthinkable.

It’s Harry’s own fault, though. The Michael getting carried away thing, not the Dursley’s being awful thing. The moment Harry meows when he’s supposed to “woo-oo” Michael gets that sparkling look in his eye and they all know that there’s no chance they will ever know peace.

And so, Harry is highly amused and slightly miserable by the time they do finally reach King’s Cross and Michael is forced to cool it. Michael tries to get Harry into a carrier to bring him through the station, but after Harry bites him for the very first time he accepts the loss and gives up on it.

(Harry nips Michael a few times when he does something he doesn’t like, but he never really wants to hurt the guy. Trying to put him in a cage, though? Harry bites hard. Michael’s mom has to heal his hand, but Harry’s message gets across.)

He’s bundled up in Michael’s arms through King’s Cross to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and there makes one final attempt to escape by biting down on a fizzing whizzbee he sneaks from Michael’s pocket in the car and hides in his long fur.

As planned, he begins to float up, and he uses the moment of surprise to kick off of Michael to get some momentum, careening through the station.

He can just about taste freedom. It’s citrusy… and fizzy. And then he can only sigh when a pair of hands close around him, catching him right out of the air.

So unfair. It isn’t even Michael! Harry glares bitterly at the blond boy holding him at arm’s length looking quizzically between him and Michael, who runs up quickly.

“I suppose this is Tiger,” Anthony Goldstein says flatly.

He’s nearly bowled over (Harry has a brief moment of hope when his grip loosens from the impact, but Anthony is just too good) when Michael tackles him with a hug. “Anthony!” He shouts. “Thank you thank you thank you! Oh, man, that was a close one! Sneaky, sneaky, Tiger!” With a groan that digs a sharp nail of guilt into Harry for worrying him so much, he adds, “And now I have to figure out if fizzing whizzbees are safe for cats…”

“They’re safe,” Anthony says calmly, handing Harry back to Michael, who hugs him tight to his chest. “Maybe keep them away from that one anyway, though.”

“Mrow!” protests Harry.

Michael snickers. “Nah, I’ll just make sure to keep a hold of him if he wants to try it again.” Knowing Harry hasn’t just poisoned himself, Michael relaxes again. “Isn’t Tiger so smart? He had to have taken that whizzbee like an hour ago, but he knew just when to eat it.”

Anthony just hums, looking passively over Harry. “Doesn’t show in his appearance, but I guess there must be kneazle in him.”

Harry is so glad that kneazles are a thing. It would be so much harder to convincingly pass as a cat if they weren’t.

“Anyway, I should be getting on the train,” says Anthony. “Prefect and all that.”

“Congrats again on that, man, we all knew you’d be prefect.” Michael pauses. “Are the Weasleys here yet, do you know?”

Anthony’s expression turns sympathetic. “I haven’t seen them, so I doubt it. They aren’t typically early. You should probably just go grab a compartment.”

Michael deflates a little. “Right. I’ll do that. Thanks, Anthony. Good luck in the prefect’s cabin.”

Anthony starts to turn away, but just before leaving, he adds, “Parvati’s here, though. You already know Padma is the female prefect. And Terry should be getting here soon.”

Michael brightens at that. Harry’s time with him so far makes him think that Michael really isn’t someone who handles loneliness well.

Michael says good-bye to his family and gets on the train, not grabbing a compartment for himself, but searching them until he finds Parvati so he can join her instead.

He sits, Parvati squeals and tries to pet Harry, Harry hops out of Michael’s arms to curl up in his own seat. Michael shakes his head and moves seats with an, “Uh, uh,” and takes Harry’s seat, forcing Harry to move down closer to the window so that Michael is between him and the door so that Harry can’t run the moment someone opens it.

“He’s a little escape artist,” Michael says to Parvati in explanation. “Likes to pull pranks and make a break for it.”

Parvati giggles. “Oh, so he’s just like you.”

“Almost as clever, too. Can you believe, not ten minutes ago, this guy snuck a fizzing whizzbee without me noticing, ate it, and flew right out of my arms. If it weren’t for Anthony he might’ve even gotten away from me that time.”

They share a laugh, then Parvati asks. “Is he going to be okay at Hogwarts? What if he gets loose?”

Michael shrugs. “I’ll ask the house elves to keep an eye out for him. If fine if he wanders, but they can make sure he doesn’t get into anything dangerous.” Harry levels a betrayed look Michael’s way. No! He’s supposed to at least have the option of escape at Hogwarts!

Michael snickers. “Yeah, I see you, Tiger. I know you’re listening. But I’ve got to keep you safe somehow and I seriously doubt Professor Snape will be amenable to me bringing you to class with me.”

Yeah, that would go over like a hurricane.

Lavender Brown enters the cabin then and also tries to pet Harry. He hisses at her.

“Your cat’s kind of grumpy, isn’t he?” she says.

“Nah,” Michael says with an adoring grin. “He’s just like that. He’s a teddy bear, really.”

Excuse him? Who’s a teddy bear? Michael is the one trying to snuggle him all the time!

“Oh, he will bite, though. If you really bother him.”

That’s better.

Lavender heeds the warning, wisely retracting the hand reaching out for Harry to fold it in her lap.

Lavender starts up some gossip about someone or other, so Harry takes that as a cue that he doesn’t need to pay any more attention. Instead, he looks out the window, watching for Hermione or the Weasleys, and thinks about his best options going forward.

Escape at Hogwarts, while possibly not as difficult, is painfully impractical. While Harry is in London, he has access to Diagon Alley, Gringotts, and by extension all sorts of services he could, if he pays attention and makes the right choices, use to get out of the country.

At Hogwarts… there’s Hogsmeade, he supposes, but what does he do from there? Try to hitch a ride on the Hogwarts Express all the way back to London? Not impossible, but Harry doesn’t actually know how often the train runs outside of getting the students to school and back, if it does, and if he loiters in Hogsmeade too long he’s likely to get picked up again and either returned to Michael or taken as a pet by someone else. Then he’s back to square one.

But aside from wandering the Scottish highlands, he doesn’t see any other option. He doesn’t know where anything else is up there, and he’s quite certain that there are fairly vast distances between everything, anyway.

It seems to Harry that, once he’s at Hogwarts, his best option is just to stick with Michael until the holiday and he’s brought back to London. Surely Dumbledore won’t be looking for him as a student’s cat, and maybe he can even still keep learning a bit by hanging out with Ravenclaws while they’re doing their homework or something. After all, even though Harry is on the run from the Ministry at the moment, he doesn’t delude himself that he’ll be able to escape Voldemort forever. He can’t really afford to put his education at a complete standstill.

The biggest concern is if Ron or Hermione come back with the Marauder’s Map. Assuming Harry doesn’t mess up and draw attention to himself, that’s the only way anyone will know he’s not what he seems to be.

Which means… if Harry is going to be going back to Hogwarts this year… he needs to steal back the map before Ron or Hermione has a chance to use it.

Harry casts a sidelong glance to Michael, a plan already forming. He adopts Harry to begin with because he says Harry is his prank partner. Surely, he’d be willing to pull a prank or two, during which Harry can use the opportunity to grab some parchment. To Michael, the map would just be scrap parchment. There’s no reason he’d worry overmuch about returning it, or keeping it from Harry if he insists on not handing it over. Harry just needs to nudge Michael in the right direction to set things in motion.

Yes, this can work…

The compartment door opens again. This time Terry Boot enters. He steps in, surveys the situation, and asks, “That’s Tiger, then? He looks like he’s up to something.”

Michael giggles. “Yeah, he always looks like that. That’s ‘cause he is. My little genius.”

Harry stares him down but decides to allow the scritch just at the base of his skull.

Terry sits near the door, on the other side of Michael, so determining him to be out of unwanted petting range, and with Michael going off on an elaborate play by play of every moment since he meets Harry in the Magical Menagerie, Harry simply returns to looking out the window.

Yeah, he’ll just spend the year as Michael’s cat. It seems the safest option at the moment. But he will need to get that map.

Oh, speaking of, that’s the Weasleys, now. Harry watches them bustle along the platform, subdued to a man as they approach the train. Worry and guilt twists Harry’s gut seeing their expressions. They all have pinched brows and tense frowns.

“Oh, Michael!” Parvati exclaims. “Look, the Weasleys are here!”

Michael peeks out the window, Terry and Lavender both looming over the closer ones to see for themselves as the Weasley’s promptly board the train.

“D’you think something’s wrong?” Terry asks. “They seem concerned.”

“They’re not the only ones,” says Parvati simply. “Half the families out there look the same way. It’s just the state of the world right now.” Harry doesn’t notice because he’s not really looking for anything but the Weasley’s signature red hair, but he sees that she’s right. That concerned look, the glancing over their shoulders… many more than just the Weasleys look that way.

“You-Know-Who, you mean,” says Michael.

“That’s a lot of it,” Parvati answers bravely.

The compartment door opens as a familiar redhead pops her head in. “Oh,” says Ginny dully. “Hey guys.”

Michael jerks up, ramrod straight. “Ginny! Hi! Come on in, let me introduce you to Tig-”

“Hey, uh,” says Ginny, rubbing her arm. “Actually, I’m looking for Harry. Have you seen him?”

Michael snaps his mouth shut. Harry can practically hear the tight muscles in his jaw locking together.

“We haven’t,” Terry says smoothly, entirely unfazed by Michael’s change in demeanor. “Thought he’d be with you guys.”

Ginny sighs dejectedly, murmuring, “Yeah, well…” She shakes her head, straightening up again to put a bit more confidence in her voice. Harry might even be convinced that nothing is wrong if he doesn’t already know better. “Just let me know if you see him, alright? Ron and Hermione are both prefects, but they asked me to-” She hesitates just for a moment. Terry narrows his eyes even less obviously. “-give him something.”

“If he stops by, we’ll tell him you’re looking for him,” Lavender says sweetly.

“Thanks,” Ginny says. “I’ll keep looking, then. See you later.”

She leaves the compartment, closing the door behind her. Parvati reaches across the space to grab Michael’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “That was seriously not cool of her…”

“Not a single word for her boyfriend!” Lavender screeches in outrage, all sweetness in her tone gone for fury. “And she has the gall to ask about another boy – one we all know she used to fancy! Ugh!”

Even Harry, feeling the miserable frustration rolling off of Michael, moves to lay down in his lap, allowing his trembling hand to run down Harry’s back in soothing pets.

Terry scoots closer to Michael as well and hooks their arms together in solidarity. But his eyes are still on the compartment door. He says, “Something’s up with Harry. Has he ever come to the train without the Weasleys?”

“Not that I can remember,” Parvati says quietly. “I don’t really keep track of him, though…”

“He hasn’t,” Michael says firmly, in a tone that says he would really rather talk about this than Ginny ignoring him in person as well as in her letters. “Fred and George have mentioned it before.”

Lavender copies Parvati and grabs Michael’s hand to squeeze once but takes his cue not to mention Ginny. “I heard he might not be coming back to school this year,” Lavender murmurs without her usual enthusiasm for gossip.

Harry’s eyes immediately snap to her. Where does she hear that? Does that mean his expulsion has finally been announced?

“What?” Terry sounds stricken. “Why? If it’s just because of the rubbish the Daily Prophet prints-”

Lavender shakes her head. “No, I heard from a friend whose friend’s mom works at the Ministry, right? Did you read a while ago in the paper they mentioned that Harry had gotten into trouble for doing magic in a muggle neighborhood?”

Terry scowls. “I did. I also read that it was the patronus charm. Harry isn’t thick enough to use a spell like that without a very good reason. And there’s only one reason to use that spell in particular. That means there must’ve also been dementors in that muggle neighborhood, but no one’s asking about that.”

Okay, Harry officially likes Terry. Hearing these people who he rarely if ever really talks to gossiping about him is kind of strange. It drives in that he really is a household name, but he hears plenty of that from chatter in the Menagerie.

What gets him is that these guys are defending him. Harry barely speaks to them, but they’re getting angry on his behalf, getting scared for him, arguing for him even when they don’t believe he’s ever going to find out.

It makes him really, really happy. And more than anything, it makes him feel like he truly has allies. Like he’s not alone.

“Well,” says Lavender. Everyone leans in as if pulled by her lowered voice. Even Harry. “What I heard was that Dumbledore arranged for him to have a trial about mid-August. Only that’s not when the trial actually happened. Once the date was set, Dumbledore almost immediately started arguing to push it back, and back, and back until the Ministry told him to stop interrupting proceedings and held the trial just yesterday.”

“Well, he’s fine then, isn’t he? There’s no way he’d get in any trouble if there’s a fair trial,” says Michael.

Lavender’s solemn frown dissuades them all from that thought.

“No…”

“He didn’t show,” Lavender murmurs. She glances to the door worriedly, like talking about this is some crime she’s afraid an auror will barge in and arrest her for. “He wasn’t present, so he couldn’t defend himself. They never even heard his side of the story. Dumbledore tried to argue for him, but they called him a threat to the Statute of Secrecy. They’re calling for his wand.”

“What?” Michael cries. “That’s absurd!”

Parvati slaps her hands to her mouth, stunned too gentle a word for how she reacts, but Terry once again proves why Harry already likes him best by just darkly muttering, “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Parvati finds her tiny, trembling voice. “What? What does it mean?”

Terry’s eyes search the upholstery for secrets, darting back and forth as his mind works overtime. After a moment, he says simply, “He was set up.”

Everyone’s eyes widen. Lavender’s voice is startlingly hard when she leans in intently and demands, “Explain.”

“Dementors in a muggle neighborhood,” Terry begins. “Who controls the dementors?”

Lavender gasps. Michael hedges, “It could have been You-Know-Who. You know he has it out for Harry.”

“That’s true,” Terry says, nodding to Michael. “But You-Know-Who is also surely taking advantage of the Ministry’s insistence that he’s not back. Would he really risk snatching a Ministry asset right out from under them and use it so brazenly?” Terry shakes his head. “I’ve no doubt the Minister would take advantage and they would cover it up, but You-Know-Who is smarter than to make it so obvious to the Auror office.”

“Susan’s aunt Amelia would never overlook something like that,” Lavender says. “Maybe especially if the Minister insists that she does. But if the dementors were sent by the Ministry… someone high up, like the Minister himself…”

“There’s nothing she can do about it,” Terry confirms. “She likely can see the order form, can see it was properly filed, but all the details would be redacted. If there’s just no form there, as there would if You-Know-Who ordered the attack, she could launch an investigation, but as is, since the trial must’ve determined there were no dementors present…”

Harry lays down, trying to process this. If Terry is right… Sure, Harry has the thought that the Ministry might be the ones to send the dementors but he never really thinks…

With a sigh, Terry continues to explain. “The most likely culprit for why those dementors were anywhere close to Harry is the Ministry itself. And the most telling reason to believe it’s them is how they’ve reacted afterwards. So, he uses magic to defend himself, and what? They put him to trial? For underage magic? As if they don’t have a whole department that’s supposed to handle those issues?”

The department meant to handle those issues does respond first, to be fair. But their response is to expel him and attempt to snap his wand, so Harry isn’t feeling very charitable to them at all.

“When has an underage wizard ever had their wand snapped for anything less than willful endangerment of another wizard’s life?” Terry asks. “Expelled, sure, it happens occasionally, but going so far as to call for his wand?”

“The Ministry attacked him,” says Michael tightly, “forced him to use underage magic to save his own life, and then expelled him and now they’re trying to snap his wand for it?”

“It’s worse than that,” says Terry grimly. Harry only wonders how it can possibly get worse. “If they’ve finally gotten rid of Harry… who’s next on their list? Who are they going after in the papers just as much? That they’re calling a threat to public safety for claiming You-Know-Who is back?”

“Dumbledore,” Parvati breathes. “You think they’ll be going after Dumbledore next? But… he’s the only wizard You-Know-Who ever feared. They’d be practically inviting him back out into the open.”

“Not just that,” says Terry. “What about us? We all believe Harry, don’t we? What does that make us in the eyes of the Ministry? And if they were willing to attack a boy our age in his own neighborhood, set him up, take his future and his magic from him… How safe are we? Especially in Hogwarts, where Dumbledore is in charge?”

Everyone in the compartment, Harry included, shivers. They all look down to their hands. Michael wraps up Harry and hugs him tight, trembling.

Harry himself is as scared for everyone else as he is soothed by the strange feeling that everyone here sees what happens to him as a loss. It feels almost as heavy, almost as tragic, as losing Cedric. As if Harry dies. A casualty of war. Everyone here is scared for themselves as they carry on, but they also care that Harry won’t be attending Hogwarts with them. Harry doesn’t expect that from them.

“I’m scared,” Lavender admits.

“Me too,” says Terry.

“…Can we be sure about this?” Parvati asks. “I mean, was it really the Ministry…?”

Terry shakes his head. “Nothing’s a hundred percent. It’s just deductive reasoning. But I think it makes too much sense to ignore.”

“…So, what’re we going to do?” Michael asks.

That, it seems, no one has an answer to.

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 2

Someone Who Understands

First, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Harry loses track of how long he’s in quarantine. As a cat, he spends a lot of time sleeping, and though he does still have nightmares, he finds they’re a lot less frequent when he’s in this form than when he’s human. It’s a small blessing, but between naps, meals, some play time with the nice clerk who Harry admits to taking a bit of a shine to, and the baths that become a regular part of his routine because Harry actually quite likes bathing regularly, even if it is more often than a normal cat would, he loses track of the passage of time.

It's just a steady routine he falls into until all of a sudden he’s being brought out to the front of the shop, a part of the Magical Menagerie that used to be more familiar but now seems strange compared to the back where he’s been living for the last while.

It’s not an unwelcome change, though. Being out front gives Harry the chance to learn more about what’s happening outside the walls of the Menagerie.

Harry takes to climbing up to the top of the highest crates and shelves, and sometimes actually managing to get into the rafters, so that no customers see him and get the bright idea to adopt him. He really needs to escape from here before someone pays for him and loses their galleons on an animal that isn’t really a pet. But all his time in quarantine leaves Harry even more clueless to the state of the world than he is when he gets caught in the first place, so he’s hesitant to leave this safe haven.

But he watches, and he listens. He has to, to learn. Conversation within the Menagerie is understandably dominated by pet talk, but there are still some snippets. Harry learns that they’re about halfway through August, so Hogwarts will be starting again in just a couple of weeks.

He jumps down from the rafters once to steal a newspaper that a customer brings in, and carries it back up with him where no one can reach it without magic. The witch is good-natured about the loss, so he gets to keep it, and once the attention dies down and he won’t be noticed, he pores through it, looking for anything.

Anything on Voldemort, anything on himself. He is an easy topic to find. Harry’s face is plastered on the very front page, and the article talks about him being a mad, raving, liar and fearmonger for saying that Voldemort is back, but the only hint of Voldemort’s whereabouts is the Daily Prophet’s insistence that he’s still dead as a doornail.

There’s nothing about Harry vanishing, but the front page article does reveal that he uses magic in a muggle neighborhood, calling him a severe threat to the Statute of Secrecy. Other than that, though, which is really just more slander, there’s no call for information on his whereabouts, or notice of his expulsion from Hogwarts.

Harry wonders if that’s a good sign.

And then, with as much information as he can get and already having stayed here far longer than he’s comfortable with, Harry decides it’s time to escape.

…Which really shouldn’t be as hard as it is.

He starts simple. He tries to dart out of the door when a customer opens it. But he’s always caught, and now that he makes a habit of it, the clerk keeps an even closer eye on him, wand ready to snatch him up if he tries to make a break for it.

Harry tries the windows, but they’re old and dirtied and jammed from never being opened on account of the many animals residing in the place that would escape if they were.

He tries to jump onto the door handle to open the door himself once, when the clerk isn’t looking. Then the door creaks so loudly and the bell above the door rings and he’s caught red-handed, and the clerk grabs him with a weary sigh and a shake of his head.

That’s when Harry has to start getting creative.

He opens all the birdcages before he tries to slip out, but the clerks now knowing his antics make sure to secure him first before putting all the birds back away.

He recruits another cat to help him push over a big crate, which spills feed all over the shop floor which sends all the creatures into a frenzy, and he’s giggling to himself as he dances through the pandemonium to try to make his escape, but the owner actually puts the whole shop on lockdown until all the animals are calmed and Harry never has his chance.

After enough attempts, Harry even just sits right there on the register, glaring at the clerk manning it, and just reaches down and shuts it anytime the man tries to open it, just to be annoying.

It’s in the Hogwarts rush, which begins about halfway through the week immediately preceding September the first when the Hogwarts Express departs King’s Cross, that Harry’s latest attempt to create a distraction that will allow him to escape backfires spectacularly.

He’s lounging in the rafters, staying out of sight as usual, when a familiar-looking boy enters the shop with a young girl who looks too young for Hogwarts (a sister?) and an older woman who is probably his mother.

Harry sees quite a few Hogwarts students in here recently, which should be no surprise. He doesn’t know all of them, and he’s surprised by a few of them because he isn’t aware that they have pets, but in general he’s not bothered by the fact that he recognizes the boy.

He’s tall, with an average build and dark hair that’s long for a boy held back in a ponytail. Not a stand-out, which is probably why Harry has trouble placing his name. He knows they’re year mates, but this guy is a Ravenclaw, so Harry doesn’t talk to him very much.

Although, he’s pretty sure this is the guy that’s dating Ginny. Michael Corner? Hermione and Ron talk about him sometimes, but it’s usually more talking about him and not actually pointing him out. Harry vaguely remembers a paired project in History once that he does with Michael in second year. The only thing he remembers about it is that Michael doesn’t seem particularly bothered about working with him, and thus probably doesn’t believe he is the heir of Slytherin that is attacking muggleborns in the school, but they don’t really talk about it.

(Now that he’s thinking about it, that’s the reason they get paired on that project in the first place, isn’t it? Ron grabs Hermione because it’s a History project, and Michael is the first one Harry finds that doesn’t spurn him offhand. Reflecting on that, Harry finds himself warming to the guy, even if Ron hates him because he’s going out with Ginny. Harry wonders if he hears anything about what the Weasleys are up to all summer.)

Harry sees Michael in the shop, eyes him going up to the counter to talk to the clerk as his mother and sister look around the rest of the store. More importantly, Harry sees the bag sticking out of Michael’s pocket, with the edge of the logo for Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop printed there.

Chuckling lowly to himself, Harry rises, adjusting to try to get a better view into Michael’s pocket. When he spots what he needs, he silently drops down onto a crate, staying low and creeping along, slithering down to sneak up within reach of Michael.

He makes it there silently, even managing to hop up onto the puffskein cage immediately to Michael’s side without notice, and slowly, carefully, he reaches out.

The clerk’s eyes go wide. He’s caught! Harry flexes his claws, hooks the bag, and wrenches it from Michael’s pocket, spilling the contents all over the floor of the Menagerie.

The clerk tries to apologize, and in the brief moment of distraction, Harry’s eyes search his treasures and land on his ticket out of this place.

A small bundle of Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks. Perfect.

Narrowly avoiding the clerk’s lunge for him, Harry pounces on the firework bundle. He bats at it, playing with it, and the moment the clerk takes out his wand to catch Harry with magic, Harry picks up the bundle and tosses it up into the way of the spell.

The magic triggers the fireworks. They ignite, shake vigorously where they are, and then burst, streaming through the Magical Menagerie in wonderful sparkling light and color and noise.

The animals go mad at the sudden explosions, all stirring into an uproar. The poor clerk is immediately overwhelmed, and the owner isn’t here today to lock down the place. (Harry makes sure.)

Snickering to himself for a successful plan, Harry slips through the chaos for the door. As expected, someone opens it, coming in to investigate the clamor. Harry takes the opportunity to dart-

He’s hooked just behind his forelegs and lifted, struggling uselessly and yowling his protests as he dangles there, unable to reach the freedom that’s so, so close.

No, no, no, no, no! He nearly has it this time!

But the pop pop popping of the fireworks fizzles to a halt with a quick spell from the clerk and he’s already herding the animals back to calm as he apologizes profusely to Michael’s mother and sister, who both seem just as startled as all the creatures. (Unlike the mother, though, the sister is dazzled, not just surprised.)

Harry twists his head to look back at the boy who catches him. Michael Corner. Harry narrows his eyes and lets out a fierce hiss, expressing his displeasure at these events. Michael just stares at him with wide eyes and an awed smile on his lips.

Once the cacophony calms, the clerk finally comes over to Michael, who hasn’t moved a muscle since picking Harry up. “Again, I am so sorry,” the clerk says. “This little tiger has been trying to escape for weeks and he’s only getting smarter.”

“I love him,” Michael announces quite out of nowhere.

…What now? Harry squirms and hisses some more, but Michael just coos with a goofy grin.

“Michael…” his mother warns.

“Mom, look at him! Come on, how can you say no to this face?”

Harry, pouting and growling, fur still sticking up every which way despite being perfectly clean now, narrows his eyes threateningly.

“He looks like a menace,” says the little girl, bluntly.

“I know! Isn’t he perfect?” Michael squeals.

“Perfect for you,” the girl giggles.

The mother sighs. “Michael, he set off your fireworks in the middle of the pet shop.”

“Well, where else was he going to set them off? We haven’t bought him, yet!”

“Michael Thomas.”

Uh oh, thinks Harry. She pulled out the middle name. While Michael shrinks, just slightly, Harry actually feels better. Because surely if Michael’s mother uses his middle name on him, there’s no way she’s ever going to consent to actually buying Harry from the Menagerie.

Harry suddenly finds himself cradled closely to Michael’s chest. “Come on, please, Mom? I love him so much already!”

Michael’s mother pinches the bridge of her nose. “We came here for an owl, Michael. Not a cat. And pick up your mess!”

Michael swiftly kneels to gather the remaining scattered joke items back into the bag, which he stuffs back into his pocket. Hoping to make an even worse impression on Michael’s mother, Harry squirms around to start trying to reach for the bag again.

Of course, Michael easily keeps him away from it, but the intention is clear.

(This all makes Harry wonder what Hermione’s parents say about her bringing home Crookshanks after she goes to this very same shop with the intent to get an owl to write to them with. He never does ask her about that.)

“Please?” He drags the word out like using a bigger breath will make his mother more likely to agree. “I know we’re here for an owl, but what if I use my allowance? You don’t have to pay, you just have to agree to let me keep him!”

“You only want him because he’s a better prankster than you,” says the sister.

“Shut it, Rosie, he is not. He would be an awesome partner, though.” Michael’s glittering eyes on Harry reveal just how much trouble he’s already planning to get into.

“You are not getting a cat just so that you can play pranks with it,” says Michael’s mother.

“That’s not the only reason!” Michael protests, and Harry notices he doesn’t deny that he does plan to use Harry to pull pranks. “I feel a connection. Come on, Mom, isn’t that how you’re supposed to pick a pet? You look ‘em in the eye,” Michael turns Harry around so that he can stare directly into Harry’s still-narrowed eyes, “and you get that feeling in your heart like, ‘yep, that one, that’s the one’ right?”

Michael’s mother sighs, and Harry panics a little because it looks like she’s starting to break. He’s got to do something, anything!

“You and Dad were just talking about how I need to learn more responsibility, weren’t you? I’ll take care of him. One hundred percent. I’ll get his toys and his food and I’ll wash him and entertain him and everything! You won’t have to do a thing for his care!

No! Harry wails internally, watching Michael’s mom crumble. Don’t give in!

“You need to learn to budget for him, too,” says Michael’s mother, trying to sound stiff even as she gives in. “We’ll slightly increase your allowance to help, but all of his expenses will be on you. Understand?”

“Yes!” Michael whoops. “Thanks Mom! You’re the best! I love you!” He hugs Harry tight and turns to the clerk. “How much for him?”

The clerk appears both exasperated and relieved, probably happy to be getting rid of Harry. “For a black cat? Nine galleons. Nonrefundable – if he escapes you, you’re on your own. The Magical Menagerie holds no responsibility once that tiger leaves this building.”

Harry wonders at his life being worth just nine galleons… That’s way more than the Dursleys would ever spend on him. Probably more than they’ve spent on him collectively through his whole life.

Huh. Why is he proud to be worth nine galleons to this random Ravenclaw bloke he barely knows?

But even so, surely, he’s worth at least ten, right? …Right?

(Michael also buys food and toys and simple necessities like bowls, brushes and the like, and so his total does end up exceeding ten galleons, which Harry feels irrationally smug about. Also guilty because he does still plan on escaping, so those galleons are all going down the drain… He’ll try to find some way to refund Michael before he leaves. Or after.)

Michael holds Harry close as he fills out the paperwork registering Harry as his pet, and his mother and sister find an owl and go through similar paperwork as well, and then it’s all sorted and paid and Michael is walking out of the Magical Menagerie with Harry Potter in his arms.

“What’re you going to name him?” Rosie, Michael’s sister, asks.

“I don’t know,” Michael admits, stroking and cooing at Harry as he does nonstop since he gets Harry in his arms. “It needs to be something fierce, I think.”

Harry mentally groans. He best prepare himself for the worst. At least he won’t have to put up with whatever name for long, since he’ll have to make his escape before he has to go back to Hogwarts.

“The clerk kept calling him a tiger,” Rosie says thoughtfully. “Sounds fierce to me.”

“He is a little Tiger,” Michael says. He tickles Harry’s chest adoringly. “What do you think, partner?”

…It could be a lot worse. Harry is already kind of used to the Menagerie employees calling him that, so he doesn’t really have any protest. It’s a temporary name, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter what Michael calls him.

“Well, he’s not hissing.” Rosie snickers. “I think that means he’s okay with it.”

Oh, right. Since she reminds him… In a flash, Harry grabs onto Michael’s bare hand with his claws. He doesn’t dig in, not hard enough to pierce the skin, but he stares Michael down, the threat clear in his eyes.

Michael meets his eyes and laughs. “Oh, yeah, we’re going to get along great,” he says. “You really are a little tiger, aren’t you?” He carefully extricates his hand from Harry’s claws, then runs that hand over Harry’s head.

Harry lets out a disgruntled little trill from the unexpected pet, which does not help him look fierce.

The Corner family make their way back to the Leaky Cauldron, where they use the floo to get back to their home. Harry watches carefully as Mrs. Corner takes Rosie through the floo, leaving just Michael and him on this side, and Harry sees his opportunity.

He has to time it right, though. Harry waits, ensuring that his muscles are all relaxed, biding his time. Michael steps up to the floo, tosses a few knuts into the tray and takes a pinch of floo powder, and tosses it into the fireplace. He calls for his destination, steps forward…

Harry twists, struggling all at once to get out of Michael’s grip. As he’s perfectly compliant up until then, Michael’s grip on him slips.

There’s a moment when time seems to slow, and Harry thinks he’s done it. He’s out of Michael’s grasp, Michael already has one foot in the fireplace, and they’ll be separated and Harry has at least a minute or two to get out of there before Michael can come back to look for him.

But Michael, showing reflexes Harry can’t know to expect from him, just manages to catch him before he can strike the ground and bolt, and Harry is swept up in the floo travel alongside his schoolmate.

They emerge, both coughing from the soot getting in their mouths since they’re unprepared, but Harry hangs limply in Michael’s hands, utterly defeated.

“You clever, sneaky little bean,” Michael growls, but there’s a laugh hidden in his throat.

Rosie takes in their appearances. Their mother vanishes the soot clinging to them, but Rosie asks, “What’d he do?”

“Tried to escape just as I was stepping foot into the floo,” Michael says proudly. And why is he proud about that? “Nearly managed it, too. Totally would’ve lost him.” So, why is he still grinning like a loon? Harry hangs there, pouting, glaring at Terry with all the frustration his feline face can show. Michael just giggles. “Tiger’s so smart, isn’t he?”

“I figured that when he set off your prank fireworks as a distraction,” says Rosie, rolling her eyes.

“Yes,” Mrs. Corner sighs wearily, “he clearly has a bit of kneazle in him.” When she says it, it doesn’t sound like a good thing.

“Welcome home,” says an older man who can only be Michael’s dad. He looks to Mrs. Corner. “Did I forget you mention getting Michael a cat?”

“His name is Tiger,” Michael announces proudly, readjusting Harry to settle him once more in his arms instead of dangling. “He’s my partner and I love him. He pulled my bag from Gambol and Japes out of my pocket and set off the Filibuster Fireworks I had there. Right in the middle of Magical Menagerie! It was chaos!”

Michael’s dad snickers. His wife glares. He coughs and clears his face quickly. “I hope you know that a pet is a big responsibility. You can’t just let him do whatever he wants.”

“I know,” Michael sighs. “He’s a bit of an escape artist, too, so he’ll keep me on my toes. But I think we can use that energy for something more productive once we build a bit of trust. And yes, Mom already gave me the responsibility lecture.” He rolls his eyes. “We made a deal – I’ll be providing everything for him from my allowance.”

Mr. Corner frowns. “Your allowance might not be enough to support a pet and get things for yourself… we should increase it a bit. It’ll be good for you to learn to budget.”

“Yeah, Mom said that, too.”

“Of course, she did. She thinks of everything.” He grins at her. “She’s brilliant like that.”

Mrs. Corner rolls her eyes indulgently. Harry watches the kids to see that it’s usual behavior for their parents to dote on each other.

“Anyway,” says Michael, “I’m going to take Tiger up to my room and get my school things sorted.”

Mrs. Corner just nods to him, but Mr. Corner gestures to a letter sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “Owl came for you while you were out.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Michael snatches up the letter and heads off from his family further into the house.

Feeling a bit voyeuristic, Harry nonetheless takes the opportunity to look around at his classmate’s home. He’s not really sure what to expect from Michael Corner, considering they rarely talk. Harry doesn’t know anything about him.

It surprises Harry to learn that Michael is quite obviously a half-blood. The Corner home looks like a typical suburban muggle one on the surface, though with a lot more personality than the Dursleys. Hints are hidden throughout, like the box on the mantle with their floo powder, the newspaper Mr. Corner reads with moving pictures on it, and the toy broomstick Harry assumes Rosie must leave out in the hall, but there isn’t that kind of pervading omnipresence of magic like there is at the Burrow, where it seems that the house itself wouldn’t even stay standing if not for magic.

Harry knows that Mrs. Corner is a witch – he sees her wand strapped to her forearm beneath the long sleeve of her robes while they’re still in Diagon Alley. Plus, muggles can’t use the floo. But he wonders if that’s why Mr. Corner doesn’t go with them on their shopping trip, because he’s a muggle and they decide to floo instead of taking the entrance through the Leaky Cauldron?

It feels kind of bad to just leave him behind like that, but then, this would be at least the fifth time they all go shopping for Michael’s school supplies, so maybe the novelty is worn off.

Michael takes Harry down a narrow hall to an unmarked door and makes sure that it’s shut behind them before he finally lets Harry down to explore. Harry’s curiosity gets the better of him, so he does just that.

Michael flops down on his bed for a moment, then quickly sits up and starts sorting through his bags. Potion ingredients get tossed flippantly into a cauldron near his bed, but books are handled carefully, thoroughly examined, and set aside in a few orderly stacks.

Leaving him to it, Harry investigates the room. Knowing that Michael is a Ravenclaw, Harry expects maybe a large bookcase or a cluttered workspace filled with notes, but actually, Michael’s room looks just like any fifteen-year-old boy’s room.

He does have a bookcase – two – one taller than the other, and they are filled with books, but Harry spies a lot of normal muggle classics and fantasy books, with a collection of classic plays on the top shelf. The larger bookshelf is mostly these fiction novels, but the smaller has non-fiction reference books of such scattered topics that Harry can’t quite make sense of it.

There are some textbooks, including quite a few muggle ones. There are books on mathematics, but also nineteenth-century dress patterns, a book on Japanese ink painting, language dictionaries, one title on masonry, some physics and engineering books, some carpentry, and a couple on growing and processing flax to get fibers to make into cloth. And that’s just the muggle ones! Harry is secretly a little jealous of the well-used Build-Your-Own-Broom title with sticky notes poking out of it in all directions.

But the books don’t dominate the space like Harry might expect of a Ravenclaw. They’re kept on their shelves nice and orderly. Quidditch and football posters both hang on the walls, and little knickknacks clutter other surfaces. A small rectangular GameBoy finds its home on the nightstand, next to a case with a few game cartridges thrown inside.

(Harry remembers when Dudley gets one of those. He plays it nonstop until the battery dies and then gets angry because it cuts off in the middle of his game, so he breaks the thing. All in all, it lasts barely a day. Harry gets to salvage the useless game cartridges to look at the colorful art on the fronts and imagine he’s in those game worlds instead of at the Dursley’s.)

Harry pads around the bed in the middle of the room, sniffs at the closet door, which is currently closed, and continues over to the desk sitting just next to the window. Harry hops up onto the chair, then onto the desk itself to start sniffing around there. He risks a glance at Michael, but Michael is still sorting through his purchases (mostly the cat stuff, now) and does not seem to mind Harry climbing onto his furniture.

There are a few books left out on the desk, and some parchment next to a quill and inkpot as well as a ballpoint pen, but nothing very interesting. The window peeks into the yard and the ordinary-looking fence between this property and the next, but Harry spies a planter just under the windowsill packed densely with some long-stalked plant. Flax, perhaps?

In the corner of the room furthest from the door, an old, cheaper Comet broom stands, and alarmingly seems slightly modified, which prompts Harry to take a closer look at the quidditch posters as he wonders if Michael has a particular team that he supports like Ron does the Chudley Cannons. It’s certainly not as obvious as Ron’s shrine to his team, but between the posters and a scarf on the floor poking out from beneath Michael’s bed, Harry identifies the black and white banner of the Montrose Magpies to be Michael’s favored team.

“Alright,” Michael mutters to himself, finished with his organizing and grabbing one of the schoolbooks he sets aside earlier. Harry’s ear twitches in his direction, listening even as he hops down to start crawling around beneath the bed for anything hidden. “Time to find out if our Defense teacher will be any good this year. Defensive Magical Theory… Not a great start to have a theoretical textbook for a practical class.”

Hmm, not much under here. There’s the Montrose Magpies scarf he sees already, and a loose sock, and a small open box, and that’s about it. Harry bats at a dust bunny while he listens to Michael open the book and readjust to a more comfortable sitting position on his bed. The mattress creaks overhead.

Harry pokes his head into the box, wondering what’s in there. He immediately regrets it. He balks and scrambles back and yowls in surprise, accidentally tipping the box as he does so, spilling Michael’s magazines of scantily-clad women all over the floor.

There’s a sharp snap of a book being shut, then Michael’s sigh. “Well, that class is going to be useless,” he groans. The mattress shifts again as he moves. His feet appear, and soon after his knees, and then Michael’s face shows up, peering under the bed for him. “What’re you doing down here?”

Michael sees Harry toppled over ungracefully with the spilled box of illicit magazines before him. Harry has only enough time to send Michael an undignified glare.

Clicking his tongue, Michael shakes his head. “Naughty, naughty, Tiger. Not even here ten minutes and you’re already getting into that.”

Harry hisses.

Michael reaches under the bed. Harry contemplates biting him for a moment, but Michael only grabs the magazines and rights the box, putting it all back to order, and does not try to grab Harry again.

Still, that’s quite enough of that, so Harry ventures out as well once Michael stands again. Michael takes the opportunity to put a plush cat bed near the closet door, but Harry takes the chance to spring up onto Michael’s bed and investigate today’s other purchases.

He deliberately ignores all the cat toys in favor of sniffing each of the school textbooks in turn as an excuse to browse the titles, and a small investigation of the prank supplies remaining. He wonders if he can use any of this to get out of here.

Michael comes back, sits on the bed, holds his hand out for Harry to sniff before running it down his spine. That’s when Harry comes to the letter Michael’s dad says comes today, which Michael still does not open.

He’s surprised that he recognizes the handwriting. He figures it’s just from one of Michael’s friends at first. Anthony Goldstein or Terry Boot, or maybe Padma Patil would write to him over the summer, but this makes sense, too, even if it fills Harry with a bitter sense of abandonment.

Michael is Ginny’s boyfriend, after all. Of course, she writes to him.

But Michael seems about as excited about the letter as Harry is. Harry sees the same weary loneliness in the slump of Michael’s shoulders that settles into Harry’s every time he gets a letter from Ron or Hermione.

He sighs. “It’s from Ginny,” he says dully, picking the letter up and shimmying back so he’s sitting up against the headboard. Harry’s tail twitches as he stands at the foot of the bed, just watching.

“She’s supposed to be my girlfriend, but I don’t know why she bothered replying,” Michael pouts. He spins the letter between his fingers for a moment and then drops it onto his lap and leans his head back against the headboard with a groan. “She’s just going to say she doesn’t want to talk to me. Again.”

Oof. Yeah, Harry feels that. That might not be the exact words Ron and Hermione use – they insist they can’t for safety or security or whatever, but it sure feels like they just don’t want to. (When have the rules ever stopped them from doing things they want to do?)

Harry actually feels a little better that at least he’s not the only one kept out of the loop this summer.

Michael finally works up his nerve and opens up the letter, scanning through it without any hope in his dark eyes. It’s quite short, just like everything Harry gets from Ron and Hermione, and it leaves Michael slumped and frustrated and confused, just like the letters leave Harry.

He drops the letter back in his lap. One of his hands runs through his hair, undoing the ponytail there to allow it to fall down to his shoulders. “What do I do, Tiger?” Michael murmurs helplessly, staring at the ceiling. “What did I do? You know, I asked her to hang out this summer three times and just got excuses every time. Last time, she told me that her mum doesn’t know about us and thinks she’s too young for dating, so we can’t do anything like that. But I don’t know… She also just won’t tell me how she’s doing, or what she’s up to. I think maybe I’m just annoying her.”

Ouch. Harry can’t help but grimace. Minus the dating thing, obviously, Michael might as well be describing Harry’s summer correspondence with Ron and Hermione.

Harry wanders a little closer, until he can see the letter. He makes a show of sniffing it as an excuse to read a bit. He can’t truly read the whole thing, even though it is so short, without making it obvious what he’s doing, but he catches very, very familiar snippets. “We’re quite busy but I can’t give you details here…” “There’s a lot going on, I’ll tell you more when I see you…” “I know this must be frustrating for you but you really mustn’t keep asking…”

It’s all more of the same. It’s disappointing. Perhaps most of all just how expected it is at this point.

Harry glances over to Michael’s expression, everything Harry has been feeling all summer and more, and he thinks well, if Hermione and the Weasleys don’t want to let anyone else in on their little club, then what do they need them for? Harry and Michael both are pushed away with both hands, so why do they keep trying to cling on when it’s clear they’re not wanted?

Harry clambers onto Michael’s lap, then rears up to put his front paws on Michael’s chest, bringing their heads to the same level. He looks into the loneliness lurking in Michael’s face. It sends something spiteful buzzing in his chest shooting down to his lashing tail.

Michael understands. Maybe not everything, but a hell of a lot more than anyone else. And Harry definitely understands how Michael is feeling right now. He knows how hard it is to sit there with no explanation and no answers.

He wishes he can answer Michael’s questions. He wishes he has the answers. But all he can do is be someone who understands. Harry meows insistently and pushes his head up under Michael’s chin, rubbing against him and purring, trying to bring comfort to him.

Michael freezes for a moment, then just kind of melts. His voice comes out wobbly for the first time, and his arms come to wrap around Harry, and he murmurs, “Thanks, Tiger,” and sniffs a little and all Harry can do is keep purring and nuzzling into the boy’s neck so that even if he feels abandoned and ignored and betrayed, he can’t feel alone.

Harry knows well that that’s the worst part.

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 1

Runaway

Ravenclaw doesn't get enough attention in fiction, so this is part 2, Actually A Multi-Chapter Story, of my Ravenclaw Boy Propaganda. Previously was my Terry Boot/Harry Potter soulmate thing, Something Good to be Your Own, and now here's a runaway animagus Harry getting adopted as a pet by Michael Corner.

<3

Next Chapter.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

The idea to become an animagus is an old one to Harry. The seed is planted all the way back in first year when Professor McGonagall first shows off her ability to change into a cat for her Transfiguration class. Like any eleven-year-old, Harry thinks that ability is just really so cool, and he wonders what it’s like to be an animal, but mostly, he thinks, “That would be a great way to hide from the Dursleys.”

He gives up on the idea after finding out that not only is the whole process prohibitively difficult, but that he won’t be able to choose what he turns into. What if he becomes a hippopotamus or something? What use will that be to keep him safe over the summers? And after a bit of a cursory examination and he learns that there is a complicated potion involved, well – there goes that idea entirely. There’s no chance Snape will teach him how to brew something like that.

…Hermione might be able to do it, though.

But the idea, the seed is still rooted in there, somewhere. If only it’s reasonable, if only he can pull it off… well, he doesn’t lose anything if his form isn’t something that helps, does he? But Harry doesn’t really nurture it because the time investment to make it a reality just doesn’t measure up to the risk of getting no true benefit out of it. He has many more important things to think about, anyway, like the Sorcerer’s Stone and the Chamber of Secrets, and Sirius Black.

But with Sirius Black, once things are cleared up and Harry discovers who he really is, comes not just opportunity – using the threat of him against his relatives over that summer after third year – but motivation.

Harry’s dad is an animagus. His godfather is, too. If Harry can pull it off, even if he’s something as unwieldy as a stag – not very useful for daily hiding from his relatives – it’s something he’ll have in common with part of his family. It… would carry on their legacy.

Not to mention, with Sirius on the run letters might be few and far between, but Harry does have someone (on the wrong side of the law, not Professor McGonagall who would say he’s not skilled enough for it or insist that he register his form with the Ministry – which Harry emphatically does not want to do) who has gone through the whole process before to guide him.

And Sirius is just reckless enough, just mad enough, to be happy about an almost-fourteen-year-old trying to undergo the process instead of worried about him messing it up badly and injuring himself.

So, that’s how Harry nurtures that seed of an idea, and why. After third year, when he has a single summer (relatively) free from his relative’s torment, in which he can keep books and materials about magic out in his room and not locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and he has sparing correspondence with someone experienced in the magic involved, Harry focuses almost his entire being on this one task.

He doesn’t quite get it before the Quidditch World Cup, and the Death Eater attack, but that only spurs him on to try harder. By the time Halloween comes around and he’s chosen as one of the Triwizard Champions, Harry does manage it.

And he tells no one. Not even Ron and Hermione. It’s not for them, it’s not even to protect him while he’s here at school (although he does often wish he can use his form to help with the tasks), it’s to keep him safe over the summer and connect him to his dad.

Plus, though he’ll never admit it aloud, Harry has a naggling feeling that if Ron and Hermione know, then Dumbledore will know, and that means if Dumbledore finds out he vanishes from Privet Drive at any point, he’ll know what to look for to make Harry go back. He might even reveal Harry’s animagus form to the Dursleys themselves, so that they can keep an eye out for him, which would just defeat the point entirely.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t trust Ron and Hermione. He does. But if he needs to disappear for a while, he won’t necessarily be able to tell them beforehand, and he’d rather worry them than risk them outing him.

It’s just better if no one knows. He is breaking the law by not registering, after all, and he might drag Ron and Hermione into a lot of crazy, dangerous trouble, but (as far as he knows) he doesn’t make them complicit in actual crimes, nor does he intend to.

(Breaking Sirius free at the end of third year is an outlier and should not be counted. And technically, it’s Dumbledore who makes Hermione and Harry both complicit in that.)

Part of Harry does worry about the legality of it. He considers registering right up until his name is spat out of the Goblet of Fire, and then he decides the anonymity is far too important to lose. At least until Harry can get through more than a year without facing mortal peril.

And of course, at the end of his fourth year, after the graveyard… if Harry is ever going to register, he determines that it will only be after Voldemort is gone once more. Even the Ministry will understand why he wants to keep it secret under the circumstances, surely?

So, when Harry goes back to Privet Drive for the summer following his horrible fourth year at Hogwarts, the only one in the world except himself who knows what he is, is Sirius.

The threat of Sirius wears off in the time between the summers, and the Dursleys waste no time reminding Harry why he thinks learning to be an animagus is a good idea in the first place.

Likewise, Harry wastes no time making use of his talents to escape that house.

He lazes in the sun in the dog days of summer in front of Number Seven, too hazy-headed from the heat to bother wondering when he’ll be run off this time, but Number Seven is at least the nicest about it, even if they don’t want strays any more than anyone else on the street. Number Seven never throws anything at him. And it’s still close enough that Harry can keep an eye and an ear on Number Four in case he has to rush back.

It's actually quite a peaceful summer, all things considered. Harry has nightmares about the graveyard, which trigger more nightmares about the basilisk, and the gauntlet under the third-floor corridor, Fluffy’s gnashing teeth, Cedric’s empty eyes… The dreams plague him, but at least his waking hours aren’t so bad. Even the Dursleys, running off what they think is a stray, are somehow still nicer about it than they are when he’s just him.

That’s what a cute face will get him, he supposes. Harry knows a lot of these muggles are harder on him because of the superstitions about black cats. His long black coat puts him at the top of the list of strays that can’t be allowed to loiter. Still, Harry likes to imagine that, if only he didn’t look so scruffy, maybe the muggles would even tolerate him, but he doesn’t exactly have the means of tending to his fur the way it needs to be. It sticks up and curls every which way, all disorderly like his hair when he’s human. The best he can do is a tongue bath, which he refuses to do at first because – weird – but in the end gives into for hygiene alone. Spending so much time like this means he really does need it.

The Dursleys won’t be alarmed by his absence so long as he comes back at night. He can probably get away with staying out for a week or so, really, but he doesn’t dare push his luck. So, he spends his nights tossing and turning on his sweat-stained mattress, being poked and prodded by the springs that stick out oddly, and his days lazing around or hunting rats to feed himself with a vicious kind of satisfaction.

(He hesitates to hunt at first, too, but his gnawing stomach drives him to it. He just pretends they’re Pettigrew. And doesn’t he feel a certain smug pride that he’s a rat’s natural predator?)

Harry just wishes he had wings. As it is, he can’t venture too far from Privet Drive, not if he doesn’t want to risk going “missing” and alarming the entire wizarding world. He’s not sure how long it would take for anyone to figure it out, if they would, but again, he doesn’t want to test his luck.

If he could fly… maybe he could even visit Diagon Alley sometimes. But like this, he’s stuck.

It’s still not that bad, though. Could be a lot worse. His only real threat like this is Mrs. Figg, who takes regular constitutionals down Privet Drive and might take umbrage with a scruffy, stray cat being without a home.

(A lot of his earlier days, after he’s bold enough to wander further from Number Four but before he really gets into the groove and figures out what he’s doing, he spends near Mrs. Figg’s home. He watches the cats there, studying how they behave. This form of his comes with instincts, but his mind is still mostly human, so there’s a lot to learn if he doesn’t want his behavior to tip anyone off. If there’s one thing the Dursleys have a nose for, it’s anything abnormal, and Harry is determined that they will never be able to sniff him out if he doesn’t want them to.)

He’s not kidding about Mrs. Figg being a threat, either. He hears the neighbors asking her about the new cat wandering the neighborhood, wondering if he’s one of hers and if she could keep him off their lawns, so he knows she’s looking for him. A few of her cats do wander about and some even stop to chat with him, but none are much for the way of intelligent conversation.

What he does get from them, however, is disturbing. They’re how he knows his precautions about Dumbledore learning his form aren’t just paranoia. Someone is watching his house. Regularly. They have shifts. Every once in a while, when Harry listens for it, he can hear the crack of apparition. Harry doesn’t have names, but Mrs. Figg’s cats are convinced that the watchers are on their side, so given they’re not Death Eaters, they likely work for Dumbledore.

But since they don’t know about his animagus form, they never bother watching the cat a few doors down. And since Harry takes the time to learn to mimic cat behavior and not stand out doing anything particularly un-cat-like, he never gives them a reason to.

So, his summer is quiet, and safe, depending on one’s meaning of the word. He really wishes Ron and Hermione would write to him, or write anything more than that they can’t tell him anything, but this is his life. At night, he tosses and turns and wakes up dehydrated from sweating and crying in his sleep, and during the day he’s mostly just bored, trying to eavesdrop on the news from the various televisions around the street by parking himself under windows.

It's bearable. Once he settles into a routine, he might even call it easy. Becoming an animagus really does make his summers better.

That’s all until the dementors show up.

Harry does what he has to do, as he always has done, and what does he get for it? A letter from the Ministry expelling him from Hogwarts, for using the Patronus Charm to save his and Dudley’s lives, in front of only Dudley, who already knows about magic, anyway.

But whoever accused the Ministry of having any sense? No, the line that strikes fear in Harry’s heart, the threat there, is a genuine one. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.

There’s only one thing for it. He has to run. It’s not even a decision. Harry takes in the letter, absorbs what it tells him, and grimly accepts that he’s going the way of Sirius.

It won’t be so bad. Sirius complains so much about surviving off rats, but the truth is that they’re better than a lot of what the Dursleys feed him, anyway, and it’s not as if Harry hasn’t developed the skills he’ll need as an animagus on the run this summer, anyway.

Part of him, he supposes, is kind of planning for it. It wouldn’t be the first time he runs from the Dursleys. He just doesn’t expect to also be running from the Ministry.

But again, so is Sirius. Harry knows it can be done. He knows he can do it.

Another owl arrives not a minute later with a message from Arthur Weasley telling him not to leave the house, that Dumbledore is handling it, and not to surrender his wand.

Harry doesn’t know about the first two things, but he has no intention of doing the last. Reassurances that Dumbledore is handling it aren’t very helpful when he has the letter from the Ministry right in his own hands, and when Dumbledore has thus far determined that Harry isn’t capable of even knowing that he’s got a watch on his house, or any of the rest of the many things Ron and Hermione insist they can’t tell him.

So, he’s terrified, he knows the Ministry wants to destroy his wand, and little else except that should the worst happen, he can survive. He can.

Mr. Weasley’s note doesn’t have the intended effect of changing Harry’s mind about leaving. All it really does is make him feel like a puppet whose strings are being pulled in too many directions.

Is it any wonder that the simpler, easier life as a cat would be more appealing than that? The longer the summer goes on, the more that happens, the more familiar he gets with his animagus form, the more Harry feels like he understands Sirius.

Maybe Harry is a little mad, too, just like his godfather, because Mr. Weasley’s letter doesn’t stop him. Harry releases Hedwig, threatens Uncle Vernon until his path to the door is clear, and then he leaves that house.

For good.

He never receives the third owl, the second from the Ministry, informing him that Dumbledore has arranged for his expulsion to be changed to suspension pending a trial, but even if he did, that still wouldn’t stop him.

The Ministry clearly has some reason to want to expel him and destroy his wand. Allowing them to do it at Number Four Privet Drive or in a Ministry Courtroom makes no difference. Harry isn’t going to give them the opportunity.

-----

Traveling through London as a cat is easier and more difficult than Harry imagines. Rats are plentiful, though clean water is harder to find, so he’s not really lacking in resources, but navigating through the concrete jungle on foot from his low vantage point, while everything towers over him and speeds by is damn near impossible. Even the locations he should recognize look so different from this perspective that it’s hard to keep track of where he’s going.

But he reads maps by bus stations, follows the roads, and a few times even walks the Underground, huddling low in the corner every time one of the trains rockets deafeningly overhead, and eventually he makes it to the Leaky Cauldron.

He’s… not entirely sure what he’s trying to achieve here, but Diagon Alley is a goal that keeps him going while he’s on run. Something to focus on.

He should probably head to Gringotts. If Sirius could get Harry a Firebolt last year, he must have accessed his funds, so the goblins likely won’t care if Harry is on the run, too. He also needs to check the Daily Prophet. If there’s nothing about his disappearance, he might still be able to catch the Knight Bus or a portkey or something and get out of London. Ideally out of Great Britain.

But he won’t really know until he goes in and figures out the situation, and so it’s without much of a plan that Harry slips through the Leaky Cauldron and enters Diagon Alley proper.

What happens next is his own fault, really. Harry gets too comfortable with the muggles ignoring him or running him off or at most attempting to pet him for a moment before they get on with their lives.

The Alley is reasonably busy. It’s not packed like it will be in the final days of August, but there are still more than a few witches and wizards bustling about. Harry spends a few moments watching this, observing, before he grows bold enough to head down the Alley himself.

It’s one of the ladies who works at Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions who sees him loitering outside Quality Quidditch Supplies (He’s trying to judge how best to grab one of the papers from the newsstand there without drawing any attention.) and takes pity on him. She returns inside the shop for a moment, then comes back out to place a bowl of cat food on the doorstep and kneels there, making soft noises to try to draw his attention.

Harry should be more cautious, but he’s a cat and no one knows he’s a cat, and he doesn’t think about this seamstress lady as a threat to him as a cat, but as a threat if she finds out he’s a wizard. She’s nice, after all, going out of her way to put out food for him. So, he figures he can get some food, maybe beg some water, endure a few minutes of petting, and if he’s lucky overhear some gossip about current events, and he’ll be on his way.

He does not expect the lady to wait until the moment he relaxes and snatch him up with a firm, fierce grip, holding him tight to her breast as she starts walking down the Alley.

Harry hisses and bites and scratches, but the lady just coos and soothes, looking entirely unbothered by his sharp teeth and razor claws. Maybe being a seamstress just gives her some immunity to needles, which his teeth must surely feel like.

For a terrifying moment, Harry thinks, She knows. She’s going to bring me in to the Ministry. But her ultimate destination, it turns out, is not the Ministry, but the Magical Menagerie.

He’s dropped on a desk. He immediately tries to bolt, but he runs face-first into some ward preventing him from jumping off of it.

“…found him just wandering in the Alley,” the seamstress tells the clerk at the Menagerie. “Don’t know if he has an owner, but I figured he’d be better off here than all on his own.”

Harry’s hackles raised, his hair on end, hisses cruelly. His tail lashes as he paces the length of the desk, batting at the wards with a paw, testing for any weak point. There has to be a way out of here!

“We’ll keep an eye out,” says the young clerk through his carefree smile. “I’ll check the list of missing pets, and if no one claims him we’ll find him a good home, don’t you worry Mrs. Lowell.”

Mrs. Lowell, the seamstress, smiles and leaves, abandoning Harry to the pet shop and the clerk’s easy smile. “Well, now,” he says, turning to Harry, “ain’chu a sassy one?”

Harry hisses.

The clerk just chuckles. “Alright, alright, I get it. Ain’t nice to be snatched up. I’ll go check the books, we’ll see if you’re calmer by the time I figure out if you’ve got a family or not.”

Whistling a jaunty tune, the clerk turns to do just that, leaving Harry alone, trapped on this desk, yowling to make himself heard.

The clerk takes his records back to the front of the shop where, between his digging, Harry can hear him tend to the occasional customer who comes in.

After an hour or so of this, Harry just kind of loses steam. He can’t keep up his displeasure when he’s seriously just starting to get bored. He still hates that he’s here trapped in a pet shop, with the wizard out there planning to sell him as a house pet to some wizarding family – goodness, Sirius would never allow this to happen to him – but he just gets tired of shouting about it.

There is no way out of these wards, and the clerk isn’t going to come back except on his time, so Harry’s just wasting energy.

Well, if this is what being aggressive gets him, Harry needs to switch tactics. He can’t afford to waste this much time, not if he wants any chance of finding a way out of Britain before the Ministry or Dumbledore starts a manhunt for him. Not if he wants any chance of keeping his wand.

So, maybe playing a bit more obediently will allow him an opening to slip out. Harry lays down and closes his eyes, determined to conserve his energy to take advantage of whatever opportunity first presents itself.

He wakes up, he doesn’t know how much later, on the same desk, but with a water bowl placed there for him, which he does begrudgingly appreciate.

Harry’s narrowed eyes watch the clerk as he laps at the water. The young man grins at him. “Seems like no one’s missing you, eh?” says the clerk, and Harry can only hope that’s the case. “Don’t you worry about a thing, love. You’re safe here. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of.”

Harry stares the man down. He doesn’t even think about the low hiss that sounds in his throat.

The clerk snorts. “Feisty little thing,” he says, but he seems only amused. Harry wonders how many aggressive creatures this guy deals with regularly, working in the Magical Menagerie. “Keep that up, and I’ll just put you under a sleeping charm to do the examination, you ruddy tiger.”

Harry immediately swallows his hissing. The last thing he wants is for this man to put him into an enchanted sleep.

“Yeah, thought so,” laughs the clerk. “Definitely part kneazle. Looks like you won the genetic lottery, though. Rare one of you comes by without that signature squashed face.” He scrubs his hands in the nearby sink before finally turning back to Harry with a final-sounding huff. “Now, you going to cooperate? I promise I’ll brush you real nice if you do…”

…That does actually sound nice. Harry would like to brush his fur and have a real bath for once. He doesn’t have the chance since summer begins, really, but after traveling through London, especially his excursions into the Underground… he really needs a bath.

The man puts his hand in the wards. Harry is severely tempted to bite it, but the chance of a real bath and getting his fur properly brushed is enough to keep him from acting on it. That doesn’t stop him from glaring venomously at the man who grins unrepentantly and strokes his hand along Harry’s spine, smoothly hooking his fingers around his tail when he reaches that point but still just sliding along all the way to the tip in one fluid motion.

“No kinks, good,” the clerk mutters. Louder, to Harry, he says, “So, this is what’ll happen. Since you don’t got a family looking for you, I’ll keep you in here quarantined from the rest of the animals, make sure you’re healthy, maybe work on your temperament a little, and when you’re ready we’ll put you out front for someone to adopt you.”

The clerk’s hands tug on Harry’s ears as he checks inside them, lifts his lips to expose his teeth and gums so the clerk can examine those. Harry tries to nip him (Not bite! He’s being good!) but the clerk just yanks his hands back with lightning speed and a knowing grin.

“Really, it’s good for you,” the clerk continues as if Harry doesn’t try to nip him. “Think about it. You’ll have company, regular food, shelter, anything you could ask for. All you got to do is not maim everyone who tries to touch you.”

He flips Harry over onto his back, making Harry yowl in confusion until the clerk starts feeling down his legs and gently squeezing his paws, one by one, looking carefully at the claws that emerge from the pressure.

“Well, good news, tiger,” the clerk says, “aside from being filthy, and your bad attitude, I’m not seeing anything wrong with you. I’ll do some spells to double check and then we’ll see how you handle getting a bath.”

This is the first moment the clerk sounds like he’s not completely confident about what he’s going to do. Harry is very tempted to live up to the stereotype of cats hating baths, but frankly, he wants one too bad to put up a fuss about that.

A few flicks of the clerk’s wand and some muttering later, and Harry is watching him fill a wooden tub with a shallow layer of sudsy water.

“Alright, tiger,” the clerk sighs. “Don’t bite my hand off, now…”

He seizes Harry around his middle and carefully lifts him, slow and cautious, waiting for Harry to lash out at him. Seeing Harry (mostly) calm for once, he lets out a breath and moves him over to the bath.

It occurs to Harry that he’s likely outside whatever ward keeps him contained (quarantined?) on that desk, so if he wants to escape, now is the time to bite and scratch and make a break for it. That said, the door to the rest of the shop is closed and so are all the windows, so Harry doesn’t see an obvious path out.

Plus, he really wants a bath.

The clerk puts him in the water and holds his breath. Harry splashes a little bit and sniffs at the bubbles. It has an extremely mild scent, even to Harry’s feline nose. Light and floral. It’s nice. He judges how deep it is before flopping down and rolling over in it, making sure the water soaks his fur through before popping back up and shaking so his head stays up out of the water.

The clerk lets out an incredulous laugh. “Merlin’s beard,” he mutters, “well, at least that makes my job easier.”

Using a shallow bowl as a spoon, the clerk scoops up some of the warm bath water to pour over Harry’s back.

“You actually like this, don’t you?” he chuckles as he uses his free hand to rub the soap into Harry’s fur. “Not the first cat to like your bath but you’re definitely one of the odd ones, you know that?”

Harry meows loudly, trying to tell the guy to keep going, and only then realizes that he’s purring.

…What can he say? He hasn’t had a bath in forever! Literally, in this form. And the London Underground is filthy!

“You’re like an entirely different cat,” the clerk says, scrubbing at the back of Harry’s head. Harry twists around to rub his face into the man’s hand to get that part scrubbed good, too. “Well, at least now I know. You get sassy with me, I just have to pull out a bath.”

“Good Lord, but you do need it, though. I’ll have to change the water.” He rinses off his hands, grabs another tub to fill, then encourages Harry to jump into the clean one. Setting the dirty tub aside for the moment, he gets right back to washing Harry down. “No wonder you’re so happy for it.”

If Harry takes the time to think too hard about the details of this, he’ll probably be extremely embarrassed to be bathed by a stranger, not to mention so thoroughly felt up as the clerk sifts his fingers through Harry’s fur, working the soap in well, but he’s just so delighted to be clean again that he can’t bother.

When they’re done, the clerk gets one more tub, this time with simple clean, fresh water without the soap so he can rinse it all out of Harry’s fur before picking him up in a thick, warm towel that feels and smells so wonderful that Harry can’t help but snuggle into it.

He’s eventually settled into the clerk’s lap, spread out across the towel, as the clerk takes a brush to his long, glossy, black fur. Each gentle stroke makes Harry melt a little more, completely limp in this man’s lap as the tangles are gently worked out of his fur.

“You’re alright, tiger,” the clerk says softly. “Don’t you worry about a thing. You’ll be taken care of from now on.”

Harry wants to scoff. He’s never been taken care of in his life. Mrs. Weasley does some, and she’s about the closest thing to a mother that he has, but… he’s never had anything like this.

He wonders… would it be so bad to just… be a pet? Pettigrew does it for twelve years. Harry hardly wants to emulate Pettigrew, and Sirius’ pride would never let him, but… when Harry considers his filthy, matted fur, subsisting on rats and dirty rainwater… Sirius’ appearance and health in general, really, and Harry’s own, not long ago… when he compares that to now…

Ron and Hermione will worry about him. But Ron and Hermione clearly don’t care about him enough to give him more than sad platitudes all summer. Dumbledore will be worried, but does he even deserve to worry about Harry? When he clearly doesn’t trust Harry even the slightest? Guards around his home, spying on him? Keeping his friends from telling him even inconsequential things like about the quidditch games? Why is it that Harry gets nothing from anyone, all summer? Hell, the most information he gets about anything going on in the wizarding world comes from Mrs. Figg’s cats!

Maybe this is degrading to be treated like a pet, just a kneazle off the street, but Harry has scarcely felt so loved as he does with this stranger gently brushing his fur. The man clearly picks the right place to work. His love of creatures is obvious. In his tender affections, and even his patience with Harry when he’s being “sassy” and hissing and scratching.

He’s contented and dozing in the man’s lap, and utterly at peace, and Harry thinks he’d give anything for more of this.

Alas, all good things come to an end. Firm pats on his haunches brings him back to proper wakefulness as the clerk chirps, “Alright, tiger, that’s you done.” He stands, taking Harry and the towel with him. “Now don’t fuss, but you got to stay in quarantine for a bit longer. Sorry, but just in case you’re carrying something I missed, we can’t have it spreading to the others, now, can we?”

Harry doesn’t fuss, but he does flex his claws and hook them into the towel, ensuring that when the clerk puts him back onto the desk, he doesn’t take the towel away.

The clerk just chuckles at him, shakes his head, and leaves him alone to take care of all his other duties for the day.

Harry knows he has to escape as soon as this quarantine ends and he can find an opportunity. There’s no way Harry Potter can just up and become a house pet, can he?

But… there’s no reason he can’t enjoy the time he has here.

[bouwrites]

Sometimes, when I’m about to have a character do something but I’m not exactly sure how I want it to go, I just roll a d20 flat luck check

Surprisingly useful writing tool tbh